Page 35 of That Reunited Feeling

He’s replaced by a bearded guy with a straggly ponytail who’s obviously never met a bar of soap he got along with and who appears to be the MC for the evening.

“That was Sean Murphy. Now welcome The Romeo Club,” he says with all the enthusiasm of someone about to have a root canal.

Four guys who look like their parents might be worried about them being out so late jump on stage and take their spots at the drums and mics that had been sitting unused behind Sean Murphy.

A group of eager fans at the front stand up and clap their hands over their heads.

The scrawny lead singer checks that his bandmates are ready to go and clutches the mic stand. Behind him the drummer smacks his sticks together four times and then the stage erupts with drum banging, guitar thrashing, and some sort of chanted lyrics that if played backward probably contain a message from the devil.

I turn back to Hannah, who’s staring at the stage, open-mouthed, her eyes full of what might be about to become tears.

This is the first band of the night and her first pick.

And it’s obvious after three seconds that they are truly fucking awful. If I gave the drunk Neanderthals on the table next to us a couple of trash can lids and a kazoo, they’d probably come up with something more melodic.

Hannah gets to her spike-heeled feet, stares at the table, and shakes her head. “Enough.”

At least I think that’s what she said. It wasn’t audible over the racket behind me, and I’m basing it more on reading those bright pink lips.

She looks like she’s trying to head for the door, but she’s taken only two quick steps when her way is blocked by a man’s back approximately the width of a bus, across which is stretched a shirt bearing the wordsMegadeth. Wake-Up Dead Tour. 1987.

She tries to get by, but there’s a pillar on one side of him and a table on the other.

Eventually, she gingerly taps his meaty bicep, and he turns to look down at her with a glint in his eye that suggests he’d quite like to fling her over his shoulder and lug her back to his cave.

Shit. My only path around our table to get to her is blocked by a couple shot-slinging Neanderthals.

Hannah points ahead of her, indicating to Mr. Megadeth she’d like to pass, and his face broadens into the type of smile seen only on horror movie villains.

Fuck it. I grab the lovingly made folder, shove the blank scorecard inside, and tuck it under my arm. Snatching up my coat, I plant my ass on the table and swivel my legs over to the other side.

My feet hit the floor, and I lunge for Hannah’s waist just as one of Mr. Megadeth’s giant meat hooks heads for her shoulder. I yank her to my side and out of his reach in the nick of time.

“What the—” She shoots daggers at me.

“Maybe not the best choice of exit route,” I tell her, before turning to Mr. Megadeth. “Sorry about that. She’s with me.”

He scans me from head to foot, then turns to Hannah and raises a pair of eyebrows a Weedwacker would struggle to bring under control. “Like ’em fancy, huh?”

Her face flames as she opens her mouth to probably get us into way more trouble than anyone needs. And by “anyone,” I mean “me.”

“How about I find us a better way out?” I shout into her ear and pull her toward the bar.

“I don’t need you to?—”

“Argue with me outside,” I say, turning her away from me and placing my hands firmly on either side of her waist.

Over the top of her head, I give my most gracious smile to a woman swinging her beer bottle to what might be the beat of the thrashing band, and shout, “Excuse me.”

Keeping a tight grip on Hannah, I walk her ahead of me through the crowd, pushing between grizzled bikers, a group of women wearing the state’s entire supply of black eyeliner, and some student types who must surely have fake IDs, until we eventually reach the front door.

Hannah flings it open.

The wall of cold, damp air slaps me in the face as she rips my hands from her waist and spins around.

“I’m quite capable of getting out of a bar without being manhandled by you.” She hitches her bag onto her shoulder and runs her fingers through her hair, which gleams like white gold in the lights of a passing car.

For the love of God. “I wasn’t about to have that thrash metal giant put his sausage fingers all over you.”

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