21. Hot Date
HOT DATE
CHLOE
I’m sweating. Seriously, my skin is as slippery as a porpoise. This is embarrassing. It’s toastier under these lights than at the community theater, and it’s been a sauna there in the evenings for the last few weeks as I’ve rehearsed with Mom, Angelo, Noah, and all the crooners in Darling Springs.
But I focus on offering treats to the dog extras one more time, hoping I don’t melt into a puddle while handing out beef jerky as they play.
Mercifully, a little after seven-thirty, the director calls, “That’s a wrap.”
“And that’s twenty-three minutes early too,” Alexandra says, glancing at her slim wristwatch. There’s not a trace of sweat on her. I bet her pores wouldn’t permit it.
The director, Poorna, turns to me. “Great job with the puppers,” she says as she removes her headset.
She’s Pakistani but grew up in London, she told me between takes.
She asked if I knew of any great Pakistani food in Darling Springs or nearby, or fish and chips if we didn’t have the former, and I felt terrible when I said no to both, but I promised to do some research.
“Then tell me the next best thing—where can I get a great wood-fired pizza around here?”
“That’s easy,” I’d said, recommending Clementine’s.
Now, with the shoot over, Poorna nods toward the four-legged extras, who’ll be picked up by their owners any minute, and adds, “They really let Jubilee shine. They were sharp on every take.”
Pride fills my chest. Relief too. This was a huge test for me, and I’m thrilled to have passed with flying colors on day one. “Working with them is easier than humans,” I reply as I gather up my doggie treat bags. Beef jerky was highly motivating.
“Humans can be challenging,” Poorna says dryly.
“Humans are the worst,” Alexandra mutters, and it doesn’t surprise me at all that she’s a people hater.
“But I don’t mind all of them, or even most of them,” Poorna adds brightly, then turns her gaze to another human—Sawyer, who’s chatting with Zuri by the front desk. “Like that one. He’s cute,” she whispers to me.
Oh, shit.
Is this the part where I say yes, I know, or go for it? I don’t have time to figure it out because Levi swoops in, saving me, setting his hands on my shoulders.
“We should all go out and celebrate, don’t you think, Chloe? Especially since I behaved so well. I didn’t take any pics!” our head groomer enthuses.
“You deserve a big frothy drink for your restraint,” I tell him.
“Make it pink and I’m there,” he says. “Let’s do Prohibition Spirit.”
Before I can answer with a sure, since it sounds like fun, Levi shifts his gaze to the counter where Sawyer is closing out of a screen on the computer, a stern look on his face. Because of course he looks stern.
“What about you, Mister Serious Boss?” Levi asks. “You in? I feel like I deserve a reward for listening—drinks on you?”
Sawyer’s spine goes ramrod straight. His forehead creases. That’s an…odd reaction to a hang-out request from his employee. Even from the grumpy stickler, I’d have expected a halfhearted smile.
“Appreciate the invite. But I need to check on…Yappy Hour.” Sawyer weaves around the counter and the commotion and marches to the door. “I’ll catch you all tomorrow.”
And…he’s gone. Leaving the rest of us to close up. Which is fine. He usually doesn’t close, since that’s not his job. But that was one of the fastest exits ever. Even faster than when I’d thought he was taking off for a hot date.
But I have a feeling he’s not headed to one now.
“Is he setting a land-speed record for taking off?” Levi asks with an exaggerated what’s up with him look.
“Call Guinness,” Zuri jokes, nodding to the pack of pups. “But we have plenty to do, so let’s do it. We can get out of here by eight-thirty.”
“I can help,” I say, and it’s not technically my job since I don’t work for Dog Tails, but they’ve done their part to make this shoot work, so it feels like the right thing to do.
“We’ve got enough hands here. Why don’t you snag us a good table?” Zuri asks.
“I can do that,” I say, then head to the training room to grab my bag, and pop back out.
