The crowd is pretty steady over the next three hours. That’s how open mic night usually goes. The first few acts aren’t much to brag about, but the later the evening gets, the more likely it is someone good will go on. That’s how Dad tries out potential spotlights. If they can win over the open-mic-night crowd, he’ll usually offer them a weekend.
There’s a girl with a guitar closing tonight, and she’s pretty good. I can tell my dad thinks so too, because he’s been hanging around the edge of the stage. He’ll offer her a weekend, and I’ll love watching her face light up. Every single person that plays the Dusty’s stage has a dream. Even when they say they don’t when they step up there, they’ve got one by the time they step down.
This girl is a dreamer. She’s young, maybe about nineteen or twenty. She’s good, too. Even Mason and his friends are listening. I haven’t been to their table all night, so I take a deep breath and head over to help clear some of the glasses. I don’t want to look like I’m avoiding them.
“Hey, stranger,” Mason says, his feet propped up on the edge of the table. He’s a little buzzed—I can tell. He’s playing with his phone, not really looking at me, but the sloppy smirk on his face shows he’s aware I’m here. He’s wearing an old pair of Converse, black jeans that fit tight to his legs and gather at his shoes, and a V-neck white T-shirt. Even though he smells mostly of beer, I also pick up his cologne underneath—rich and woodsy. I like it. I like it more than I should.
I also like his haircut. I’ve noticed it a few times tonight. It’s short around his neck, like it used to be. There’s still a wave in the top, and it flops a little in his face, but not quite as much as it did before the cut.
He’s watching me over his phone. I can see his eyes move to me every so often, and I just smile and continue on with my work. His attention scares the hell out of me, because I know how quickly it can latch on to someone else. But for now, I give myself this little moment. Right now, slightly drunk, Mason Street finds me pretty enough to flirt with, and damn it, I am.
“Do you ever just stop?” Mason asks, pushing his phone back into his pocket and dropping his feet to the ground. He leans forward on his elbows, looking at me across the table. His arms flex slightly, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his bicep and the tattoo.
“What’s with the tiger?” I ask, changing the subject entirely.
“He was a makeup tattoo. Covering up something stupid I got when I was drunk once in Vegas. You didn’t answer my question.” He moves over a seat, so he’s closer to me, and I shift my tray to my other hip, just to add a barrier. He notices, and his lip curls up on the side in a devious grin.
“I know. I’m avoiding it,” I say back. He’s not going to charm me—this girl can dish it, and take it.
He sits back in his chair, and folds his arms now, propping a foot back up along the side of the table. He’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, and I’m just waiting for him to come back with a second round. I keep loading up my tray, and when it’s full, I turn to leave. I’m almost free when Mason catches up to me and walks me to the bar.
“I probably should have asked that differently,” he says, pulling the tray from my hands and putting the dirties in the bin before handing it back to me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Avery. Not a girl in her twenties, anyways. You just go and go and go. And I was just thinking, you never take time to just stop—and to just be.”
I’m sure the face I’m making back at him isn’t flattering, but really…that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can I just be?
“You know what kind of girl does that?” I say, moving in a little closer just so Mason knows he doesn’t intimidate me. “A vapid one, without a kid, and who is planning a beach-house getaway with her girlfriends. That girl is a fairytale, Mason. Make-believe. Us real women? We have responsibilities—and we put other people first. Because it’s the right thing to do. So no—no, I don’t just ever…stop. Too much depends on me going.”
I can actually feel my hands shaking I’m so flustered by this conversation. All I want to do is smash my tray in his face and race off to the locker area to lie down and breathe. But I can’t.
I can’t, because somewhere in the midst of my rant, Mason grabbed my hand with his, and now all I can freaking focus on is the feeling of his thumb lightly grazing my fingers and how much it makes me want to burst into tears.
“One drink, right before close. That’s all I’m asking,” Mason says, his eyes boring into mine like lasers. “I’m not saying pick up and go backpacking across Europe. I’m just asking you to take a break, for once in your life. Have a beer with the guys and me while Ray closes up. We’ll shoot some pool, or throw some darts. Twenty minutes, and then you can go back to living for everyone else.”