3. Felicity #2
“A first for us!” I took a few steps toward the door. “Normally, I’d say thank you for your time, but I know firsthand that manners aren’t important to you.”
His jaw was working overtime. “You are…”
“Out of here,” I finished for him, backing out of the room and closing the door behind me.
I’d gotten the last word, which made me happy until I realized I’d just argued my way out of the best job in the world.
But then, if it meant working with that man, it couldn’t be that great, could it? Maybe I’d dodged a bullet. At least this way, I’d never have to lay eyes on him again.
“Is the beer helping?” Nina asked, leaning close to shout in my ear above the noise of an old Grateful Dead song.
My beloved roommate had dragged me out after I gave her a play-by-play of the disastrous interview.
Normally I avoided overcrowded dive bars, but one of the bartenders at the place had lived on our hall in college, and out of old Lafayette Hall loyalty, she slipped us free alcohol.
None of the nice stuff, mind you. But given my underemployed status, and Nina’s job as a librarian in the Hunter College Special Collections section, we needed all the free mood-altering drinks we could get.
Besides, it looked like all those fancy Elixir bottles on the shelf behind the bar were largely for show.
I shook my head at her. “Not really.”
“Maybe some good music would do the trick?” she hollered back at me. “I think the band is getting ready to start.”
She craned her neck to get a better view of the stage, which was all but impossible given that she was about a foot shorter than the people in front of her.
Nina and I were opposites, our love of books being the one thing we agreed on.
But our many differences bonded us tightly together as well, like we were sisters.
For someone whose job was to make other people look good, my own appearance was pretty low on my priority list. I was a hair up, soft pants kind of person.
By contrast, Nina lived her life like she was on a catwalk.
Even though few people came into her branch of the library, she styled her red hair and dressed to kill every damn day.
Tonight, she looked the part of a devoted concert attendee, in a vintage Def Leppard concert t-shirt and ripped jeans.
I didn’t want my sour mood to ruin her night since she loved live music, so I let her grab my hand and drag me closer to the stage, so she could see everything.
“Oh my gosh,” she leaned over and sighed to me as the lead singer took his position behind the mic stand. “Look at him. Gorgeous!”
Even though skinny rocker-types weren’t my thing, I had to agree with her.
The guy was clearly at home with every eye on him, even as he fiddled with his guitar trying to tune it.
He oozed that magnetic something, from his floppy dark hair that kept falling into his eyes to his lanky frame. He was born to be on stage.
Nina grabbed my arm and squeezed it. “Hold on! I think that’s Tyler Boyd!”
The name didn’t ring a bell. I shook my head at her.
She rolled her eyes. “‘Carved on my Heart’? You don’t remember that song? It was everywhere! Or ‘Bad Decision’?” Nina pumped her fist in the air as she sang, “‘You’re the best bad decision that I ever made!’”
I squinted at her. “Maybe?”
“I need to beef up your music education—you’re hopeless,” she laughed, glancing back at the guy, who paused a half second on her as he scanned the room.
As much as I wanted to go home and fall into bed for the next week or so, I sucked it up so Nina could enjoy the night. The music was good, and I tried to lose myself in it, but I couldn’t quite shake off my day enough to really let go. Nina, on the other hand, never stopped dancing.
“I need to hit the bathroom,” I shouted in her ear. She gave me a nod and went back to rocking out.
I threaded through the crowd of young, too-cool types, who had piercings in places that looked painful and wore clothing that would work in a Nirvana video. For once, my jeans and ratty t-shirt made me fit in.
I tried to keep my head down on my way back to Nina, to avoid eye contact with any of the hungry-looking guys, but my eyes were drawn to check out a figure just on the edge of the room.
Maybe because he looked so out of place in the crowd of people vibing to the music.
The guy was standing ramrod straight, eyes locked onto the stage with such laser intensity that he had to be the band’s manager or something.
I only had a three-quarter view of him, but he was way overdressed from what I could see, in a blazer surrounded by a sea of denim.
Maybe he was an industry guy, scouting the band?
They seemed good enough to get some attention. Or at least the lead singer was.
The out-of-place guy turned abruptly, and when I saw his face, I almost dropped to my knees to hide from him.
Shit! What the hell was Cameron O’Connor doing at The Sty?
I ducked behind two guys head banging until he refocused on the band.
Luckily, Nina was on the opposite side of the stage, near a column I could hide behind to make sure The Enemy didn’t spot me.
There was no way I wanted to chance running into him, especially given my sewer rat appearance. I needed to leave, now.
I slid up to Nina and leaned close to yell in her ear. “Do you mind if I bail? I’m not feeling it tonight.”
She pushed out her bottom lip as she grasped my hand. “I’m sorry—do you want to go somewhere else? We could get ice cream! Or cookies? There’s an Insomnia Cookies not far from here.”
“No way am I cheating on my Levain Bakery,” I replied with a smile.
“Just because you’ve been seduced to the dark side by their hours.
” The bakery was famous for being open until three a.m., which meant it was right up Nina’s night owl alley.
“You don’t need to babysit me—I know you’ve got your Batshit Book Club tonight. ”
Nina was a charter member of the late-night horror and paranormal book club that met in a different creepy location each month. She kept pressuring me to join, but my bookish tastes ran more to lighthearted romances.
She insisted she didn’t mind skipping it if I wanted company, but I assured her I’d be fine and headed for the door. I slunk out of the place with my head down, so there was no way the cab-stealing dickhead would see me.
After a long subway ride home, complete with breakdancing panhandlers and more loud music, I could barely keep my eyes open.
But did I take the direct route from the station to our building?
No, of course not, because I was still avoiding the indie bookstore on the way that had quickly gone from my favorite spot in the city to my arch nemesis thanks to a window display that was a slap to my face every time I saw it.
They didn’t do it on purpose, of course.
And it wasn’t like I could say anything to Maggie, the owner, because talking about the problem would draw more attention to it, and that was the last thing I wanted.
Instead, I opted for one of my favorite coping techniques: avoidance.
I walked an extra three blocks so I wouldn’t have to pass by the thing that was making my life more miserable than losing out on the job of a lifetime.