She lives here. She must know good places.Tourists wander around the courtyard, posing for pictures with bronze statues. Guys wearing felt fedoras play jazz, creating a smooth, laid-back atmosphere with muted trumpet runs, trombone slides, and bass plucks.Perfect for drinking.I snag the waitress’s arm as she passes. Tray heaved up on her shoulder, she stops. “Whatcha need, hon?”“Shot of vodka.” I pause and drum my knuckles on the table.“Anything else?”“Another shot of vodka.”She nods and carries on.What was I supposed to be doing? Oh right. Sobering up. The vodka will help with that. I check the time on my phone. Goddamn it, she’s five minutes late.“What’s a guy gotta do to get laid around here?” I mumble. I spent the last week faking sobriety to please my bandmates and manager in the studio and dashing out the second the last cymbal crashed so I could hit Nocturnes in hopes of seeing Lola again. Seven days of pure hell, watching Toombs and Jinx pretending not to stare at each other like lovesick teenagers.
