“Hey, you can’t be back here!”
Blinking, Riley tore his eyes off the singer to see the other dishwasher glaring at him. Of course, that ended the song as the man Riley had been hoping for a glimpse of turned, revealing intense gray-green eyes set in a face Riley hadn’t seen in years.
“I know you,” Riley remarked, taking several steps inside the room.
“No, you don’t.”
Bullshit
“Actually, I do. I saw you play in a little dive bar in South Mississippi back when they were finding all those old bones and the place was practically crawling with feds. Saw you play about five years before that too. In Chicago, onstage at a huge ass arena. You were in the band that opened that night.”
“And you are delusional. Time for you to go back to your table, sir. Like my buddy said, you can’t be back there.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Riley could see the smaller man inching between him and the singer he so desperately needed to have a conversation with because holy shit, this guy right here was the answer to his prayers.
“Dez Conway. That’s your name, isn’t it?”