Poorna’s at the front counter tucking her tablet into a satchel. “Well, a pizza is calling my name,” she says, nodding my way. “Want to join me?”
I feel popular tonight. It’s a nice feeling. I should probably say yes to her. Good networking and all. I could even grab a quick bite with her and still meet the crew. But when a phone buzzes on the counter, my attention snaps to that.
The screen lights up with a message from Pour Decisions—spelled p-o-u-r—and a preview pane that says, What time tonight?
My pulse skitters with worry. That must be Sawyer’s Yappy Hour bar. That’s so unlike him to forget his phone. Several pairs of eyes land on the silver device rattling on the counter. Zuri’s, Levi’s, and even Poorna’s.
An unexpected urge to protect him comes over me. Even if he’s a grumpy fucker. I dart out a hand so I’m the first to grab the mobile device. “I’d better bring this to Sawyer,” I say quickly, since he might need it for his meeting.
Especially if this message is about his meeting, and it sounds like it is. “I’ll text you later,” I say to Zuri, then turn to Poorna. “Raincheck? I should take care of this.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’d die if I were separated from my phone for more than fifteen minutes.”
“You, me, same,” Levi says.
“Who wants pizza?” Poorna asks, and before I’m out the door, she’s arranged to handle the celebratory drinks and dinner and made several new friends at Dog Tails.
I rush to the pavement, scanning up and down Main Street for his silhouette, the sturdy set of his shoulders, the swoop of his hair. But he took off at least five minutes ago.
“C’mon. Be in the lot,” I mutter. Just in case, I race down the block and duck into the parking lot behind Dog Tails, my gaze swinging from car to car. But his black electric vehicle is nowhere to be seen.
My shoulders slump.
Well, Pour Decisions it is. I pop the bar name into Waze, since I’ve never been there. The GPS tells me it’s about ten miles away in nearby Duck Falls. “You’d better appreciate me,” I say to no one, though I’m hoping the wind carries my words to Sawyer.
I hop into my orange beast, saying hi to Roxie as I start her up. “You’re doing so well,” I say to the car, coaxing her along as I set Sawyer’s phone down on the console, but it rattles again.
Another message from Pour Decisions.
Should I look? It doesn’t really make a difference what they’re saying. I can’t get the info to Sawyer faster anyway. But as I’m setting my phone in the holder, I catch a glimpse of the preview window on his.
It says: Can you do 8:15 for Sam Silversmith?
Who’s that? Maybe the guy who runs the bar? I don’t know. And really, I don’t care. Sawyer’s lucky I’m doing this for him. I could have let his dumb phone sit there, his messages unanswered, his meeting his alone to deal with.
The man owes me a big thank-you for what I’m about to do—miss pizza night.
But it’s almost eight o’clock now, so I’ve got a window to get the phone to him. And, although he’s been pissing me off with his cold-and-colder routine, I don’t want him to be in an uncomfortable spot for a meeting. I know how important his deals are to him.
Even so, as I pull out of the lot, I run through possible payback. Do I demand he supply breakfast for everyone for the next week? Ask him to convince Alexandra to let Levi and Hazel and everyone take some pics of the set and the next shoot? Or ask Poorna? She’d probably let him.
Or, as Roxie wheezes her way down the road, maybe I’ll just give him a piece of my mind. That’s it! On the drive to Duck Falls, I practice my speech.
“Do you really need to be a broody ass just because we slept together? You’ve been nothing but a stubborn grouch since the night you fucked me to pieces on my couch, and I asked you to go so I wouldn’t climb you again. Get over yourself, you, you, you Virgo.”
Yes, I bet he’s a Virgo. This is such Virgo behavior—precise, rigorous, analytical, driven to be useful, compelled to be responsible.
He’s being so damn responsible at work. Mister Proper. Mister Serious. Mister Professional.
But I’ve had enough of it.
Soon enough, I’m on Mallard Street in Duck Falls, peering ahead for a spot.
