“His roommate moved out, and he couldn’t afford his place alone.”
“Addie.” Cami reaches for my hand. “You are not a doormat.”
“He doesn’t treat me like a doormat.”
“Yes. He does.” Mia sighs and takes my other hand. “You deserve so much better.”
“I love you both,” I begin, my stomach heaving. “I know you just want to protect me. Jeremy is a good guy. I like him.”
“Okay.” Cami sips her coffee, then shrugs one slim shoulder. “But when he breaks your heart, we’ll be here.”
“Let’s talk about this open-mic night. Who’s going with me?”
Mia and Cami exchange glances.
“I’ll be working,” Mia says. “I have some new Saturday night specials I want to try.”
“I don’t want to,” Cami says honestly. “I trust you to find exactly what we need.”
“I’ll take Kat.” I chew my lip, ideas already swirling in my head. “She’s a good judge of these things.”
“Good idea.”
The door opens again.
“Oh good. Mr. Wonderful is back,” Cami mutters.
“HOW DO YOU do that to your hair?” Riley asks from her perch on my vanity stool, eating Chunky Monkey ice cream from the carton as I twist my hair into chunky ringlets. I’ve streaked it with purple tonight.
“It’s not hard. It just takes practice, but once you get it down, it goes fast.”
“I like the purple,” she says with a grin. “And the painted-on jeans. You have a great ass.”
I grin and turn to the side, eyeing my ass in these jeans. She’s right. My ass isn’t bad. I could do without the hips, but what are you gonna do?
“Should I wear a jacket over this top?” It’s a flowy, black camisole, showing off my cleavage, but not hugging my problem areas.
“No. It’s hot. You’ll either find a hot singer for the restaurant, or a date.”
“I have a date.” I glance up to the heavens. “Give me strength.”
“Jeremy isn’t a date,” Riley replies as she scrapes the bottom of the ice cream carton. “He’s someone to fuck.”
“Riley!”
“Truth,” she says with a shrug. “And nothing wrong with it either, as long as you know the score.”
“Well, the sex doesn’t suck.” There’s a sharp knock on my bedroom door, and then Kat walks in, looking tall and gorgeous and freaking badass. Her red hair is pinned up. She’s in a sleeveless top, showing off her awesome ink, and she’s in mile-high pink stilettos.
“It should be illegal to look that hot,” Riley says with a sigh. “You’re both hot.”
“Why aren’t you coming with us?” Kat asks.
“Because I have a new marketing plan to come up with for this new music act.”
“Excuse,” Kat says, watching me apply my makeup. “And speaking of a hottie, hello, bombshell.”
I grin at her in the mirror. “You’re the hottest date I’ve had in a long time.”
“Back at you.” She winks. “Okay, what are we looking for tonight? Addie, this is your show, I’m just here to help.”
“It’s our show,” I reply.
“The front of the house is yours, and you do an awesome job with it.” Riley slicks some of my lipstick on her full lips, checks herself out, then vigorously wipes it off. “I can’t do lipstick.”
“I want to find a one- or two-person act.” I tease my hair, until it falls just the way I want it to. “Someone with a sexy voice. I’m thinking Gavin DeGraw–ish.”
“Hot.” Kat nods in agreement. “How much can we spend?”
“Let’s try to keep it around five hundred a night,” Riley replies. “Cami said that’s how much we can comfortably spend.”
“That’s not bad. Let’s just hope we find someone. I already put a sign in the window too. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Okay. Let’s do this.” Kat leads us out of the apartment.
“Have fun,” Riley says and waves as she walks to her car.
“This is gonna be fun,” Kat says, then fist-bumps me and leads me to her car.
“CAN I GET you another chardonnay?” the waitress asks Kat, who shakes her head no.
“I’ll just take a Diet Coke.”
“Same for me.”
The waitress nods and moves on.
“Wine not good here?” I ask Kat with a grin.
“Tastes like piss,” she replies. “I totally understand wanting to serve an inexpensive bottle, and there are some delicious ones out there. There’s no excuse for serving subpar wine.”
My smile grows. “It turns me on when you turn on your wine-speak.”
“It’s what I do.”
“And you do it well.” And she does. Kat is the best sommelier in the Pacific Northwest. She knows wine.
“What do you think so far?”
We are seated at a high table, near the stage, in the center of the room, so it’s easy to see the acts. Right now a young woman is singing a Trisha Yearwood song off-key.
“I haven’t heard anything to write home about.”
Kat nods in agreement, then glares at the man who just grabbed her ass as he walked by. “Keep your hands to yourself, buddy.”
He shrugs and smiles unapologetically, then keeps walking.
“Men are gross,” Kat mutters.
They sure can be.
The off-key girl finishes her song and we applaud. Next up is a throwback from 1967. Except the guy is young—maybe twenty-two. His dreadlocks fall to the middle of his back. He has a beard. His clothes are dirty.