Page 6 of Best Kind of Trouble
It’s boxing that’s helped me maintain an even keel. Boxing, and having Hannah working here at the same brewery. We’re used to keeping an eye on each other. We’ve been doing it our whole lives, ever since our mom walked out on our family.
New Guy is still looking my way expectantly, and I realize I must have zoned out midconversation. So I give him a nod. “And you are?”
“I’m Cormac, Sir Miracle.” He nods to Travis. “And not to be creepy, or whatever, but I know who you are.”
I laugh. Travis laughs.Cormaclaughs.
It’s a pretty feel-good moment, truth be told. We’re all picking up on the cheerful energy in the room, which is infectious compared to the way this place has felt for the last few months.
For me, it has nothing to do with the holiday decorations or the free-flowing beer. It’s all thanks to my sister.
Hannah quit in late summer, which was my fault, but she’s finally back. I still hate this place, but I hate it a hell of a lot less than I did while she was gone.
“I know who you are too,” Travis says pointedly, waving a finger in the direction of Eugene. “My girlfriend’s the one who set up your dad and—” Travis’s eyes widen, and he turns away. “And?—”
“And the woman my sixty-six-year-old father is making out with in full view of everyone,” Cormac says wryly. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”
Damn. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the high of having Hannah back at the brewery again, but I like this guy too. That’s gotta be a new record for me.
Travis laughs and then looks for Hannah in the crowd, alovesick expression stealing over his face when she blows a kiss at him. “She’s pretty proud of the way Eugene has embraced public displays of affection.”
“Don’t take a page from his book,” I warn, hiking up an eyebrow. “I might know you’re sleeping with my sister, but I don’t want the evidence shoved in my face. There’s only so much a man can take.”
Travis lifts both of his hands, and Cormac snorts a laugh.
“Actually, though, I know your band,” he says, smiling at Travis. “Garbage Fire.”
Travis’s smile gets strained. I pat him on the back before saying, “Sore subject right now.”
Travis’s friend Bixby, the former bassist in the band, stabbed him in the back, and they had to boot him out. They’d already been looking for a new rhythm guitarist to replace a guy who’d moved out of town, so they were left with just Travis on the drums and his pal Rob as the lead singer and only guitarist.
Two people do not a band make.
I offered to play with them for a while as the rhythm guitarist, but I’m not interested in sticking around. I’m not what you might call a team player. I’m trying to sweet talk Mick into taking my place. He can be a bit of a dick—we both came by those anger management classes honestly—but he’s good people. He’ll do right by them.
Cormac makes a face he probably thinks is sympathetic. “Yeah, I know. Actually…I was wondering if you were maybe looking for a new bassist.”
He’s acting aw-shucks embarrassed, which is hilarious. Travis and Rob had to cancel a bunch of shows after losing Bixby. At this point, they would happily invite a serial killer to be their bassist, so long as he could lay it down with his guitar.
“You’re a bassist?” Travis asks, his face lighting up.
Cormac nods but says quickly, “I haven’t been in a band before, though. I play alone.”
A weird instrument to play alone, if you ask me, but no one did, so I just grunt.
As predicted, Travis doesn’t seem to care about the hows and whys. He scans the crowd, his eyes darting wildly, then blurts, “Wait a sec.” He disappears, presumably to find Rob, or to light a candle to whatever deity he believes in.
Now that Travis is gone, Cormac and I are left in silence. Cormac rocks on his heels a couple of times as if searching for the optimal standing position, then says out of nowhere, “What’s your biggest problem as a brewer?”
No need to think that one through. “Talking to people.”
He surprises me by laughing. “That’s my biggest problem as a person. I’m told you’re supposed to ask questions to form a dialogue.”
“Silence is good too. Silence is underrated.” I’m just giving him shit, though. He’s funny, this son of Eugene’s. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be, but I’m willing to accept him at face value.
He smiles at me. “It would be a stretch of the imagination to call this silence.”
That makes me laugh, because we’re surrounded by bustling activity, people talking, and the low hum of Christmas music. The song that’s playing at the moment is, ironically, “Silent Night.”
