Chapter 3
LARK
Tuesday nights at the Black Lantern are usually pretty chill, the kind of easy shift where I can breathe between customers.
Tonight’s no exception. Just a handful of regulars scattered around the place, nursing beers and chatting quietly.
I’m behind the bar rolling silverware into napkins, the repetitive motion almost meditative, while my mind circles back to that email from Maya at Tidal Records for approximately the hundredth time today.
I pull my phone out during a lull, like maybe the words will have magically changed if I stare at them long enough.
They haven’t. Still the same requirements staring back at me in black and white.
Quadruple my social media following. That’s what she wants before they’ll seriously consider signing me.
I need the numbers, the engagement metrics, the whole packaged influencer experience.
Plus there’s my own issue with performing live, which I used to love as a kid but somewhere along the way lost completely.
Every time I get on stage now I turn into a complete human disaster, freezing up and forgetting lyrics and hearing Brandon’s voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough.
It’s not even the rejection that stings the most. It’s the fact that my actual music isn’t what’s holding me back from this dream.
It’s my complete inability to market myself like some shiny product on a shelf.
Plus the few times I’ve attempted performing my own songs in front of people, I’ve frozen up so badly I couldn’t get through a single verse.
Brandon made absolutely sure of that particular damage. Two years post-divorce and he’s still living rent-free in my head, criticizing every note before I can even sing it.
The loud crack of pool balls startles me out of my pity party spiral.
Jack Midnight’s been here for the past hour or so with Mike from our high school and two other guys I vaguely recognize from around town.
Probably locals who want to be able to tell people they hung out with a famous Formula One driver, get some reflected glory.
Jack lines up another shot, sinking it without any apparent effort. Based on Mike’s increasingly dramatic groaning and head-in-hands despair, Jack’s absolutely destroying them.
I’m in the middle of rolling another set of silverware, the fork and knife nestled perfectly in the white napkin, when Jack approaches the bar. His beer glass is empty, and his dark hair is slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Let me guess,” I say, securing the napkin around the utensils. “Winning?”
“By an embarrassing amount.” He slides onto a barstool directly in front of me, setting his empty glass on the polished bar top with a soft clink. His fingers immediately start drumming against the wood in that restless way he always has about him.
“Poor Mike.” I place the rolled silverware in the caddy with the others and reach for another set of napkins from the stack. “He’s going to complain about this for weeks. Possibly months.”
Jack’s mouth curves into a half-smile that probably works absolute wonders on racing groupies and models in Monaco.
“He’s already started making excuses. Something about the lighting in here throwing off his depth perception.
” He nods with his head toward the pool table where Mike is currently examining the overhead lights like they’ve personally betrayed him.
“The lighting,” I repeat, unable to stop myself from laughing as I fold another napkin with precise corners. “Right. Because that’s definitely the problem. Not his complete lack of pool skills.”
“That’s the story he’s going with.” Jack taps his fingers again against the bar. “Another beer when you get a chance?”
“Coming right up.” I grab a fresh pint glass from the rack overhead and pull the tap, watching the amber liquid fill it steadily. “You know, you could let them win one game. Show some mercy. Be the bigger person.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He laughs, accepting the beer and taking a sip. “Besides, it’s good for Mike’s character. He needs the humbling experience. I’m really helping him out here.”
“Such generosity,” I say dryly.
He leans forward slightly, those green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach do this annoying little flip that I immediately try to squash. “You should come play a game. Even the odds a little. Make it more interesting.”
“Oh, I bet you’d love that,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s good at this, the flirting thing, but you don’t bartend for years without getting hit on by absolute experts. Jack Midnight is charming, sure, but he’s nothing I haven’t handled before.
“I really would love that.” His smile widens. “Come on. One game.”
“And abandon my post?” I gesture toward the bar. “Sarah would murder me.” I nod toward my coworker at the other end of the bar who admittedly doesn’t look particularly busy at the moment since she’s currently deep in conversation with Jayson about something that’s making them both laugh.
