“I bet—” He stopped himself, pressed his mouth flat. Nope, not going there.

“You bet what?”

He shook his head, finished off his coffee. Bubbly-bitchy-Bonnie returned with Joy’s meal. Reluctantly, she refilled his coffee. Smart woman. He guzzled it.

“Don’t stop throwing shade now, Dylan,” Joy snapped when Bonnie left. “You’re on a roll.” She angrily bit into a fry.

Dylan should stop. But he was feeling low and he wanted everyone around him to hang out in his cesspool. Misery loved company.

He set down his empty mug and caught the flash of her ring when she tore into her burger. “Do you like your ring?”

She tilted her hand to look at the sparkler. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s a bit . . . much, don’t you think?” He’d almost said gaudy.

Her expression darkened. The cheery light in her demeanor extinguished. She dropped her burger on her plate. “No, I don’t.”

“It isn’t you, Joy. It’s flashy and you’re not. Sorry, but I get the impression Mark doesn’t get you the way he should.”

“And you do?” she bristled.

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” he boasted.

“You judged incorrectly. You don’t know a thing about him. You don’t know me.” She stabbed her chest with her fingertips. Her eyes burned with fire.

“Because you haven’t told me anything.”

“You haven’t asked. Nicely. We’re done here.” She tossed down her napkin and flagged Bitchy Bonnie. “Check, please.”

“Would you like me to box this?” Bonnie asked of Joy’s half-eaten burger.

“No, thanks. I lost my appetite,” she said, glaring at Dylan.

Bonnie returned with the check, slapping the slip of paper on the table by Dylan’s elbow.

“Dinner’s on you, since you’re being a total jerk-off. I’m FOH.” Joy stood abruptly and left the building, getting the eff outta here as she’d announced.

Dylan stared at the empty chair across from him, then into his empty mug. He felt empty inside, and not from lack of sustenance.

That morning’s gig had put him in a foul mood, and knowing another gig sat on the evening horizon made him plain mean. It wasn’t Joy’s fault that he had to perform, yet he’d taken it out on her.

If Jack was still alive, Dylan would kill him. Because that’s what Dylan felt was happening to him, traveling from one gig to the next, being forced to perform onstage and sing in front of people he didn’t know. He was slowly dying inside. Joy had been the one bright spot on his trip that he’d discovered quite by accident and he’d just snuffed that light.