Page 14 of Kneeling for Them
“Yeah.Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.Jenny’s happy.”
Jenny’s the owner.
“At least some good came of it,” I say.“I’ll come back once the excitement has died down.”
He nods.“Give it a week or two.”
I start down the block, pulling my phone from my pocket so I can text Kellan to come get me.But the traffic hasn’t improved.Maybe I can chill out somewhere else for an hour or two, give traffic a chance to die down, spare my driver.
Ella’s pub, Bartleby’s, is close by, so I head there.Too bad she isn’t working tonight.
I enter the pub and seat myself at the bar.A man who looks to be in his forties, with bushy black eyebrows and bright blue eyes, takes my order of iced tea.While I sip it, I pull my phone out and look at some of the lyrics I’ve copied into the notes app.
They all suck.Every single line.
I briefly consider giving Trina a shitty song.Let her think I don’t have “it” in me anymore.
But if we drop a new song, fans of mine will pick it up.They’ll spend their money on my work.Can I disappoint them?No, I can’t do that.Releasing a shitty song is not a victimless crime.
“Natasha!”the guy with bushy eyebrows says loudly.
A young woman with black hair and light brown skin hurries up to the bar.“Yeah, Kevin?What’s up?”
“Table nineteen’s order got overcooked.Give them a free round and let them know it’ll be a few more minutes.”
“Sure,” she says, hurrying off to one of the tables.
When she comes back, I wave at her.
“Can I help you?”she asks.
“Natasha—is that your name?”I ask.
She nods and gives me a suspicious look, then says, “Oh, right!You’re with Ella.She’s not working tonight.”
“I know,” I say.“I was just in the neighborhood.How are things working out—is she all moved in yet?She wouldn’t let me help her.”
Natasha frowns.The confusion on her face tells me all I need to know.“Um…”
“She’s not moving in with you, is she?”I say.
“I don’t—it’s not my place—I have to get back to work,” she says in a hurry.Then she disappears.
For fuck’s sake.
My little princess lied to me.
So where is she staying?
Before I can type out a text to her, a woman with short brown hair enters the pub and makes a beeline for the bar and the stool next to mine.She looks familiar—then I realize it’s because I just saw her at the karaoke bar.
“Hi, Bastian,” she says, sidling up to me and leaning against the bar.“What are you drinking?”
“Iced tea,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose.“That’s no fun.Certainly not satisfying.”
