Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I just met a guy.
By the time I exit the restroom, where I did my best to dab the coffee off my shirt and walk into class, the lecture hall is packed. I prefer to sit up front, especially if I need to stay awake, but I’m out of luck, and it doesn’t bother me one bit because I’m floating on air. I hitch my backpack up and find a seat in the last row at the top. At least it’s the aisle and the exit is behind me in case I need to dash out quickly for my next class.
“This professor is supposed to be awesome,” says the guy next to me.
“Oh?”
“Sociology of Men and Women.” He winks at me, and I read the gleam of interest there.
He’s cute with black glasses, a designer shirt, and super white teeth. Rich guy. Lots of money at Vandy, yet where people come from and what they have doesn’t annoy me anymore. We’re all here to learn, and I fit in just fine.
Even in my shabby Converse, pink now instead of black.
He leans over closer. “You wanna study together for this class sometime?”
I shake my head. “Um, I’m seeing someone,” I tell him, being blunt. Might as well let him know. My heart is taken.
His smile falters a bit. “Oh. Cool. Sure, yeah. Me too.”
I look up at the professor who’s walked into the room, and my eyes land on a gold shirt near the front. I sit up straighter. I have to angle my head and peer past a coed with some giant hair—
But, oh, I see him.
My first name is Lee.
My lips curve.
The professor introduces himself and breaks down the coursework, and I take notes on my laptop without looking, watching Hot Guy.
Did he see me walk in?
The professor begins talking, and before long I’m sucked in, especially when he throws out the term mating rituals. I grin, thanking my advisor in my head.
Later, I’m halfway into my shift at Blue’s when Carla, a graduate student and my manager, walks over to the bar and points at me. “Your turn to take the mic.”
“I sang one already!”
“You know the drill, missy.”
I groan, set down my bar cloth, and make my way to the small raised stage inside Blue’s Bar.
“Part of the job, Ava,” she calls. “Only way to get those other people up to sing is if you do.”
“They just need to be drunk. You should do a dollar beer night.”
She huffs. “As if. Now, go sing your tits off.”
I’m thrown back to Camden when Miss Henderson said something similar over the intercom before the first football game. The memory doesn’t prick like it used to, and I laugh.
“She just likes hearing you sing,” Piper says as she brings back a tray of beer and wine glasses. “And you know you like it too.” She gives me a questioning look, and I shrug. She’s right. I didn’t sing for a long time, but once I started working here a year ago, it just seemed natural to hop on the stage and belt one out. There’s a piano, but I can’t play it. I can strum a guitar, though, thanks to Wyatt.
I’ve gotten through two songs when a big group comes in. Girls and guys, they’re wearing Vandy colors. Blue’s Bar is a block from campus, and most of our clientele are coeds.
Carla signals for one more and I nod.
Dipping my head, I sit on the stool and strum the first few bars of “Mercy” by Shawn Mendes. Humming, I start the lyrics, melancholy verses about a guy who needs the girl he loves to show mercy for his heart, to take their love slow. He’s prepared to sacrifice it all, but he needs to take some time.
The crowd gets quieter, and I sing the melody, giving it all I have.
A piano begins to play.
Pulling myself from the lyrics, I look over, and Hot Guy has gotten on stage. He’s playing, his fingers stroking the keys in time to my words.
Ah, we meet again. A shiver ripples over my skin.
Red colors my cheeks when he pops an eyebrow at me. I realize I’ve stopped singing.
Well? Aren’t you going to finish? his eyes ask.
Why? my face says.
He shrugs effortlessly as his fingers pause over the keys. “I like how you sing,” he says softly.
Good enough. I look back at the crowd and sing the rest.
The song ends to a smattering of claps, hardly enthusiastic.
“Ava! I need you! Get over here!” Carla waves her hands at the line of people at the bar.
Right.
I turn back to my piano player, but he’s already gone, headed back to that group of students who came in earlier.
With a sigh, I straighten my hot pink Blue’s Bar tank and head to the bar, sliding in, taking orders, cracking beer bottle tops, and mixing drinks.