Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I did, however, grab my cream cardigan and throw it over the whole ensemble.
Clay’s eyes lingered on the black knee-high stockings I’d grabbed in a last-minute decision, making me self-conscious enough that I bent my knees together.
Finally, he let out a low whistle, rising to his feet. “This is going to be fun.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I get the feeling I should be scared?”
But he only laughed, nodding toward the door. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for your boyfriend’s big show.”
“So, what exactly is the plan here?” I asked Clay as he held the thick metal door open for me, every ounce of light instantly being snuffed out once we dipped inside the bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and note the smiling hostess illuminated only by two small candles.
“Just follow my lead.”
“But what ex—”
I couldn’t get the question out before Clay was leaning his elbows on the hostess stand, offering the slim brunette beauty behind it his signature smirk.
“Good evening,” he said. “Table for two, please. Booth, actually,” he clarified, and winked back at me.
I just stared at him dumbfounded. What difference did it make?
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re booked solid tonight,” the girl said, twirling a strand of hair between her long, onyx fingernails.
Clay sucked his teeth, glancing at me just as my shoulders slumped. But then, he grinned again, tapping on the wood of the stand. “Good thing I have a reservation.”
She lit up then. “Oh! Wonderful. What’s the name?”
“Johnson.”
The woman slid her finger down a list, and then smiled broadly, gathering up two menus. “Right this way.”
I had to admit I was shocked, so much so that Clay had to hold his arm out for mine to lure me from where I’d been rooted in place by the door. He curbed a grin as we followed the hostess through the dimly lit bar, one vastly different from the casual place on campus where Shawn usually played. This one was known for fancy cocktails that cost more than a full four-course dinner should.
Still, I marveled at the bizarre chandeliers and busy, yet not tacky, floral wallpaper as we wound our way through the tables. And we were deposited in a back corner booth.
Right near the stage.
My stomach flipped at the sight of Shawn’s guitar case, of the long, charcoal gray bandana that hung off the mic. It was his signature, one I’d never seen him play without, and it held my attention as Clay slid into one side of the small booth and I took the other.
“Your mixologist will be right over,” the hostess assured us, and her eyes lingered on Clay for longer than necessary — long enough that I cocked a brow like I was his actual girlfriend. She coughed when she saw me, gave a brief smile and exited stage right.
My face softened once she was gone, only to turn and find Clay watching me with an arched brow of amusement.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said, picking up the menu. “You just play your part well.”
I picked mine up, too. “She might as well have left her number on a napkin.”
“Coaster.”
I blinked, but Clay just smiled, holding up a thin white coaster with the bar name between his fingers. I saw without having to inspect closer that she, in fact, had sprawled her name and number on it.
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Kitten,” Clay said, scooting closer and putting his arm around the back of the booth and thus around me, too. “I’m all yours.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes again, mostly because our waitress came over. I ordered a grapefruit mocktail, because unlike Clay, I didn’t have a fake I.D., and I wouldn’t be twenty-one for another year and a half. Clay picked a whiskey drink that was so strong, I took a sip once it was delivered and felt like I was breathing fire.
“I’m impressed you made a reservation,” I said.
“I didn’t.”
I frowned. “But, you just—”
“With a last name like Johnson, I took my shot.”
“What if the actual Mr. Johnson shows up?”
He shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
I gaped at him. “Clay!”
“Alright, so,” he said, turning in the booth to face me. I was tucked into the far back corner of it, a perfect view of the stage. “First thing’s first. Shawn’s going to come out and play his opening song, and then you’re going to go up there and drop a twenty in his tip jar.”
“A twenty?!”
“Money talks, sweetheart,” he said. “It’ll get his attention. And in a dark bar like this, you need to grab him somehow. Most of the other girls will try to do it with their eyes, sucking on the cherries in their drinks while they wait for his gaze to land on them. We’re taking a more direct tactic.”