Once Upon a Real Good Time Read online

  “Are you fourteen?”

  A nod. “In some ways. You need to live it up. Life is short, make the most of it. You’ll be glad you did, and you’ll be like this beautiful, recharged woman who excels at momming even more than she does now.”

  “Momming isn’t a word.”

  “Now it is.”

  “If I go out tonight, will it get you off my back about going out?”

  He laughs. “As if anything would get me off your back. Baby, you’re stuck with me.”

  I stare at him. “I’ve been stuck with you ever since your crazy idea back in college.”

  “But it was worth it. Admit it. So worth it.”

  I’ll never regret saying yes to my best friend when he told me in our senior year that he’d never had sex with a girl and was curious if he was missing anything as he explored his bisexuality.

  I was his test case, and we learned two things—I’m a fertile myrtle, and Jamison definitely prefers dudes.

  I never thought anything more would come of it than me doing a favor for my bestie—giving him a chance to learn once and for all if he loved dicks 100 percent of the time or only a little more than half. Turned out, one screw with me was enough to both confirm he was 100 percent pro-penis and also to accidentally put a bun in my oven.

  He goes on and on about some hip new club I need to check out. I’m sure you have to have ripped jeans or heels four inches high or a resting bitch face the likes of which I’ve never had to get in. I’m not going to go. But I humor him by listening.

  “And they have drinks with names like Shelter and Sin.”

  Wow, that sounds dreadful. “Perfect for me,” I say with a fake smile.

  “You’re not going, are you?”

  “Of course, I’m not. But I’ll see you bright and early for the drive to camp.”

  He shakes his head and sighs dramatically. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  My evening goes like this: I take a shower, singing show tunes at the top of my lungs. Afterward, I blow-dry my hair, slather on lotion, and take a leisurely stroll through some of my favorite eight-inches-and-more feeds. Hey, when the kid’s away, I like to take a few extra solo flights, and I happen to be a big fan of above-average assets on the male form.

  Next is a quick game of Words with Friends with one of my fellow designers. I crush it, and then I hop over to Netflix. The Mountain Between Us or Molly’s Game? The debate is real.

  As I watch the trailers to decide which mood I’m in, a text message pops up on my phone.

  * * *

  Roxy: Turns out it’s game night tonight. Want to go out?

  * * *

  My senses go on high alert.

  I pace my small apartment, weighing my options. I could stay home and watch both movies. Hell, I could go full Idris marathon. Or I could read. Stopping in front of my bookshelf, I run my thumb over the new trivia book my dad sent me, stuffed with fun facts about modern geography. It’s totally addictive.

  On the other hand . . .

  Jamison’s words ring loud in my ears. Do I need fun instead? Is fun another trivia night? Or is fun the movie marathon and a new book?

  Before I arrive at an answer, a second message lands on the screen.

  * * *

  Roxy: Also, Hendrix is here.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Hendrix?

  * * *

  Roxy: The guitar hottie!!!

  * * *

  Ohhhhhhhhh.

  Well.

  That does sound precisely like fun.

  Fine, fine. Nothing is going to happen with the guitar hottie, but I like looking at eye candy.

  Eye candy equals my kind of fun.

  I pull on my skinny jeans—thank you, spin class, for the way the denim hugs and loves my ass and thighs—tug on a top that slouches off one shoulder, and slide into heels.

  I consider my reflection in the mirror as I comb on mascara and slick on pink lip gloss. Big brown eyes, dark-blonde hair, cute freckles, and sexy hummingbird ink on my shoulder, inspired by my favorite Pablo Neruda quote. The hummingbird in flight is a water-spark, an incandescent drip of American fire.

  I give myself a thumbs-up, then a talking-to. “You are fun, Mackenzie. You are so fun you’re like the living, breathing definition of fun.”

  I head to The Grouchy Owl.

  Maybe it’s not exactly what Jamison had in mind. But who cares as long as it’s game night with an added benefit of a nice view?

