Kiss Me Goodnight

by Michele Zurlo

  The front door was open, so I went inside. In the brightness of the daylight and with all the interior lights turned on, it looked a lot different than I remembered. The lobby—where brief, friendly body searches happened—needed to be scrubbed down, but it was neat and tidy, and someone had recently vacuumed.

  I opened the next door and stepped into the main room. It was a large area with a smallish stage suitable for local acts. It featured a dance floor and several long bars. Small, round tables scattered along the periphery. If The Majestic had other rooms, I wasn’t aware of them. But they had to, didn’t they? A business needed an office, and a stage meant storage and at least one dressing room somewhere.

  Glancing around, I identified the likely doors and fire exits. I’m not the kind of liar who causes problems by shouting “fire” when there isn’t one, but I do like to know how to leave a space. And I know I’ll need to use the restroom. I haven’t washed my hands since before appearing in front of the judge.

  The room was deserted, but there was equipment set up on stage. After a minute, I saw someone—not Dylan—cross the stage and bend down to check something on the back of an amp. He exited without seeming to notice me.

  Then a man came through the front door. He was older than me, and I pegged him in the mid-fifties range. He was attractive in a weird George Hamilton sort of way, so I figured he was married. He smiled and set his case on the table to my left. Then he extended his hand. “I’m Craig, the rep from Hanover. Before we get down to business, can I use your restroom?”

  Placing my hand in his, I gave him a friendly smile. His grip was heavy, so hard it squished my metacarpals together uncomfortably. That kind of handshake didn’t communicate confidence and strength. It only showed that Craig was an asshole. He couldn’t be unaware that he was hurting my hand. Did he think I would buy his shtick better if I was afraid of having to shake hands with him again? Or did he think he’d established control of the situation?

  I’ve heard from a variety of sources that we judge a man by the quality of his handshake. If that’s so, I detected no quality in this man.

  I infused my voice with frost. “Of course. Let me know if we’re out of hand soap in there.” I pointed a helpful finger in the direction of the restrooms. “It’s flu season.”

  It wasn’t flu season, but I figured he was too stupid to know that. I read a lot of articles online, including a study citing the number of people who lie about washing their hands: ninety-one percent say they did it, but less than twenty-five percent actually do. Thinking about that made me want to go wash my hands. Who knew where his had been?

  He tossed a leather binder on the table and hurried off in the direction I’d indicated. I watched him go for a second, but curiosity was killing me. I had to know what was in the folder.

  You might call me nosy, but I prefer curious or inquisitive. They’re better synonyms.

  The top document was a spreadsheet showing the volume prices of various liquors. The next document showed the same information, only the prices were cheaper. The third spreadsheet showed an even better deal. So Craig was here to sell booze to the bar. I scanned the numbers, automatically committing many of them to memory. The markup on liquor was that amazing.

  Another man came in the front door. His bald head gleamed under the lights, and I estimated him at about five-eight and two hundred pounds. I bet he ate a lot of the fried foods available on the menus that perched in holders on The Majestic’s tables. He saw me and sighed. The reaction was brief, and he hid it quickly behind a professional smile, but I caught it.

  “You’re from Hanover?” he asked.

  The smile on his face fascinated me. I could tell he had experience dealing with people who wanted something from him—admission to his club, a free drink, access to his stage.

  I wanted nothing from him, but his impatience was a challenge to me, and the fact that my hand still throbbed from Craig’s crushing grip didn’t deter me either. I extended my hand and gave him my most brilliant smile. I didn’t have to dig deep because the situation gave me honest joy. “Lacey Hallem.”

  His polite façade slipped for a minute. I like to think my bubbling enthusiasm cracked his veneer. He shook my hand. Where Craig had an overly harsh grip, this man, who probably managed The Majestic, had a loose, limp thing going on. Both were off-putting, but this one didn’t hurt.

  “Ms. Hallem, I’m a busy man. You have five minutes.”

