And wet.
And a little crazy.
Of course, I know that already but I’m still shocked every time I come.
I’m supposed to be focused on business. We have a meeting tomorrow with a major fitness brand to design and discuss a Karly Dahl campaign. Yet here we are, walking down broadway to the next bar.
My publicist slash friend, Brea, leads the way, pushing through a crowd of people into the next building. I haven’t told her everything that’s going on in my life back home, but she knows enough that she feels like she needs to get me drunk.
Pulling me by the hand, she leads me up the stairs to a rooftop bar. It’s not as crowded as I expected, other than a few groups spaced out near the heaters. The bar is inside under a roof, so we find seats and wait for the bartender to come our way. Inside is much more crowded thanks to a DJ and a dance floor.
“You aren’t very talkative,” Brea observes, catching the bartender’s attention and ordering us two drinks.
“I’m just thinking about the meetings tomorrow.”
She slides my drink over to me, “That… is going to be fine. Now let’s find some entertainment.”
Just the thought of taking some stranger back to my hotel room sends a chill down my spine. No thanks.
“I’d rather just drink these,” I lift my drink, “and head back.”
“Party pooper,” She whines, nodding across the area to a man, “He’s totally checking you out.”
“Not interested,” I snap, tossing the entire drink down the hatch and setting the glass back down with a thud.
I hear the strum of a guitar, and I turn around on my stool to see where the sound is coming from. Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of the stage.
My heart drops, and my drink threatens to come back up.
Ashton.
I dig quickly through my purse for a twenty-dollar bill and toss it on the bar, practically falling off my stool and trying to escape.
“Did you know he was going to be here?” I ask Brea, rubbing my sweaty palms on the backside of my flare jeans.
She winces and puts her palm to her head, “I’m sorry. It seemed like a good idea.”
“You brought me here for publicity!” I growl, brushing her shoulder with mine as I push past her. Almost making it to the door before Ashton speaks into the microphone.
“Guys, the beautiful Karly Dahl is in the house tonight.”
The way he says my name nearly makes me shiver. I turn around and watch as the entire crowd turns to me, most of them with their phones in their hands. I stand here frozen as the crowd begins to howl, egging him on. If I walk out that door right now, it causes a scene—potentially bad publicity—and I can’t have any negative headlines right now with this clothing deal on the line.
I raise my hand in a small wave, and Ashton continues, “I wrote this song when we first met before I knew exactly how much I would love her.”
My stomach turns, and I head straight for the ladies’ room. A cold sweat and shaking hands take over as I stand in the stall, pulling my hair up off of my neck to cool myself off.
“Karly,” Brea’s voice is soft and apologetic. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I squeak, “I’m alright.”
I take a deep breath and flush the empty toilet, using a hairband to pull my hair back. Exiting the stall, I push past Brea, getting some water from the sink to splash on my neck.
“I need to get out of here,” I stress. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”
She nods, “I’ll make sure the coast is clear, and you can sneak down the stairs and out.”
She leaves, only to come back a few seconds later, “He’s on the stage still. You’re good.”