Rock 'N' Roll Singer

𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡

Whoever this man was, he wasn't saying a whole lot after his teasing offer. We all shot each other confused glances, waiting for someone to speak up. Wait, were we making it awkward by not speaking? Before I could start down the anxious route my train of thought usually went down, George broke the silence before it went on too long.

"Yeah, how?"

Mr. Maybe-I-Could-Help-You rolled his eyes and stroked his chin.

"I was going to explain," he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "That was meant to a dramatic pause, you dolt."

"Sorry," George propped his elbows onto the table and took a long drag of his drink like it was a cigarette.

"I don't mean to cut off your theatrics," Jack began before stringing his words into a single sentence for time's sake. "But we're starving, and I can see our waitress is coming over, so say what you want or get out of the way."

The man turned and took a large step back. The stone-faced waitress had barely set the food down before we dug in. She, Bon, and Mr. Man watched us like a pack of wolves had come in to ravage whatever scraps of food we came across. The waitress' features subtly changed from one of indifference to confusion. A corner of her mouth twitched to a frown, and her brows crawled towards one another to indicate a certain level of fear. She handed Bon his drink and turned on her heel and went back to grab more food for other starving patrons, probably whispering about us to another passing waiter.

You see those kids over there? You'd think they hadn't eaten in weeks.

Sensing his chance to work his way back into our conversation, he squeezed into the spot next to Bon, who was now trapped between a stranger and myself. By this point, he might've ordered a drink for the man and become friends, though he seemed a bit tense. Suspicious, even. I felt his leg press against mine as he moved close to wrap a protective arm around me. The bird tattoo on his left upper arm appeared in the corner of my eye, which I quickly caught a glimpse at up close. Everyone, including myself, leaned over our food to see what was going to happen. Bon seemed calm, but maybe he'd snap or just tell the guy to leave.

No, he wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be like him.

"What do want with them?" He asked, performing his disappearing alcohol trick—take a guess what the secret was.

"I'll get to the point. My name is Tom McLaren. I've been in the industry many a year. Maybe you've heard my name on the telly. Does Juke Joint ring a bell?"

Despite his proud smile, no one's eyes lit up with recognition. No jaws collapsed through the floor. I look towards my bandmates, hoping they'd understand my quick head nods as Oh yeah, I know you, but they just looked to me to speak up.

"Can't say that I've heard of you." I nervously shrugged, a bit embarrassed to squash his confidence.

"None of you?" He frantically looked around the table before reeling himself back in to avoid looking like a madman. He raked a nervous hand through his hair and put his hands together down on the table. "Sorry. I've been looking for a group to promote. I can't take any more of these weirdos trying to be the next Bee Gees."

"Exactly what I've been saying!" Bon cried.

"You're a promoter?" I tipped my head to see around Bon's head.

His hand disappeared into his coat pocket, reappearing with a business card between two fingers, inviting me to snatch it up and pore over every word. I wouldn't have been surprised if he rehearsed that little move. His name was printed in a brightly coloured script meant to resemble a neon sign. I half-expected it to somehow light up and blind us all into trusting him. Tiny stars were dotted along the edges for an extra bit of flair.