  I cupped his hand between mine, compounding my friendly approach, and stepped closer. Not creepy close, flirty close. I’d dressed for court in a skirt and blouse. I looked demure and cute, yet confident and competent. Lying and manipulation are all about appearances. Any spy can tell you that.

  What’s the difference between a liar and a spy? That’s worth pondering. If I ever meet a spy, we can compare notes.

  “Sir, I noticed you don’t have your liquor displayed correctly.”

  He narrowed his eyes. It would help if I knew his name. Saying it out loud once or twice—but not too often, as that’s creepy—goes a long way toward solidifying a lie.

  “And you’re an expert in that too?”

  I’ve seen my fair share of Bar Rescue episodes. I inclined my head toward the central bar. “Do you mind?”

  He motioned toward the opening. “It’s your five minutes.”

  I surveyed the setup and mentally compared it with what I’d seen on television. “First, you need to display your goods. Customers want to be able to see the liquor. You want your most expensive ones on the top tier. It’s subliminal. Short men and those with self-esteem issues will gravitate toward them, if only to make the bartender pull them down to their level.”

  He had shelving, but he had other supplies on it. Bottles of liquor were lined up on the counter. The napkins, stir sticks, and umbrellas should go elsewhere. I rearranged a few things.

  “We used to have it like that, but some of the female bartenders complained they couldn’t reach it.” He came around the counter and surveyed my handiwork. Then he pitched in and helped me move things around.

  I let him do the majority of the work; otherwise he would’ve realized I had no freaking idea what I was doing. “Invest in a few stepstools, sir. They won’t complain once they start making more in tips.”

  “I need to get more business in here. Last year or so hasn’t been great for us.”

  Guitar sounds twanged over the speakers, and I glanced at the stage. Dylan stood near one of the amplifiers, tuning his strings. Guys in bands are hot. No matter what instruments they play, they generally have strong hands. If they’re used in the right ways, I’m a huge fan of strong hands.

  “I get mostly local bands playing here. Sometimes I get a smaller tour through.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Are they any good?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Sir—”

  He cut me off. “Call me Mike. That ‘sir’ stuff makes me feel old.”

  I lowered my eyes and tried to blush. I might not have been successful, but sometimes the right posture is all you need. “Sorry. I meant it respectfully.” And I hadn’t known his name.

  He touched my wrist gently. It wasn’t a flirtatious gesture, just one that let me know he liked me. “I know, Ms. Hallem.”

  Looking up, I gave him another brilliant smile. It’s a good one. Both my mom and John agree that it’s one of my best—and worst—assets. “Mike, when I hear a crappy band, I leave a bar. I can see that you envision The Majestic as a place that promotes great local bands and excellent drinks. Hanover can help with that. They offer a variety of liquors, and they also can provide staff training on how to upsell the beverages.”

  Mike scratched his chin and regarded me thoughtfully. Then he went back to rearranging his bar. “I like you, Ms. Hallem,” he concluded after a while.

  “Lacey, please.”

  “Lacey, then. I think Hanover finally got it right, sending you over. Talk to me about prices.”

  Over
the next few minutes, Mike and I proceeded to talk about several things other than liquor. I won’t put them down here because I didn’t want to hear about how his divorce drained his finances and his son couldn’t figure out what college to attend, so I’m sure you don’t either. Believe me when I say I did my best to come across as sympathetic, and I think I was successful. I also did work cost information into the conversation.

  A man cleared his throat behind us. Loudly. He had to in order to be heard over the guitars and drums doing their sound check. Dylan’s voice came over the speakers. I couldn’t tell if he could sing from the way he said, “Check, check.”

  A strange man sat at the bar, and Craig stood just behind him, beta-male style. Wrinkles of confusion made lines between his brows, and he also frowned, making premature lines on the rest of his face. Because I hadn’t forgiven him for his asshole handshake, I was tempted to comment on his wrinkle-making habits. But I didn’t. Mike thought I was a nice girl, and I was playing up that angle.

  I am a nice girl, but I know how to be a bitch too.

  The man with him studied me. He was older, silver-haired, and suave. His dark blue suit jacket was cut great and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. I couldn’t guess his age, but I can tell you he definitely worked out.

