Page 29 of Broken Instrument

Her perfectly plucked brow arches. “No preferences?”

“Nope. Whatever you have that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg would be great.”

With a smile, she dips her chin. “Coming right up.”

She sets a glass in front of me a few minutes later and asks, “So. You here to see Fender play?”

I drag my attention from the empty stage and back to her. “How could you tell?”

“Because I haven’t seen you in here before, and you keep staring at the stage as if you’re waiting for a certain someone to take it.”

A blush creeps into my cheeks. I reach for the glass of wine and bring it to my lips.

“Were you a fan of Broken Vows?” she asks.

“Not until Fender invited me to watch him play tonight. I’m kind of a recluse and didn’t know about them.”

“You know Fen?” She tilts her head to the side and assesses me with new interest. “Like, personally?”

I take another sip from my glass. “Yes?”

“Interesting. I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”

“Oh, we’re not…” My voice trails off, leaving my words hanging in the air.

“Gotcha,” the bartender replies a few seconds later, though she doesn’t exactly look convinced. “So, I assume you haven’t known him very long since you weren’t aware of his connection to Broken Vows. Am I right?”

“Yeah, we just met a few weeks ago.”

“Interesting. And…how’s he been doing?” she prods. Not with any malice or overbearing interest which would make a normal person feel uncomfortable, but with an honest curiosity reminding me of a good friend or even a Mama Bear.

Interesting.

“He’s good, I think,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow in disbelief. “Yeah?”

I nod, hating how I’m beginning to second guess myself when under her scrutiny. “I think so?”

Another pause. “Well, good. Good for him. I’m glad he has someone to talk to,” she decides.

Someone to talk to? My brow quirks. Why would he need someone to talk to? Or better yet, why would a random bartender who obviously knows Fender quite well be grateful he has someone to talk to? The questions continue building, but I shake them off and take another sip of wine.

I’m not sure why, but I feel like I’m missing something. A vital piece of information. One which would finally connect all the dots that are Fender Hayes and show me the real him instead of the acquaintance I’ve gotten to know over the past few encounters. Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky and am still as lost as ever. Hell, more so.

“Not sure I’d say Fender has opened up to me, but he knows he can,” I explain. “Or at least I think he does. So…there’s that. Right?”

“Right.”

She gets back to work while the bustle from the crowd grows more and more restless as the next few minutes crawl by at a snail’s pace.

A few minutes later, a man in a fitted gray suit settles onto the barstool next to mine.

The bartender almost squeals when she sees him, leaning over the countertop to press a quick kiss on his lips. “Hey, babe! How’s he doing?”

“Refuses to get on stage without his dog,” the stranger replies, his mouth curving up with amusement. “That’s how he’s doing, Sammie.”

Dog? My ears perk, but I keep my gaze glued to what little red liquid is left in my cup.

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