Page 95 of All Signs Point to Malibu

“You’ve come to the right place then. Lots of that happening as we speak.”

“No, I mean in my guidance, my career advice. This club. Your business.”

He frowns. “There’s a line about a mile long outside and those stagette women are overpaying for VIP service, even with the free shots.”

“I know. The bar is thriving...but...” I nod toward the earbud. “You’re miserable.”

He laughs good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But this wasn’t the bar you wanted.”

“The bar I wanted would have been shut down in six months and I would have been slinging hay bales on my family farm for the foreseeable future.”

“We don’t know that,” I say. I mean, market research supported what my glimpse into Darren’s future had revealed, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have made it work. With hard work and determination, he could have followed his passion and maybe the bar wouldn’t have been this hopping and profitable, but he could have succeeded...on his terms.

He leans his elbows on the bar and levels with me, square in the eye. “Hailey, what’s this about?”

“I just think I may not have had your best interests in mind.”

“Of course, you did.”

“I’m just saying I think we could have at least tried your way...”

In fact, maybe it isn’t too late. An idea hits and I move away from the bar. I approach the DJ stand and awkwardly climb up onto the platform.

DJ Scale smiles at me and yells into the mic, “Hey, yo! Hailey Harris in da house!”

The crowd cheers (except for the stagette ladies) and I’m mortified. Not exactly the way I like to look when a spotlight is pointed on me. I give a forced smile and wave, then resume my mission. I lean close to him and move one of his headphones to the side to say, “Can you change the music for me?”

“Name your jam.”

I whisper my request in his ear and his expression changes to an odd look as he shakes his head. “I don’t think...”

“Please. Just try it.”

He glances across the bar at Darren, gives him a questioning look, and Darren nods as though to say, “Do what Hailey wants.”

The hip-hop vibe comes to a halt with a deafening sound of screeching vinyl. Followed by a long pause as club goers stop dancing and turn toward the DJ booth.

DJ Scale sighs and shrugs as if to say “your funeral” as he starts the track I requested.

A twangy Shania Twain song comes on—“Any Man of Mine”—it was admittedly the only country song I know and only because it was my mom’s favorite. She had this line dance from the video she always did while cleaning the house...

Here goes nothing.

I climb down from the DJ stand and make my way nervously to the wooden dance floor. The strobe lighting has stopped and the houselights have come on. The crowd looks annoyed, confused...amused as they move to the edge of the dance floor.

I’m alone in the middle of it and every fiber of my being wants to flee from the bar with whatever part of my pride I have left, but I’ve got this far and there’s no turning back.

I take a deep breath, put my hands on my hips the way my mom did a million times in our kitchen when she was practicing for her weekly line dancing night with her friends—the only time she ever had fun and let her hair down.

I count the beat and close my eyes, trying to summon the image of her.

I see it. Her smiling face, her foot tapping to the country beat. A lump forms in the back of my throat and tears sting the backs of my eyes.

It’s been an overwhelmingly emotional day.

One, two, three, four...

---