  Mr. Silver-Hair rounded the bar, extending his hand to Mike. “Mike MacMurtry, I’m Dawson Hanover, owner of Hanover Distribution.”

  Mike shook his hand enthusiastically. “Mr. Hanover, you have one hell of a sales rep here. No pressure, yet she gets her point across. It’s been a pleasure to do business with her.”

  I edged away. The owner of the company might know I didn’t work for him.

  Mr. Hanover slung his arm across my shoulders. He did it in a nice way, but his firm grip let me know I wasn’t going to get out of this cleanly. I hoped to hell Dylan hadn’t noticed me yet. Maybe I would come back tonight to see his set.

  “You’re right. She’s amazing. I’ve been listening to her for about ten minutes. I think she’s sold some of my liquor to me.”

  I gave him an affectionate smile. He seemed nice, and I didn’t want to blow this for him. Craig didn’t rate consideration, but I already liked Mr. Hanover. He reminded me a little of John, only older.

  I know you must be thinking I’m nuts to not break down and beg for forgiveness or make a fun for the door, but I wanted to see where this situation would lead. I’ve never been arrested for lying because I’ve never done so maliciously. In general, I don’t damage anything but friendships.

  And even though I’ve alienated more than my fair share of people, I’ve managed to retain a core group of close friends: Jane and Luma. They’ve learned to spot my stress triggers. Also, if you ask me if I’m lying, I’ll admit to it. Always. Jane says I’m hard to love but so worth it.

  “Well, I’ll let you two discuss the particulars,” I announced. “Mike, do you mind if I stick around and watch the band for a little while?” The size of my balls is amazing. No fear—not when I have absolutely nothing on the line.

  Mr. Hanover released my arm. “That sounds like an excellent idea. You and I can talk afterward.”

  I drifted off and let the men discuss the financial side of the deal. Some of the prices I’d quoted Mike were from the cheaper and cheapest sheets. I think that helped keep his attention. When he’d told me what he was currently paying, his rates mostly matched those listed on the most expensive spreadsheet.

  Dylan didn’t notice me until I was about twenty feet from the stage, which just shows how much he was concentrating. The large dance floor was adjacent to the stage, and I had to cross a lot of open space to get to him.

  He looked up. His eyes widened a little, and the corners of his mouth curved in a jerky smile. He’d just started singing, and I didn’t expect him to stop, which he didn’t. I stood in the center of the dance floor and watched his band play a song.

  It wasn’t one I’d heard before, so I figured it was an original. I closed my eyes to better absorb what I heard, and I didn’t love it. Music feeds my soul. At one point, it functioned as my only emotional outlet, and John had encouraged that by taking me to many live shows and talking to me for hours about how music is constructed. Melodies seep into me and fill the vast silence. Well, good music does.

  As I listened, I tried to figure out what was off. Dylan’s voice was pretty good. Rich and smooth, it washed over me. I liked the rhythms too. So, what was wrong? As I tapped my foot in time to the drum, it came to me. Without thinking, I hoisted myself onto the stage. I traced the black cords of the bass back to the source, and I turned up that amp. Then I turned the lead guitar’s down just a notch.

  More than one of the four band members glared at me, but they continued playing. Dylan regarded me with an expression that mixed outrage and bafflement. It was a cute look on him. Some people might have used the word ominous, but not me. My spider sense is finely tuned, and I rely on it heavily.

  I sat on the edge of the stage and slid down. It was too far to jump and not hurt something. When I resumed my position and closed my eyes, the song sounded better. The layered rhythms were well balanced, complementing Dylan’s voice instead of undermining it. Now all he needed were some backup singers. His bandmates needed to pitch in, but I didn’t think they’d take that advice from the crazy stranger who’d adjusted their settings.

  As I absorbed the song, it changed back to the way it was. I opened my eyes to find the bassist and keyboardist throwing twin glares at me. I shrugged. It was no skin off my nose if they wanted to sound like shit. They played two more, and I identified the same problem, which they apparently had no interest in fixing.

