Yup, we were going to negotiate a name change for sure.
“Hey! I was here first!”
A fat, bald guy with round, rimless glasses complained, when the blonde moved in to take my order the minute my elbows touched the surface of the bar.
“What are you having?” I asked him not letting her apologise.
“Three Budweiser’s.”
I looked at the bartender. The nametag on her chest readPamela, but we weren’t going to get as far as first name basis.
“Make it six and put it on my tab, sweetheart.”
Her face lit up at the endearment. This was going to be easy.
“How about you?” She pursed her lips. “What is it that you want?”
I leaned forward, and she mimicked my position giving me an insight into her cleavage. Double c’s—not bad. I glanced higher, tracing her tanned skin, neckline, and botoxed lips to stop at the ice-blue eyes.
“Ten minutes with you in the backseat of your car.”
The line usually included my car, but I arrived in a taxi, and I didn’t feel like using one of the bathroom stalls tonight.
Her eyes widened, and she drew her lips in a thin line—as thin as botox allowed. They all try to put up a facade, look offended or disgusted, but not one said no. I wasn’t irresistible. I was just good at choosing the right girls. The key was not trying my luck with a blonde who didn’t already imagine me inside of her. The horny, ready-for-a-bit-of-fun girls were easy to spot in the crowd.
Pamela glanced at the fat guy on my right who listened to our every word. She lowered her gaze and her skin turned redder than Santa’s outfit, but after another second, she raised her chin, standing taller.
“I get off at nine. A baby-pink Fiat is parked at the back. Wait there.” She winked, walking away to get the beers.
“Dude! That was awesome!” The bald guy cheered holding his hand out to high-five me.
Some people need a high-five… in their face… with a chair.
I ignored him, placing a fifty on the counter to cover the beers. I just paid for random guy’s alcohol so I could bag the bartender. How different was this to getting a hooker? Not much. Pamela was a lower risk of catching chlamydia. Or perhaps not.
The Mishapsplayed three more songs, and the crowd of girls shrieked and cheered when they thanked everyone for coming.
“Is there somewhere quieter here where we could talk to the band?” I asked Ethan, who knew the staff by their names.
“We can join them backstage; come on.”
I glanced over my shoulder to check out the barmaid again. She watched me with hooded eyes and licked her pink lips, winking again.
You’re trying too hard.
It was quarter to nine, so I had little time for business if I wanted to see the barmaid situation through. To be honest, I didn’t care, but I was running out of ideas to help me forget about Nadia.
“Hey guys, great performance tonight!” Ethan greeted the band.
The room adjacent to the bar had to be a torture chamber in the olden days. It was claustrophobically small; I settled for leaning in the doorway, while the other seven guys stood way too close to each other, among the instruments and two brown armchairs that must have been there since the Great Depression.
“This is Thomas Calix and Nick Grimwald from C&G Records,” Ethan said, introducing us like a TV presenter.
He would make a decent head-hunter if he wanted, but he enjoyed the easy, nine-to-five life of a corporate worker for a pharmaceutical company too much.
“C&G Records, huh?” Charles asked, excitement in his eyes but not in his voice. “Nice to meet you guys. How can we help?”
“You can’t,” I countered. “We can. We liked what we saw, and we want you to come in for a studio session tomorrow. We’ll see what we can make of this, but I can’t say we’re not impressed.”