Page 14 of The Match Faker
“Excuse me?” the bartender asks, his brows arched.
I shake my head and wince as I swallow what could arguably be called a cooking wine. “I was talking to myself.”
He cocks his head to the side, examining me like I’m a strange bird species. I wish Jade was here. People enjoy talking to her, and more importantly, she wants to talk to them. I’m too in my head. Too worried about my clothes and if my phone has enough battery and whether my fucking date will show up.
“Are you going to sign up for karaoke?” he asks.
I follow the bartender’s gaze to the stage at the back of the room and shudder. Wherever this Nick is, I hope he didn’t choose this bar for the karaoke. “God, no.”
Even the idea of singing in front of strangers turns the wine in my stomach. And that wine was already pretty well turned.
In this bar, a sea of sensory overload, he is a buoy; not still, but moving with the tide. A raft I can cling to. Without saying a word, just a teasing expression that isn’t as snide as I originally thought, he makes it easier for me to say more when I’d usually stay silent. Maybe bartenders have the hairdresser effect, enabling people to spill their guts to them.
“The only thing worse than singing in public is singing terribly in public.” I straighten the coaster between us. “Which is what would happen if I were to sing.”
“It’s karaoke. You’re not supposed to begood.” He maintains eye contact as he turns the coaster on a forty-five-degree angle.
Oh my god.Dick.
“It’s funner when you’re not.”
“More fun,” I say, kind of under my breath but kind of not.
With a grin, he rolls up his sleeves, his forearms thick and peppered with dark hair. When he catches me looking, I glance at the door even though no one new has entered the bar.
Sighing, I pat down my hair for the hundredth time, then check my phone, though I haven’t received a single notification since I arrived. Anything to distract myself from the conspicuously empty seat beside me and the thick veins that trace their way from the back of my bartender’s hands to the inside of his elbows.
A woman with a halo of tight curls and light brown skin rushes through the back door and slips behind the bar. “Sorry I’m late, Nicky.”
“No worries, Berns,” my bartender says as he dries a pint glass.
My heart stutters.Nicky. Nicky? Nick?
I blink between them as she leans over the bar to take an order. He knocks twice on the wood.
“Be right back,” he says before I can confirm. Is he Nick? Is this my date?
He bounds onto the stage and the volume in the bar rises to a cacophony. Under the attention of the rowdy group, he completely transforms, his smile growing, his chest following suit. The curtain on the small stage pulls back to reveal a band—with drums and various other percussion instruments, a keyboard, and a bass and electric guitar—crammed into the space. The wordsUnderground Karaokeare projected onto the screen rolled down behind them.
My bartender, Nick, beams, a cheeky man-boy who suddenly looks half his age and clearly loves the attention. It’s terribly obnoxious, mostly because of how charmed I am by it. I can’thelp but smile. Though itisa bit unconventional to suggest one’s own workplace for a date. Especially, since…is it rude to beworkingduring the date? Has he already realized that I’m his date and didn’t say anything?
“It is time,” he says into the mic.
The room breaks into raucous whistles and cheers.
I’ve walked past the bar a thousand times. It’s never seemed like anything more than a dive. The kind of place that smells like vomit and lets underage girls in without checking their IDs. And itisdark and dirty. But it’s almost like there’s community here. As if these people know him. As if this is a routine they’ve come to expect.
A giddy laugh bubbles out of me, and I take a sip of the disgusting wine to ground myself again.
“We have a newbie to karaoke tonight.” He waves at me.
Like a puppet on his string, I find myself waving back. Until the group of karaoke-ers turn to wave, too. Face flaming, I drop my arm and force a smile.
Okay, doubledick. Maybe that’s why he scheduled this date while he was clocked in, that way it would be hard for me to hide the body of this well-forearmed lumberjack cosplayer after I murdered him for inviting me to my own personal hell. Because he has to be my date, “my” Nick. He’s just so…familiar.
I busy myself with my phone screen again, letting the flush fade from my face. Hopefully, he gets the point that I will not be obliged into performing.
He introduces the first performer, then the band dives into what sounds like the rock version of a Spice Girls song.