band?” A beefy guy with a shaved head and two eyebrow rings lumbers over. He glances from me to the empty stage and then back at me. Lust heats his gaze when he notices my dress.
I absently run one fingertip along the rim of my empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. They just finished.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Tell me about it.” And I’m not even a metal fan. I can’t imagine actually wanting to see the band only to show up and discover their set is already over.
“Mind if I join you?” He curls his fingers over the edge of my table.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re huge, two big meaty paws with red knuckles. I don’t like them, and I don’t particularly want company, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say no.
He moves closer, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His arms are also huge, and the left one is covered with tribal tattoos. “Are you into music?”
Did he just ask me if I’m into music? In general? Aren’t most people? “Sure. Of course.”
“Who’s your favorite metal band?”
“Er, I don’t really have one. I’m not into metal. I wandered in here because I wanted a drink.”
“Cool.”
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.
“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.
“Dropout,” he says flatly.
Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”
“I went to St. Michael’s.”
“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”
“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”
Um.
How on earth does one respond to that?
Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.
My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“Dope.”
“Thanks. How about you?”
“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”
Um.
I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”
“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”
“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”
Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.
“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.
“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”
I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.
“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.
“Can I try your drink?”
What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”
“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”
I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.
“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.
Which I didn’t.
“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”
I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.
Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.
But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.
No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.
Jake fucking Connelly.
My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.
What. Is. He. Doing. Here.
“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”
I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or