  When the last song ended, Dylan leaned his guitar against an amp, jumped down from the stage, and crossed to me.

  His eyes flashed, and I knew he wasn’t happy with what I’d done. My ballsy behavior probably didn’t fit with the shy woman he’d met who freaked out about spilling coffee on him.

  “Lacey, you can’t just come up on stage and mess with our equipment.”

  I studied him intently, noting the way his jaw flexed and his lips pressed together. From the periphery of my vision, I looked for him to clench his fists. He didn’t.

  “Okay.”

  He waited a beat, two beats. I didn’t blink or step back. Finally, he shook his head. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”

  “No. You sounded better after I made the change and worse when you changed it back. The acoustics in this place suck, and you have to account for that in your mix. I don’t see a soundboard, which is a mistake if Mike is serious about featuring better talent.”

  By this time, the others had joined Dylan. Besides the two male guitarists, the drummer turned out to be a taller woman with an athletic build, long dark hair, and a lip ring. She looked enough like Dylan to be his sister.

  I faced the hostile crowd without changing my expression. “You also need backup singers.”

  The drummer snorted. “I told you so.”

  Dylan flashed her an impatient look. “Daisy, hush.” Then he returned his attention to me. “Next time just say something. Don’t mess with my equipment.”

  I’ve never had a man tell me not to mess with his equipment. I know that wasn’t what he meant, but I couldn’t stop from giggling.

  Dylan had a hard time holding together his stern expression, and Daisy didn’t even try. The other guys were checking out my outfit and trying to figure out who I was.

  “Lacey, we need to have a chat.” Mr. Hanover appeared at my elbow. He eyed Dylan’s unfriendly bandmates with a stern expression of warning.

  How sweet. Dawson Hanover was my protector. I barely refrained from calling him Dad.

  Dylan scowled at Mr. Hanover, then looked back at me. “Lacey?”

  I felt bad because now he thought I hadn’t come by to see him. Then again, maybe that was a blessing in disguise. I shouldn’t have come by to see him.

  “Dylan, this is Dawson Hanover. He’s a liquor distributor.” I
gave Mr. Hanover a hopeful smile. “Did you close the deal?”

  He dropped the overprotective parent look to give me a grin. “After the way you set it up? Absolutely. You’re amazing, Lacey. You’ve accomplished what six of my best sales reps have failed to do, and you made it look easy.”

  Lying was easy. The truth is hard.

  “Oh, good. I’m glad. Dylan invited me here to listen to his rehearsal.” I realized my mistake. Now I was sorry. I faced Dylan with a sad heart. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You didn’t invite me here for feedback.” I reached out and squeezed his shoulder as part of my apology. I absolutely was not feeling him up. “Best of luck tonight.”

  With that, I turned and followed Mr. Hanover across the floor. It looked like Craig had already left. I halted abruptly. “I need to use the restroom.”

  The fixtures in this bathroom were clean but worn. Mike needed to do some upgrades if he wanted to attract a different clientele. Perhaps he’d pour some of his liquor earnings into the bathroom.

  I stared at myself in the mirror above the sink, the fluorescents making me look pasty, though I knew I looked fine in natural light. Another upgrade. Women don’t need to see a crappy reflection when they’re trying to look good while sweating in a too-warm bar on a crowded dance floor. My eyes—brown, in case I haven’t said—had a sparkle of excitement in them that gave me an impish air.

  Lying would help me wiggle out of this situation. I hadn’t meant to draw so much attention to myself. I turned on the faucet and wet my hands.

  The door opened, and Dylan stepped inside. He watched me, not interrupting my ritual right away. He looked at me in the mirror, and I was too focused on what I was doing to care what he saw.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He hadn’t. I was about to be busted for lying. “I’m nervous about talking to Mr. Hanover.”

  Dylan crossed his arms and nodded. “You don’t have to talk to him, Lacey. I can go out there and get rid of him.”

  I lifted my gaze from the observation of my third cycle and met Dylan’s in the mirror. My knight in a vintage NIN shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone offer to fight my battles. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”