  When I walk into the bar, I don’t spot the usual signs for game night. But I do see a tall, toned man with dark floppy hair, a fine ass, and ripped jeans as he walks down the hall toward the back of the bar.

  Roxy did not lie.

  A shiver runs through me, and I stare till he turns the corner.

  Hot damn.

  I find Roxy at the bar. “Hey, you. Where’s the game night crew?” I survey the scene, but I don’t spot the usual emcee or the other regular teams. I don’t even see Big Ike here tonight.

  Roxy wiggles her eyebrows. “It’s not game night. Guitar Hero’s band is playing. You’re welcome.”

  I smack her arm. “Are you in cahoots with Jamison?”

  She laughs. “Mackenzie, I’m in cahoots with your libido. It called me up and told me a good friend would help you get laid.”

  “How do you know Guitar Hero wants that?”

  “I saw the way he looked at you. I’m not blind. Now, let’s go enjoy some pop music. Sorry it’s not Hamilton, but hopefully you can find it in you to enjoy it.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I do better than my best, because when the object of my dirty daydreams walks over to his guitar, my libido definitely sits up and takes notice.

  More like stands and nearly rushes the stage.

  He’s hotter than I remembered, and if he were an ice cream cone, I’d order a triple scoop and lick him up.

  His eyes scan the crowd. A charge runs down my spine as I remember him mouthing the clue to me the other week, and again as I imagine other things his mouth might do.

  As his eyes find me, that charge turns to full-blown electricity. His gaze locks with mine, and when it does, a lopsided grin spreads on his handsome face.

  Oh my.

  Maybe it is time to focus on me tonight. Maybe it is time to have some fun. One night of wild abandon sounds perfectly reasonable. In fact, I think my libido is in cahoots with me, and I have a feeling we both might win.

  Chapter 4

  Campbell

  * * *

  An hour on stage here and there in a dimly lit bar is enough for me these days.

  That’s why I don’t worry too much about whether the audience is big or small, male or female, packed or not packed. I play because, well, I have to.

  But tonight? I’m playing for a woman. Because she’s back.

  The trivia queen has returned, and she’s dancing to our tunes. Man, there’s nothing hotter than a hot woman dancing to a song you wrote, a song you’re singing.

  The Righteous Surfboards are a little bit of pop, a little bit of rock, a little bit of indie flare, and plenty of guitar. Always guitar.

  The blonde with the constellation of freckles shakes her hips near the front of the stage, thanks to her friend who tugged her out to the dance floor.

  God bless women’s friends. If women didn’t have friends, they might not ever talk to us. But I love wingwomen who push their friends to dance.

  I’m playing for the trivia queen. I’m singing for her. I don’t even know her name. I don’t care. When I look at her, something crackles—an energy, a spark.

  When I finish the song, I bend closer to the mic stand. “Thank you very much. And for our last number, any requests?”

  The redhead next to my front-row dancer nudges her. She shakes her head, and her friend mouths c’mon, then the blonde shouts, “‘One Moment in Time’ by Whitney Houston.”

  A groan goes up from the guys in the band.

  I’m not a huge fan of t
he diva—nothing against her. She’s just not my cup of tea, even though I’m familiar with most big pop songs—but I love that my dancing queen remembers that moment between us a couple weeks ago.

  Despite the bellyaching from the band, I won’t back down. I have a hell of an ear and can pick up most tunes quickly. I strum a chorus from the song, lean into the mic, and sing the refrain.

  The blonde’s brown eyes widen in excitement, and she claps her hands in delight.

  “Anything else?” I rattle off the names of some popular bands we cover.

  A blank look appears on her face for most of them, and then she shouts, “‘High Flying Adored.’”

  I arch a brow. “Evita? You want us to sing Evita?”

  “Yes!”

  Cade groans.

  I laugh at him. “My bassist is going to revolt.”

  She tosses out another. “‘One Day More.’”

  Everyone loves Les Mis. Except for my guys. “Look, we’ll only do badass modern musicals. Either Hamilton or Book of Mormon,” Cade says begrudgingly into the mic.

