I find a few more songs to queue up, and then I slide the phone back over to Waylon with a shit-eating grin.

He’s shaking his head, mouth wrapped around the whiskey. “Gonna torture me, huh?”

I wink. “You bet your ass I am.”

The opening verse starts and I mouth the words through my smile, not once taking my eyes off Waylon’s.

He looks heavenward, shaking his head.

I push back my stool and hop up. The world tilts a bit, but only a little. I’m definitely a little, teensy bit drunk.

Grabbing the remote, I crank up the volume.

“What are you doing?” he says loud enough to be heard over the music.

Barefoot, I climb onto the bar. Waylon’s eyes go wide as I stand over him, his fingers clutching the guitar. I offer him my hand. “Let’s go, Rock Star.”

His brow furrows.

I crouch down and reach for the whiskey, fisting it by the neck, and I meet Waylon’s wary hazel gaze head-on.

“We’re taking a time-out, okay?”

“A time-out,” he repeats slowly.

I search his eyes. “Yeah. Nothing else exists outside this bar tonight. Not your dad, not Zayne, not even the storm. Nothing. It’s just us. Just for tonight. We’re not Will and Way. We’re just two friends getting drunk. Rocking out to some really good music.”

Two dark eyebrows slowly crawl up his forehead. “Really good, huh?”

I grin.

He tucks in his bottom lip.

Outside, the wind has picked up. Thunder rumbles and rain pounds heavily against the window. Flashes of light dance across the dimly lit bar, bouncing off Waylon’s upturned face.

I nod down to Waylon’s guitar. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I stand up once more, and this time, I don’t offer a hand; I just turn away and start dancing along to the beat. Shaking my ass, and strutting down the bar without a fucking care in the world. I whip around with the bottle lifted to my mouth as a make-shift microphone as I mouth the words with exaggerated facial expressions.

Waylon watches me with what can only be described as helpless wonder. He has no idea what to do with me, and that’s fine by me. I don’t really know what to do with him either. But tonight’s not the night to try and figure that out.

Tonight’s about having fun.

Tonight’s about forgetting.

Finally, finally, Waylon rolls his eyes—because of course—and he climbs his way up onto the bar, joining me, the neck of the guitar firmly in his grasp.

“You’re ridiculous.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “I know you are, but what am I?”

Not waiting for his response, I let myself go and surrender to making a total fool of myself.