Page 3 of Shattered Promise

ABBY

"Show us your tits!"the guy in front slurs. He pumps his fist like he's at a metal show and not a small West Coast dive bar watching a woman play her acoustic guitar.

I don’t flinch or pause. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a single beat of silence. Instead, I smile, sharp and pretty, just the way I’ve practiced. "Only if you show us your credit score," I muse. As far as clapbacks go, it's not my best. But the goal isn't to take someone out, it's a polite redirection. The kind of sidestep that’s become my specialty—in music, in work, in life.

Laughter ripples through the Wednesday night crowd. The women cheer and clap and some guy near the dartboard whistles.

The drunk guy pushes to his feet and turns to face away from me, spreading his arms out wide. "You wanna see my—" His buddy pulls him back into his chair, cutting off whatever shitty thing he was going to say next.

I huff a quiet laugh and strum the first chord of a slow, smoky cover of "Hallelujah." And finally—finally—the drunk guy starts to quiet.

This is the best part of my day. Thirty minutes of music, three nights a week, if I’m lucky.

A Band-Aid on the gash of loneliness running down the inside of my femoral artery—temporary, useless, but just enough to keep me from bleeding out.

I keep my eyes down as I sing, letting my newly-dyed blonde hair fall around my face like a curtain. The stage takes up one of the short walls in the oddly-shaped bar, eighteen inches off the floor with a couple of old area rugs, two stools, and a microphone. It pays a fraction of what my job at Blue Tide Conservation does, but at least here, no one expects me to save the ocean on a budget and a smile.

The last chord echoes around the bar, haunting even over the low murmur of conversation. I wish I could stretch that last note just a little longer. Just enough to hold off everything waiting for me on the other side of the silence.

It's one of my favorite songs, and every time I sing it, it feels like a gift. A small ripple of applause rolls over the crowd, and the drunk guy wolf-whistles like I actually took my top off.

My lips twitch, and I rest my hand over the fret. "Thank you. You guys have been great. Come back to The Blue Door and see me sometime, yeah?” It’s presumptuous, assuming they’ll keep asking me back. But fake it till you make it—right?

I turn the microphone off, and slip my guitar, Sophie, into the gig case I got at my favorite secondhand store back home then hop off the stage. A few people tip their chins toward me and call out some general compliments.

I slide onto the stool at the far corner of the bar, leaning my guitar next to me. The bartender, Beth, grins as she walks toward me. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a few strands clinging to her temple from the heat of the bar. She’s wearing her usual faded concert tee and black jeans, moving with the easy rhythm of someone who's worked here for years.

She stops in front of me. “You were so good tonight. I don't think I've ever heard that second song you did. What was it?”

I dart my gaze over her shoulder. Compliments about music always feel like shoes that don’t quite fit—like I’m not sure I’m allowed to wear them. “Thanks. I’m still learning, but yeah, that was ‘Chandelier.’ A cover of a cover, really.”

"Well, I thought it was incredible. I'll have to check it out," she says, twisting a towel inside a pint glass. “Want your usual?”

I nod, and she’s already reaching down, pulling out a glass bottle of specialty soda from the fridge. I don’t drink when I’m driving, and I’m always driving here. There’s a local soda company a few blocks away. Family-owned and operated for the better part of a century. Small-batch flavors and new limited editions every month. Peaches and cream this time. My favorite tiny indulgence. A little overpriced, and a little nostalgic. But it reminds me of home.

Just as she pops the bottle cap off, Henry, the bouncer, ambles toward me with a sly grin. He slides a folded twenty across the bar and taps it twice with two fingers, like he's sealing a deal.

I arch a brow, slowly raising the bottle of peaches and cream soda to my lips.

His grin widens. "From the asshole in front. I convinced him it was in his best interest to apologize or I was tossing his ass out."

I huff a laugh and dip my head in acknowledgment. "Thanks, Henry. Though I’d pay twenty bucks to see it happen.”

Beth laughs as she wipes down the bar top. "If it makes you feel better, he heckles everyone. Seriously. Like he thinks he’s part of the show."

Surprise lifts both brows as I slip the twenty into the pocket of my favorite dress. "I'm surprised you guys let him stay." I flick my gaze between the two.

Beth shrugs, tossing the towel over her shoulder and leaning her palms on the counter. "He's the owner's cousin or something. I don't know. He usually tips well, so that doesn't hurt."

My smile tightens. Of course he stays. Men like that always do. Loud, entitled, untouchable. It’s the same played-out story.

"I better get back. Great set tonight though," Henry says, tapping the bar twice again before he steps back.

“Thanks," I murmur, taking another sip and surveying the crowd in the bar. The other bartender, Ashley, weaves between tables with a tray braced on her hip as she collects empty glasses.

"So that's new, hm?" Beth says, pulling my attention toward her. She motions to her hair, circling her finger in the air a little. "Your hair."

"Oh, yeah." I flip the ends of my hair between my fingers. "Thanks. It was a late-night impulse buy the other day. I probably should get it professionally done."

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