  “I love both,” the woman shouts.

  We launch into “I Believe” from The Book of Mormon for a few bars, and when we’re done, the woman with the hummingbird tattoo thrusts her arms in the air in victory. Determined to talk to her, I step away from the mic and move to the edge of the stage where I beckon to her.

  She points to herself and mouths me?

  “Yeah, you.”

  She steps forward a few feet, and her smile is so damn adorable I want to kiss it off.

  “Stay. Have a drink with me.”

  “Really?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, really.”

  She furrows her brow. “Are you sure?”

  I laugh again. “I’m positive. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I’ll be over there.” She points to the bar.

  After we break down the equipment, I pack up my guitar and stow the case in the back room before I head around to the bar. She’s with her redheaded friend, who shoves her phone at me, displaying a page from the bar’s social media page mentioning our gig.

  “I’m Roxy. I presume you’re Campbell from the Righteous Surfboards?” The redhead taps on my picture and my extremely short bio. Campbell lives and breathes music, playing some nights, and teaching music during the day.

  “That’s me.”

  My full given name is Campbell Mason Evans and when my brother and I started the band, we used Mason and Miller Hart. Because . . . alliteration and hearts. When our youngest brother, Miles, joined us a few years later, we had triple alliteration working in our favor.

  Though the guys in the Righteous Surfboards want me to use Mason Hart on the bar’s social media, there’s no way I’d get on stage under that name. Yes, the Heartbreakers have made a lot of my life possible. The money from our music has paid for my apartment. It will pay for my daughter’s college someday. It funds her private school now, and damn near anything else.

  But I don’t want to be a Heartbreaker, because I don’t want the fame and notoriety that come with it. Or the nights away from home. And tonight, I want to be a regular guy who plays the guitar and happens to have caught the attention of an incredibly sexy woman.

  Roxy cups her hand over her friend’s shoulder. “Campbell, this is Mackenzie. If you’re a dick, I’ll find you and use all my Krav Maga skills on you.”

  I nod crisply. “Duly noted.”

  “Plus, Big Ike has our backs,” Roxy says.

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’d never cross Big Ike, and I guarantee you won’t need to drop-kick me.”

  Mackenzie wipes her forehead in a dramatic whew, then Roxy gives her friend a hug and takes off.

  I turn to Mackenzie, glad to have a name to go with the face. The gorgeous face. She’s not overly made-up—she wears a hint of makeup and some gloss, but that’s about all, as if she knows her strength lies in her natural smile, her freckles, and the twinkle in her milk-chocolate eyes.

  I tip my forehead to Roxy. “It’s always good to have a friend who’s willing to go to war for you.”

  She flashes a smile. “If situations were reversed, though, I’d be limited to lobbing invectives and barbed words, so I’m glad she’s the defender in this case.”

  “I bet your barbed words pack a sharp punch though.”

  “Let’s hope no one needs to find out.”

  I nod toward the bartender. “What’s your poison?”

  “Vodka tonic would be great. But hold the poison.”

  I laugh. “No arsenic tonight, I promise.”

  “Or any night, really.”

  “Arsenic is always off the menu.”

  She laughs, then it fades as she fiddles with the bracelets on her left hand, like she needs something to do, and I like that she’s a little nervous. It shows this isn’t her regular kit and caboodle. I had plenty of that when I was playing with the Heartbreakers. I don’t need or want it again.

  I order her drink and a beer for myself, then turn to the woman I sang to, the very same woman I had my eyes on the first time I spied her at this bar in the Village a few weeks ago. Seeing her tonight feels like luck, or maybe just a chance I need to seize. Samantha is spending the night at a friend’s house, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t get to know the woman who danced in the audience to my songs.

  Danced, and also eye-fucked me.

  And I loved every single second of it.

  I tap the bar. “Call me crazy, but I have this wild feeling you’re a big Broadway fan. Not sure where I got that idea. Just picking up on a vibe,” I say playfully.

