“That’s some vivid visualization you painted there. Nice job.” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Listen, man, we’re going to hang out, have a few drinks, have some fun. She’ll be all good with me, I promise.”
Jack stares a second longer, then nods.
Erin hugs me, like a blond Koala with separation anxiety—the drinks we had making us both rock a little on our feet.
“Thanks for coming with me today.” I say against her hair.
“Of course! And congratulations—I’m so happy for you, Lain.”
Then she’s waving over her shoulder as Jack takes her hand and they head out.
Dean guides me to the bar with the press of his hand on my lower back. I hop up on the stool and he rests his arm against the shiny dark wood, leaning close enough that we can talk without raising our voices.
“What was the congratulations for, Lainey?” he asks.
I like that—the way he says my name—the way his mouth looks when he forms the word. It makes the sparks come back, but more—they spread out over my shoulders and down my arms to the tips of my fingers.
“A new job. Well, not exactly new—more like an upgrade.” I wiggle my drink. “I’m celebrating.”
He takes a drag on his beer bottle. “What do you do?”
“A little bit of everything. I’m a blogger and an entertainer—an aesthetician, an interior designer and a life coach. I try to help people live their best lives for less.”
Dean takes all that in with a nod. “So you’re like . . . a guru?”
“Yeah, I guess am.” I smile. “You wanna join my cult?”
“I’d follow you.” Dean looks deliberately at the back of my chair—at my ass. “If only to be able to keep watching you go.”
He wiggles his eyebrows—because that line was so cheesy it should’ve come with a box of crackers.
And we laugh. He makes me laugh.
And everything after that is just really, really easy.
~ ~ ~
“So, Amber Sound—where’d that name come from?”
An hour later, Dean and I are still at the bar—still talking and drinking.
He slams back a shot of vodka before answering, “Okay—sophomore year in high school, me and the guys decide to start the band. And Jimmy, the lead singer, was dating this girl—Amber Berdinski—who he was dying to nail, but she wouldn’t let him past second base. Amber tells Jimmy if he’s really into her—he has to prove it. By getting a tattoo of her name. So—” Dean shrugs “—he did.”
“No!” I gasp.
“True story. On his ass.”
I cover my eyes. “Oh, my God.”
“But then, Amber still won’t bang him. She says if he’s really, really double-dog-dare serious about her, he’ll name the band after her.”
I peek out between my fingers. “And he did.”
Dean nods. “And Amber Sound was born.”
“So what happened then? Did Amber give up the goods?”
“Nope.” Dean laughs. “She dumped his sorry tattooed ass the day after our first show.”
“Ouch.” I cringe.
“By then, there was no turning back. We already had fliers made up and the name painted on the side of Doyle’s—our lead guitarist’s—van.” He lifts his finger. “But there’s a life lesson there. Never get a tattoo of a girl’s name on your ass—”
“Or a guy’s.”
“Or a guy’s.” He nods, agreeing, “And never name your band after someone just so you can get down their pants.”
“Words to live by.” I tap his beer bottle with my glass and we drink to that.
The vodka and soda goes down like water now.
“You’ve been playing together since sophomore year? That’s a long time.”
“We get together only in the summers now, tour the regular spots that we’ve been playing for years. It’s the breaks in between that have kept us from getting sick of each other.”
He toys with the label on the bottle and I notice his hands—big, strong hands—with clean, neat, nails at the end of long fingers that have just the right amount of girth. And I think about how those hands would feel on me, against my skin—everywhere.
Dean follows my eyes, maybe reads my mind. He takes my hand and opens my palm, lightly tracing my lifeline with the tip of his finger. A little sigh escapes my lips and my eyes close.
Then he taps gently on my hand, on my wrist, in a rhythm—a beat.
“Guess the song,” he says softly.
I open my eyes and he’s smiling. It’s a teasing, playful smile that makes my knees wobbly.
“Guess,” he coaxes, still tapping.
I close my eyes again, concentrating for a minute—and then it comes to me.
“‘Video Killed the Radio Star’!”
“You got it.” He laughs, nodding. “You’re good, Lainey.”
I don’t really have any experiences with one-night stands or meeting guys in a bar. During my prime pick-up years, I was too busy working the night shift at the 24-hour Mini-Mart, and taking care of a boisterous baby boy during the day.
I always imagined a random hook-up would feel sleazy or cheap and awkward. But this—whatever this night is or turns out to be—it feels good. Seamless. Fun.