Page 5 of Wingwoman
Rarely in my life had I seen a woman refuse a free drink if she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring – and this chick wasn’t. Furthermore, yes, she was beautiful. But a beautiful woman in the middle of Austin, Texas wasn’t exactly a rare thing either. So why was I so struck by her?
Her mouth turned up into a loose smile; a practiced smile. But her eyes? They were guarded. Locked down tightly as though she wouldn’t dare let anyone in.
“How did you find this girl?” I asked.
“That chick I’m seeing—Jackie. She convinced one of her girlfriends to hire her tonight. They have a meeting or something. That’s how I knew she’d be here. I guess Jackie and their other friends were tired of her cramping their style when they went out.”
Jackie sounded like a real bitch. “Are you serious with this Jackie girl?”
Matt shook his head. “Oh, hell no. She’s fun for a week or two and then I’ll be ‘on tour’ somewhere to get out of calling her.”
Good. Hiring a matchmaker for a friend because she was ‘cramping your style’ while out? Then on top of that, telling a guy you knew for only two weeks where your friend was going to be that night? She didn’t seem like the most trustworthy friend.
And Matt might be my manager, but he was also my best friend. So if he ended up in a serious relationship with this Jackie woman who would tell a random guy she was fucking where her friend was drinking at? Something was wrong with that picture.
He glanced over at the hightop table where the matchmaker was now greeting a young woman. “Damn,” he hissed. “Look at that client of hers. She’s fucking hot.”
“The client who is friends with the current girl you’re fucking?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said unironically, not noticing how fucked up it would be to start datingthisgirl next.
I glanced at the girl as well. She was pretty. Young though.Reallyyoung. “I’d say this Jackie chick was lying. No way that girl was cramping their style,” I said. More likely she was jealous of her friend.
“Anyway,” Matt continued, “Jackie referred her friend to this woman… Hope is her name. She doesn’t call herself a matchmaker though…” He pulled out a business card from his pocket and read it. “Professional Wingwoman. Huh. That’s a weird title, isn’t it? Anyway, she’s here visiting from New York City for a couple of months and looking for clients to fill the time.”
I took the card from him and read it aloud. “Hope Marcoux-Evans, Professional Wingwoman.” I rolled those words around in my mouth like a marble on a skating rink.
“Oh shit,” Matt said, glancing at his watch. “I have a dinner meeting I have to run to.” He jumped to his feet, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. “Just do me a favor and watch her work for a bit. See if she’ll be a good fit.”
I nodded as Matt took off, nearly plowing over a waitress walking by with a few beers.
Hope’s light brown hair fell in waves just a couple inches beyond her shoulders as she leaned in, chatting with her client. I only caught a couple glimpses of her eyes as she turned profile. They were wide; wider than normal and she looked like she belonged as the star of some animated movie where she would sing at weird times and be dressed by birds and mice.
I sat there staring at her for a long time. Too long. I was already pressing my luck as it was being in public like this. The cowboy hat I wore low over my eyes was bound to fail at concealing my identity.
Any minute now, someone in the bar would recognize me; beg me for an autograph or a picture. The fact that I hadn’t had a hit song in years didn’t seem to deter masses of people from swarming. People loved celebrities; even rapidly growing has-beens like me. They were obsessed with them. As though meeting a celebrity somehow elevated their own statuses.
There was maybe a time when I believed in that too. When I was more concerned with being famous than with creating great art. But these days? Fame wasn’t nearly as appealing.
Taking my horse out for a ride on the ranch was. Keeping my mother’s legacy alive with the horse rescue was. Writing a soul-wrenching song was.
Only every time I sat down at my piano or with my guitar, I came up empty. My vacant, blank brain had nothing more to offer this world.
I hadn’t been in love since Jenn, and that was almost ten years ago. Nearly ten years ago, I destroyed her world – broke her heart and left mine an empty shell in the process. And while she was ruined, I wrote my music from it. Took the pain and created something raw and beautiful.
And I became an instant star.
I went on to sell millions of albums, benefitting from our break up while she…didn’t.
Well, that was the understatement of the year.
Emotion clenched my throat. I had to recreate that heartbreak in order to write this next album—but this time, I couldn’t be so reckless.
I’ll fall in love with her. Then I’ll destroy what we build to recreate that heartache from ten years ago. The heartache that inspired me to write a best selling record. But I will make sure that I’m the ruined one; not her.
As I lifted the whiskey, I paused, the glass edge pressed to my lips. Hope’s client pointed at me.Huh. Well, that’s weird. Does she recognize me?
Just then, Hope turned, her phone in hand and shot a quick glance up at me. I couldn’t help the smirk as it curved on my lips, but I didn’t dare look away. Oh, hell no. I wasn’t going to play those games. She squirmed in her seat and I noted the way she crossed, then uncrossed her legs.