  Her eyes crinkle. “My knowledge of pop music is woefully limited, but I do love me some show tunes, and I’m also all about classical music.”

  My eyebrows rise. “That’s interesting. I don’t hear that very often.” Well, I do hear that often, but not in this sort of situation.

  “Big fan of Brahms, Chopin, Beethoven.” She taps her chest. “Go ahead, tell me I’m a geek. I can take it.”

  “Are you kidding? Never. I’m tight with those guys too. Beethoven is my homie.”

  “For real?” Her eyes light up as she laughs.

  “Absolutely. I could play Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D on my Stratocaster if you don’t believe me. I can hum you a few notes too.” I do, and her eyes widen. She drops her hand from her bracelets, and I pat myself on the back for helping her feel at ease.

  “I could listen to Beethoven all day long, and I often do.”

  I laugh. “So it’s Beethoven, Broadway, or bust?”

  Before she can answer, the bartender slides our drinks over. I thank him and leave a few bills. They don’t let me pay here since we play—that’s why I make sure to tip well. Also, if I don’t, somewhere, someplace, someone online would start a thread that Campbell Mason Evans aka Hart is a shitty tipper.

  Mackenzie lifts her vodka tonic. “With the exception of a few awesome nineties tunes, if it wasn’t meant to be belted on a stage or played by an orchestra, I probably don’t know it.”

  Before she takes a sip of her drink, I cut in, wrapping a hand around hers, feeling a little spark from that bit of contact. “The nineties rocked and we need to toast.” I let go of her hand and grab my bottle.

  “To the nineties and no arsenic?” she asks.

  I tap my beer bottle to her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  She laughs lightly, and it’s a pretty sound, one I want to hear from her again. I want to hear other sounds from her too though. Sighs, moans, and groans.

  We drink, and then I ask her about her favorite Broadway shows. Soon, our conversation moves on to a discussion on the cultural prominence of Rent, the staying power of Wicked, and the it-never-grows-old nature of Les Mis. She tells me, too, she loved a revival she saw of that show more than twenty years ago, and for a moment, I’m tempted to name-drop. To tell her my brother Miller—a mere ten months younger and nearly my look-alike—and I were in that revival, the one at the St. James. To a
sk if she liked “Little People,” since Miller and I were cast as ten-year-old Gavroche, and she might have seen me singing the one Les Mis song I won’t ever sing again on account of having sung it every other night for more than a year.

  But I’d blow my cover if I said that, so I sidestep it, returning to her. “That must help with your game night—your knowledge of theater—and I can’t help but wonder if we’ll see you on Jeopardy! sometime? With Alex Trebek asking what the most revived musical is or something?”

  I start the Jeopardy! theme music, and she answers in about two seconds. “What is Porgy and Bess with seven times?”

  I whistle in appreciation. “Damn, you are more than a pretty face. You’re a fount of knowledge.”

  A faint blush spreads on her cheeks, and it didn’t start at the fount of knowledge comment. I’m seeing the nervous side of her again, the side that wasn’t sure I was talking to her after our set.

  “Thank you,” she says softly, fiddling with those bracelets, and the gratitude in her voice makes me wonder if she’s not complimented enough. That’s an oversight as far as I’m concerned, but it’s one I can fix.

  “You’re gorgeous, and you’re welcome,” I add.

  “You’re handsome, and you’re talented.” She says it as if she’s testing out the words, trying compliments on for size.

  I decide to keep it up. “Thank you, and your brain is a turn-on.” I wrap a hand around her wrist, settling her busy fingers.

  She lets out a breath and meets my eyes. “Thank you, and your ability to play music on request is hot.” She adds a coy little smile. She’s sexy and clever with a side of awkward. It’s such a delicious combination.

  “I can play this thank you and you’re welcome game all night. But . . .” I move closer to her and run my finger along her temple. “But I also want to know something. How do you know all these little facts? Do you have a photographic memory?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “I wish. You really want to know?”