Bad Influence (Bad Love 3)

“Drink?” Garrett asks over the music, gesturing toward the bar to our right with the shorter line.

I pull him closer, trying not to announce it to the entire bar. “I’m not twenty-one.” Garrett laughs. “No one is. They don’t give a fuck here.” Taking my hand, he pulls me through the crowd where a chick with a blue bob and a spiked leather choker mans the bar.

“Whatcha havin’?” she asks, leaning over the counter that separates us.

“Whatever you have in a bottle,” I say. I’m not picky.

“Two,” Garrett adds, holding two fingers up.

I dig into my purse, trying to find the loose cash that I know is floating around somewhere, but Garrett beats me to it, slapping a twenty down onto the bar.

“Thanks,” I tell him. Not a date. Not a date.

“Let’s get a good spot,” he says, gesturing toward the stage. There’s a solid crowd here, but I’m surprised there aren’t more people. We weave through the staggered groups of bodies, easily making our way toward the front. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man approach. I turn to face him, taking in his pressed jeans and untucked white button-up.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“Victor,” I say, smiling in return. He brings me in for a hug, and when he pulls back, I see the pity in his eyes, even in the dimly lit venue. “Sorry to hear about your Pops,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn. Victor is maybe mid-thirties, but he’s a perpetual child. The only time his serious side comes out is when it comes to business. Or, when he’s extending his condolences, apparently.

“Thanks,” I say so quietly I don’t even know if it’s audible over the noise. “This is—”

“Garrett,” Victor answers for me. They slap hands in greeting. “Glad you could make it,” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s sarcasm I detect in his voice.

“The lady needed a ride,” Garrett says with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, the lady is a family friend, so be good to her.” Victor points a stern finger at him.

His phone flashes in his hand and he looks back at me. “I have to take this, but find me before you leave, huh?”

I nod, and then he turns around, disappearing into the crowd. When I look back to Garrett, his eyebrows are at his hairline.

“What?”

“How do you know Victor?”

“He’s a friend of my dad’s.” I keep it vague, not wanting to have the whole dead dad conversation right now.

“You just keep getting more and more interesting.” He smirks.

“I’m just full of surprises,” I deadpan. My cold fingertips remind me of my untouched drink, and I bring it to my lips, letting the cool liquid slide down my throat.

Suddenly, the lights lower, the music over the speakers cuts out, and a guy with a faded electric guitar—Squier, by the looks of it—takes the stage.

“We’d love to play a show for you guys, but unfortunately, it seems our drummer has decided that now is a good time to chat up a hot chick.”

I laugh, scanning the crowd, but I’m surprised when Garrett throws up a middle finger and shakes his head. “Hold this for me?” he asks, handing me his bottle.

“Uh, sure,” I say, feeling more than a little confused. Garrett gives me a sheepish smile before effortlessly pulling himself up onto the stage.

“We’ll get him back to you in about twenty minutes,” the guy with the guitar says, pointing his finger at me and sending a wink my way.

Garrett takes his seat behind the drum kit, clicking his sticks together to start the song off. The band—consisting of two guitar players and one bass player—seamlessly follows suit. I bob my head as the song pulls in the crowd around me. Their sound is good—really good. They’re that perfect blend of pop punk with enough of an edge to be distinguished from boy band status. Catchy chorus and lyrics, fast tempo. I’m impressed. Garrett has sweat dripping down the side of his face, the biceps I didn’t know he had flexing with each hit. Why the hell didn’t he tell me he was playing tonight?

By the time their set is over, I’ve finished both mine and Garrett’s beer. After clearing off the stage, he waves me over. I cut through the bodies that have started to disperse, making my way over to him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I slap his shoulder.

“I’m full of surprises,” he teases, throwing my earlier words back at me.