But the street is packed to the gills. Hmm.
There’s no lot for the bar, so I round the block, then ease over to the curb.
When I cut the engine, I take a deep breath.
I’m still a little worked up. But, miracle of miracles, Roxie’s AC has dried up all my sweat. Yay me.
Muscle memory sends me scooting toward the passenger seat, but I stop, drop back down into the driver’s seat, then open the door. I smile. It was a nice thing he did.
And we’ll be even now when I bring him his phone and do a nice thing for him.
Squaring my shoulders, I head down the street, turn onto the block where Pour Decisions is located, and weave through evening crowds.
I didn’t realize Duck Falls was so busy on a Thursday night, but this is the place to be it seems. My gaze swings from one side of the block to the next, counting the bistros, and wine bars, and a pottery studio with an evening class.
I come up to Pour Decisions and it’s a…dive bar.
He’s doing a yappy hour at this den of iniquity?
With red brick, dark windows, and a smudged beige door, this looks like the place where you order a whiskey straight up after your wife leaves you.
The bartender slides it your way and starts a tab for a long night.
With some trepidation, I pull the door open, and I’m standing in a small, dark entryway, its walls draped in black curtains.
Music plays from inside the bar, but I can’t quite make out the song or see the bar from here.
A bored, burly man with a shaved white head and a long gray beard glances up from a podium and grunts out, “ID.”
I’m not usually asked unless I’m ordering a drink. “Here you go,” I say, tugging my wallet out of my purse and showing it off. “Is this a twenty-one-and-up night?”
He scans it with bored eyes. “Always is.”
“Okay then,” I say, all chipper since apparently that’s my lot in life—to try to make grumpy fuckers smile.
It doesn’t work, but I soldier on with my mission. With Sawyer’s phone in hand, I push open a creaky door at the end of the entryway that takes me into a dimly lit bar.
Huh. This is going to be an interesting spot for a yappy hour, that’s for sure. I figured dog toys and weave poles with wine and craft beer, but it’s all peanut shells and dart boards.
It’s packed though. Stuffed with people who are drinking, laughing, toasting their beers.
Then cheering to…a karaoke machine. It’s sitting on a low stage, the wood baseboard stained with Budweiser and Jack Daniels over the years. The opening notes of the song it plays are familiar. The audience is already pumped, even though no one’s singing yet.
I scan for Sawyer in the crowd when an older guy—maybe in his fifties—in skinny leather pants and a T-shirt that says I Love Facts, bounds onto the stage.
His salt-and-pepper hair is buzzed to a fade, and his dark-brown arms are covered in colorful snake and skull tattoos.
He brings the mic to his mouth and booms into it a raspy voice.
“And now…the one you’ve been coming to see every Thursday night.
The one you count down the days for. The one, the only… Sam Silversmith.”
Okay. So that’s the guy Sawyer’s meeting with. Which means Sawyer has to be somewhere in this crowd. I spin around, hunting for him one more time, right as a rich, melodic voice croons one of the most familiar opening lyrics ever written…about a small-town girl living in a lonely world.
As the voice carries, the hair on my arms stands on end.
There’s no way.
That can’t be.
In slow-mo, I turn around, my jaw coming unhinged as my gaze lands on the man onstage.
He’s wearing mirrored aviator shades, jeans, and a gray T-shirt that says I’m with the Band.
Leather wristbands slide down his strong arms. A temporary tattoo of a red rose on top of an old-fashioned microphone covers one forearm.
His hair’s not neat. It’s a wild mess. He’s singing one of the most famous karaoke tunes ever.
Sawyer is Sam Silversmith.
And he’s belting out the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believin’” at a seedy dive bar as the crowd goes wild for his pipes.
It’s official. Sawyer does not have a hot date. He has something even juicier—a secret identity as a karaoke star in a dive bar a few towns over.
Talk about payback.