“Who gets married in the morning, anyway?” April sighed. “Besides, you’re a guy and it washed off, so what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I had a date later that night before I had a chance to even attempt to wash it off—which took a mix of rubbing alcohol and baking soda to remove, by the way—and no girl likes a guy she just met that shows up with the words I’ll pay you a dime for a good time written on his arm.”
“Some girls do.” She winked, fully aware it was a lame attempt at flirting. Jack was . . . Jack. Dark hair, well-built, and . . . and . . . okay, sexy. Sexy is the word she would use to describe him. But he would never be interested in her. “Besides, she went out with you again, didn’t she?”
“After a lot of explaining from me that the words were written by my psycho coworker and weren’t the worst pickup line ever in history.”
Psycho coworker. More proof that she didn’t stand a—wait. Did he just insult her writing?
“It wasn’t a pickup line!” As if her songs could be compared to a pickup line. Those sorts of lines were cheesy. Classless. In contrast, her art was high quality, intellectual. Even if no one had signed her yet. April frowned and put her pen down. “I guess my break’s over. What table do you want me to take this to?” she asked.
Jack set a tray in front of her. “Take this round of drinks to table seven, and then you’re up. Make it a good one. You never know who might be watching.” He smiled at her.
In only a few weeks, Jack had become a friend. All he would ever be.
April frowned, grabbed the tray, and headed to the table, not the least bit concerned when she saw Jack pick up the napkin and read what she had written on it. After she dispensed drinks to the waiting customers, she grabbed the microphone and headed toward the stage. This song would be a good one. Her best one yet.
She felt her confidence level swell, until she glanced over at Jack from his spot behind the bar. He held up the napkin . . . then proceeded to make gagging gestures with his finger and tongue. She actually heard herself laugh mid-note.
“You’re late,” Jack said, producing a sign-in sheet and a pen while Daniel pulled up a barstool.
“No, I’m not. I’m not supposed to start work for . . .” Daniel checked his watch, then shrugged. “I guess I’m late.”
And that was the great thing about Daniel. He never had a problem admitting when he was wrong. In Jack’s opinion, the world would be a better place if more people were like him.
“No matter,” Jack said. “We’re not that busy tonight. The most pressing thing I need you to do is refill the toilet paper in the men’s bathroom. Looks like we’re out again.”
“April?”
Jack drummed his fingers on the counter. “That girl has a problem. Every time I see her she has pieces of it stuffed in her pocket, tucked under her arm, probably even inside her bra.” Both men took a second to reflect on that. Finally, Jack took a breath. “Did you know she even wrote with a Sharpie on my—”
“Yes, you told me a couple of times. Or twelve, but I think I lost count sometime before closing last Tuesday night.”
“Point taken. But seriously, that girl . . .” April was a little on the obsessive-compulsive side; still, she was cute. And in his twenty-six-year-old opinion, cute trumped crazy any day of the week. “Where is she, anyway?” Jack looked around but didn’t see her anywhere.
“Her shift is over. I saw her in the parking lot on my way in. She said she started laughing during her last performance and couldn’t stop. Had to walk off the stage. Can you believe that?”
Jack couldn’t help the grin that worked its way across his face. “That might have been my fault.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”
“Made fun of something she wrote right before going onstage. And I might have acted like I was vomiting while she was up there trying to sing.”
Both men laughed. It was mean, but it was funny.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Go fix the bathroom problem, and then come take over for me. I’m up in five minutes.” Jack shoved a mug under the Coke dispenser and pulled the lever, mentally reciting upcoming lyrics in his head. He handed the filled glass to a customer.
“That reminds me,” Daniel said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Bill Jenkins called after you left last night. He’s coming in tomorrow night, so be ready with something.”
Jack’s head snapped up at that. Bill Jenkins? Bill Jenkins, who had personally signed every third singer in Nashville this past decade and gotten them all record deals? Okay, except the ones who shot to fame because of that stupid television singing show. That Bill Jenkins? His face must have registered his thoughts.