Page 10 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

Maybe I walked into the right place at the right time.

A lanky man stands over my posture at the bar, my arms folded in

front of me until I glance up at his tall figure beside me. He has cold,

daunting eyes of hazelnut that almost match his red-tinted beard.

His hair is covered with a black hat that matches the remainder of his

outfit: leather pants and a ripped cotton t-shirt. The markup of either

a guy with some weird color avoidance or a guy in a metal band.

Given his puzzled friends on stage who look toward me nosily, I can

deduce it’s the latter.

“The bar isn’t open yet, but it looks like you need a drink.”

His voice invades my mind, and I roll my eyes at the familiarity of it.

“Oh god, not you.”

“Hey, car chick. It’s nice to see you too,” he sneers sarcastically. “My

band is practicing right now, and the bartender went out to grab ice

for the day. If you want something, you’ll have to wait.”

“It’s not even noon, Percy,” I spit, his name like a sin on my lips.

“Why would I want a drink?”

“You’re in a bar,” he replies, saying each syllable even slower than the

last. “Listen, I don’t know who spit in your tequila this morning, but I

was just trying to be hospitable and warn you of the musical

masterpiece that is about to take place in this bar. You can’t record it,

either.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but see the scrawny band geek who used

to slither through the halls of high school and try to be as invisible as

possible.

“If it’s anything like your sophomore year saxophone solo, then I

think I’ll be okay on needing to record it. I just came in to avoid a

stupid and awkward situation outside, alright? Go back to playing

the garage band with your buddies. I’ll leave in a minute.”

He turns to return to the short stage in the back of the bar, stopping

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