“Besides,” I continue, going back to my silverware rolling, “someone needs to be here serving drinks to your victims when you’re done systematically destroying their self-esteem and taking their money.”
“So noble of you.” He gives me that half-smile again, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning in closer. “Sacrificing yourself for the greater good of drunk men’s egos.”
“I’m basically a saint,” I say, placing another rolled set in the caddy. “A saint who desperately needs rent money, so I’ll be staying right here where the tips are.”
He takes another sip of beer, watching me steadily over the rim of his glass. “A saint, huh? That’s funny, because I seem to recall back in high school you hustling some of the guys on the football team out of their allowance money playing pool at Jason Miller’s parties.”
I look up at him with a grin now, the memory flooding back instantly. “One of my finer accomplishments. Those guys never saw it coming. Thought I was just some girl who didn’t know which end of the pool cue to hold.”
“As I recall,” Jack says, “you relieved Travis Peterson of two hundred bucks in under ten minutes flat. The guy was absolutely devastated. Pretty sure he cried in his car.”
“It was three hundred bucks actually,” I correct him, laughing.
“And the look on his face when I sank that final eight ball? Absolutely priceless. Best money I ever earned, and I spent it all on concerts and terrible mall food.” I shake my head.
“I’m shocked you even remember that party.
You were barely ever in town for those things.
Always off in Europe or wherever racing. ”
“Are you kidding?” Jack leans forward even more, his eyes bright.
“Your pool skills were legendary. The girl who took down half the football team’s ego and their wallets in one night?
You were famous for like a month.” He gestures toward the pool table behind him.
“Come on, just one game. I’ll even talk Sarah into covering for you.
” He glances over at my coworker with a look that suggests he knows exactly how effective his charm offensive can be when he deploys it properly.
“Your delusional self-confidence is, as always, deeply entertaining,” I say dryly, though I’ll admit part of me is tempted.
It would be extremely satisfying to wipe that confident smirk right off his perfect face.
“But I’m going to stay right here, working like a responsible adult with bills to pay. ”
He laughs, then slides off the stool with fluid grace. “Fine. But if you change your mind about showing off those legendary skills…”
“Keep dreaming, Midnight,” I say cheerfully.
He winks before turning around to head back to his game, and I firmly ignore the way that wink does something stupid to my pulse.
Attractive? Obviously, objectively yes. My type?
Absolutely not. Total player with a reputation that spans continents.
Jack Midnight can direct those dimples and that wink elsewhere.
I’m perfectly content enjoying the view from a safe distance.
An hour or so slips by. I’ve sent Sarah home for the night and I’m currently munching on an order of fries that I talked Jayson into making for me, even though the kitchen was technically closed. The salt and grease are exactly what I need right now.
The door chimes. I glance up casually and my entire body goes rigid. The half-eaten fry freezes halfway to my mouth and I just drop it back into the basket, my appetite vanishing instantly.
Brandon walks in with Kelly. My ex-husband and my former best friend who chose his side when everything fell apart. Fuck my actual life.
I haven’t physically seen either of them in almost two years.
Brandon moved to Seattle for work right after the divorce was finalized, and I’d managed to successfully avoid them both during his occasional visits back to Dark River.
But of course they’re both originally from here, so this collision was always inevitable.
Just my spectacular luck that it happens tonight when I’m alone at the bar with absolutely no buffer and no escape route. I would kill to have Maren here right now. She’s the best at deflecting Brandon’s bullshit.
Kelly’s got her arm looped through Brandon’s like she’s marking territory or proving a point, though her face goes immediately tight with surprise when she spots me behind the bar.
Her eyes widen comically, then dart toward the door like she’s calculating exactly how fast she could make an escape.
She leans in to whisper something to Brandon—probably desperately suggesting they leave—but he’s already pulling her toward the bar.
Deep breath. You’re not married to him anymore. He literally cannot affect you now. You’re a free woman.