Page 127 of Paint the Town, Dove
By that I mean, Ryden’s success was never an option.
It was a prophecy.
One full year of posting him and Emory singing on YouTube and it took off.
We had gained almost seventy thousand subscribers and ALL of them wanted to watch Ryden live.
So I made it happen.
At seventeen, I couldn’t do much. Measly posts, hidden recording sessions… lots and lots of Emory’s weed.
But the second I turned eighteen, I combed the streets of downtown and marched into every bar with open ears and happy hours.
I may have not been old enough to drink, but I knew how to obtain what I wanted.
And Iwantedneededa fucking win.
The first two I stopped in denied me at the door unless I knew a guy who knew a guy – or I sucked off the heads.
One would’ve involved me talking to anyone other than Ryden and Emory, the other would’ve involved biting.
So… Nope. Onto the next.
In our town, bars were more common than gas stations. Factory workers spent their days in gray rooms and evenings under the heavy fluorescent lights of Cobalt Blues.
It was the biggest bar in town. Usually, they only invited blues and jazz artists to perform on their rickety little stage, but it brought the crowd from nearby counties.
That was the next bar I hit.
And I would NAIL that homerun.
Dressed like a Winehouse groupie, my heels wiggled out of my feet (I stuffed tissue into the backing), but I stood tall. Yanking down Sinead’s ratty old pencil skirt and one of Emory’s tube tops, I strutted in there with an ego so bright they would fucking squint.
I slapped a palm on the bar. “Scotch.”
The bartender, a burly man with dark hair, two septum piercings and an owl neck tattoo quirked a brow. “What kind?”
Fuck. “Uh, the brown one.”
He laughed, continuing to wipe down his glass. “Never heard of that brand.”
I rolled my eyes, taking a seat on a peeling barstool. The cracked red leather pinched my ass. “I need to see your manager.”
“About the brown scotch?”
“NO, God. You know I’m not old enough.”
He smiled. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Yuck, get me your manager.”
He shrugged. Didn’t even fight me on it.
That was the day I realized being rude to older cheeky men was an advantage to utilize. They thought me weak, spineless, naïve. I thought them disgusting, creepy, and malleable.
We both played our hand.
Only my bluffs were always royal flushes.
