“What can I do ya for?” A waiter with black hair that hangs down to his waist comes over to serve me. “Band’s about to go on, so you’d better order quick.”

“A vodka cranberry, please.”

He nods and walks off without asking me for ID. I have it with me, so I wasn’t worried anyway. I angle my body toward the stage and watch as the longhaired lead singer bounces up to the microphone stand.

“Hello, Boston! We’re Stick Patrol and we’re about to FUCK YOU UP!”

If by “fuck us up” he means they’re going to play six ear-piercing songs with garbled lyrics and wrap up before I even finish my first drink, then mission accomplished.

I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and honest-to-God cry.

What the hell was that?

As the singer thanks everyone for coming, I stand there gaping at him. I’m goddamn agape.

Their set lasted fourteen minutes. That averages out to about two-and-a-half minutes per song. Aren’t metal songs supposed to be a gazillion minutes long? I swear every Metallica track I’ve ever heard is longer than the Lord of the Rings movies.

Fourteen minutes, and then the house lights flicker on and I’m left watching the band dismantle their equipment. Some guy carts an amp off the stage. Another one is rolling up the microphone cords.

Fuck you, Stick Patrol. Fuck them and their dumb name, and fuck my cousin for not adhering to the girl code, and fuck Harvard for winning their game tonight, and fuck global warming for dumping all this unwelcome rain on us. Fuck ’em all.

I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp, then signal the waiter for another.

This is truly the worst weekend ever.

“Wait, did I miss the band?” A beefy guy with a shaved head and two eyebrow rings lumbers over. He glances from me to the empty stage and then back at me. Lust heats his gaze when he notices my dress.

I absently run one fingertip along the rim of my empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. They just finished.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Tell me about it.” And I’m not even a metal fan. I can’t imagine actually wanting to see the band only to show up and discover their set is already over.

“Mind if I join you?” He curls his fingers over the edge of my table.

My gaze drops to his hands. They’re huge, two big meaty paws with red knuckles. I don’t like them, and I don’t particularly want company, but he doesn’t give me a chance to say no.

He moves closer, resting his forearms on the tabletop. His arms are also huge, and the left one is covered with tribal tattoos. “Are you into music?”

Did he just ask me if I’m into music? In general? Aren’t most people? “Sure. Of course.”

“Who’s your favorite metal band?”

“Er, I don’t really have one. I’m not into metal. I wandered in here because I wanted a drink.”

“Cool.”

I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t leave.

“So, are you a student?” I ask, resigning myself to this conversation. It’s not like I have better things to do.

“Dropout,” he says flatly.

Um. Okay. I don’t care either way, but that’s an odd thing to say. “Where did you drop out from? BC? BU? I’m at Briar.”

“I went to St. Michael’s.”

“St. Michael’s?” I scan my brain. “I haven’t heard of that college.”

“High school,” he grunts. “It’s not a college. It’s a high school.” He thrusts both thumbs at his own chest. “High school dropout.”

Um.

How on earth does one respond to that?

Luckily, the waiter spares me from replying. He appears with another vodka cran and a bottle of Corona for the self-proclaimed dropout. I eagerly raise my drink to my lips.

My companion takes a long swig of his beer. “So what’s your name?”

“Brenna.”

“Dope.”

“Thanks. How about you?”

“No, that’s my name—Dope. My name’s Dope.”

Um.

I swallow a soul-sucking sigh. “Your name is Dope?”

“Well, no, it’s actually Ronny. Dope is my stage name.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “Used to be in a band, we performed GNR covers.”

“Oh. Cool. I think I’m going to call you Ronny, though.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a ballbuster. I like that.”

Silence falls between us again. He sidles closer, his elbow nudging mine. “You look sad,” he says.

“Do I?” That’s doubtful. The only emotion I’m experiencing at the moment is irritation.

“Yep. You look like you need a hug.”

I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.

“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.

“Can I try your drink?”

What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”

“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”

I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.

“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.

Which I didn’t.

“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”

I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.

Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.

But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.

No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.

Jake fucking Connelly.

My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.

What. Is. He. Doing. Here.

“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”

I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or a band shirt. He’s also about a foot taller than everyone else.

I grit my teeth. Why do athletes have to be so big and masculine? Jake’s body is incredibly appealing. Long legs, muscular arms, sculpted chest. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, and I find myself wondering what his chest looks like when it’s bare. Ripped, I assume. But is it hairy? Smooth like a baby’s bottom? My traitorous fingertips tingle with the urge to find out.

He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the band members. The guitarist, I think.