“I’m Breanne. And you’re Cole Brandt.”
I blinked in surprise. Yeah, the band was getting bigger but I had yet to experience recognition outside of our concerts and interviews.
“Uh yeah,” I said, running my thumb along my lip. Breanne poured each of us another shot.
“I saw your show last month in St. Louis. It was incredible,” she enthused, running her fingers along the back of my hand.
“I love that song you guys do. Perfect Regret. It’s amazing! And your voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard.” She was getting her fan girl all over me.
I grinned, liking the adoration. I cocked my head to the side as I regarded her. “Thanks, that’s cool of you to say.”
“Are you here for a show? Are the other guys staying here?” Breanne asked, swallowing the vodka in one long gulp. She picked up a cloth and wiped down the bar, never taking her eyes off me.
“Yeah, we played at a bar in town tonight. It was a great show,” I told her, trying to find my comfort level in this interaction. Normally I didn’t have any trouble talking up people. Girls in particular.
But tonight I was struggling.
I had a good idea of why, or more particularly who, had my brain short-circuiting.
Breanne pouted. “I wish I had known. I would totally have come to your show. What a bummer,” she said, her fingers resuming their slow, lazy trek up and down my arm.
“Yeah,” I said lamely.
After a few awkward seconds where any pretense of chitchat dwindled and died, I cleared my throat. “Can I get another shot?” I asked.
“Sure. Anything you want,” Breanne said with a grin that let me know when she said anything, she meant anything.
“We’re playing another bar on Tuesday in Charlotte,” I said, not knowing why I told her that. I didn’t want this girl thinking I wanted her to come. I didn’t give a shit one way or another about her. But I was uncomfortably trying to fill the void.
I had come here wanting one thing and now I was pussing out.
Breanne looked as though I had offered her a round trip ticket to Paris. Her dull, brown eyes lit up. “I’d love to come! Oh my god! Maybe we could hang out afterwards,” she suggested and I shrugged.
“Sure,” I found myself saying. I really needed to shut the hell up.
“You want something else to drink. Or are your cool with the vodka?” she asked, her excited smile making me feel like a worthless dick. I should never have told this random girl to come to a show.
Something was seriously wrong with my head. My game wasn’t just off, it was non-existent.
Breanne’s rhythmic fingers became more purposeful as she wove her hand into my hair. It bugged the shit out of me. I hated when girls messed with my hair. Except when Viv pulled it, but that was a different story.
I shook my head, trying to dissuade her but Breanne the Bartender was one persistent lady.
This would be so easy. I knew I could have this chick on her back in less than five minutes. Part of me really wanted to. I missed the easy effortlessness of banging girls I never had to talk to again.
Breanne came around from behind the bar and perched up on the stool beside me, turning her body so that her knees fell between mine. We were close enough I could smell stale beer and bar on her clothes.
Her makeup was thick. I could see a line around the outside of her face. Her hair color was obviously as fake as her nose. As a rule I didn’t bother paying attention to this stuff.
What was wrong with me?
She wanted to fuck. That’s what I came in here to do. Right?
But when I looked at Breanne, I didn’t see her. My mind saw strawberry-blonde hair, angry green eyes, flushed skin, and perfectly pursed lips.
I smelled sex and vanilla and Vivian’s perfumey shampoo stuff that got stuck in my nose but I liked it anyway.