Page 29 of That Reunited Feeling

“They’re even more adorable than they used to be,” I tell Tom.

“They are.” He turns to leave, and my eyes instinctively drop to his backside. His hands back in his pockets, the jeans stretch tight across his rear, emphasizing its solid, worked-out form. It definitely wasn’t as round and firm as that the last time I had my hands on it.

Tom’s head snaps around to look at me over his shoulder, and my eyes dart up to meet his. My cheeks heat with guilt. Shit. He totally caught me checking out his ass.

“Adorable when they’re not pretending to be fans of video game movies anyway,” he says with a slight snicker.

“Ha. Yeah.” The redness I can feel in my face must be visible.

“Text me if you need anything,” he says, as he disappears through the door.

I flop back against the chair.

Damn it. If Tom, a high school failure, can start a billion-dollar business in the goddamn garage, I’m not going to be beaten by an annoying littleSold Out!stamp on a website.

I punch the pub’s number into my phone.

It rings and rings. And my determination not to be beaten diminishes with each unanswered trill.

I take the phone away from my ear, but just as my finger heads for the red button, a voice rattles out.

“Bedrock Tavern.”

I yank it back to my ear. “Hello?”

“Yeah, Bedrock Tavern,” an irritated male voice says with a sigh over a background of chatter and music.

“Hi. Yes. I was looking for tickets for Divine Justice on Saturday.”

“Sold out,” Mr. Helpful grunts.

If I didn’t give up when the childcare people told me there were no city-funded places left for Dylan, there’s no reason for me to fold at the first pushback on gig tickets.

“Yes. I saw that on the website. But I wondered if you might have any tickets you’d held back. When I was in bands the venues always kept some for the door so I?—”

“Like I said, sold out.”

Life has definitely taught me there’s always a way, if you just try hard enough.

“Do you take a waitlist, for returns?”

He emits a patronizing snort, like I’m a clueless kid. “Look, lady. If people buy tickets and don’t want to come, they just don’t show up. This isn’t Madison Square Garden—we don’t have a computerized return system. Or an uncomputerized one.” He laughs at his own joke.

I turn around and look out of the window over the garden that’s covered in a thick layer of frost. “Okay…sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Didn’t give it to you.” There’s a smirk in his voice. Obviously his hilarity is on a roll. “But people call me Trigger.”

It invites a question, but I plow on. “Okay, Trigger. Could you do me just a one-off favor here and take my name and number. My boss really wants to see Divine Justice, and if I can’t get tickets for him, he’ll…fire me.”

Maybe Trigger is open to a little emotional blackmail.

“What a jackass.”

“Exactly. Total tyrant. So I have to get him these tickets or my life won’t be worth living.”

Trigger sucks in air between his teeth.

“Okay, look.” He blows out the breath. “I’m always up for sticking it to the boss man. And you’ve got me on a good day.” God help his bad ones. “I’d set aside two tickets for some friends, but they’re going out of town. I was holding onto them, just in case. But I hate to hear a damsel in distress.” Hopefully he can’t hear my gagging sounds. “Give me your credit card, and I’ll email them to you.”

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