• Tomorrow Will Be Different • {J.C} (P.1)

• Chapter Ten •

Wearing a mini plaid dress with a short sleeve crop top underneath, Erin had never felt more uncomfortable. It had been a couple of years since she'd worn a dress—forgetting just how annoying it was to overanalyze the way she sat down.

Erin would never admit it, but she also felt pretty—prettier than she had in a long time. She put on makeup and even fixed her hair so she could wear it down.

However, that feeling didn't compete with the level of discomfort she felt regarding the way she looked—half of her even felt silly.

Erin suddenly felt downright insecure when she entered the bar with Albert—almost immediately recognizing the uninhibited prick sporting a black leather jacket.

What little ego Erin had completely deteriorated. She turned around, starting back out the door she had just came through.

Albert's arm hooked around her waist, gently pulling her away from the exit.
"You're gonna have a good time, I promise." Al insisted.

"Not with him here I'm not." Erin protested. It suddenly started to make sense—this was Albert's plan. He was going to force them to get along—he was going to make them see that under different pretenses, she and Jules could be friends—or at least friendly.
"Did he even know I was gonna be here?"

"You think he'd be here if he did?" Albert laughed—Erin did not.

"I'm never gonna forgive you for this." Erin teased; however, she wasn't so sure it was a joke—she didn't see herself trusting Albert anytime soon after pulling something so conniving.
"I'm gonna go to the bathroom." Erin marched toward the restrooms, slipping right past Julian unnoticed.

~—• • • • • • • • •—~

Nearly an hour passed and Julian was still unaware that Erin was there. She sat at the other end of the bar, sipping beer—sulking.

She heard pieces of their conversation, of Albert going on about their upcoming gig. He was discussing something about hauling equipment—about a van and taking out seats.

She was thankful that Al hadn't made her a spectacle—she was relieved he hadn't drawn attention to her. He knew Erin enough to know she wasn't drunk enough to engage with his friends...
        ...especially with the disgruntled one she was technically living with.

"So are we meeting up in Midtown? Or are we just gonna ride in together?" Fab asked, looking to Albert and Julian.

        Al had recently become the decision maker when it came to their gigs. He was acting as the band's manager, figuring out the ends and outs of the local establishments they often frequented trying to get booked for shows.

Albert typically decided where and how—where they would meet, and how they would get there. Julian dictated when and why—when they rehearsed, and why they had to do it...
...over and over again.

Everyone was in agreement that Julian made most (if not all) the actual decisions; but Albert had inside information regarding the sets.

"It makes more sense to ride in together from Midtown, right?" Albert asked, looking to Julian for the answer.

Jules raised his brows, displaying lazy, uncaring eyes.
      "I don't know—does it really matter what I think? Does my opinion really matter to you?" Julian's apathetic gaze never wavered from Al's. He stared back at him with such exhausted indifference, the rest of the guys noticed their shared tension.

Albert narrowed his eyes as a patronizing grin sprouted across his face. "Are we really doing this right now?"

"Again," Julian paused for dramatic affect, "does it really matter to you?"

"What are you—my fucking boyfriend now?"

The boys laughed in unison—Fabrizio puckering his lips a quarter of an inch away from Julian's cheek as he made kissy-sounds.

"No," Julian stood, "if I was your boyfriend, you'd respect me more."
He chugged the remainder of his beer, using Nikolai's shoulder as an armrest. Nik poked at his stomach—the motion had caused Julian's shirt to raise, exposing his lower belly.
He burped, "I gotta take a piss."

Julian started toward the restrooms. He was already six beers in and hadn't been there any more than two hours.

He knew he needed to slow down, but with everything happening—the gig they weren't prepared for, the girl in his apartment, Al—he simply couldn't find a good reason to hit the brakes.

        Catching sight of white K-Swiss sneakers, Julian's eyes followed the pair of pretty crossed legs attached to them.

He watched as she self-consciously tugged at the hem of her mini plaid dress—her head propped up by the heel of her palm. Her long wavy hair covered nearly all of her face—as if she were using it to hide from the world.
...At least from everyone in the bar.

Julian didn't know this girl, nor had he even seen her face yet; but he was suddenly engulfed by a strange feeling of immense guilt. He felt bad for her, assuming that she had most likely been stood up—either by some friends, or an unappreciative excuse for a man.

He was going to talk to her—he would buy her some drinks and turn her night around. Who knows, maybe she could turn his night around too.

No guy in their right mind would stand up a pair of legs like that; it had to be some jealous girls she thought were her friends. Or perhaps, (if Jules was lucky) she was there to forget about a not-so-significant-other.

Julian took another look at her just before entering the men's room; that strange sense of immense guilt was suddenly turning into a nervous fear of rejection.