You’re stalling, he told himself as he sat in the bar and played with a half-finished double-shot glass of vodka. Probably, he told himself back, but see how little I care.
He lifted the glass and tilted the smallest of sips between his lips as if daring his internal self to balk again. It was ten minutes after eight, and Gerry would have been a fool not to know that the concert had already started. A half hour earlier, the street had become so alive with people walking past the windows of the hotel’s bar that if one hadn’t known what was up, one might have thought an impromptu parade had started.
By one minute after eight, the street was deserted. The fans wouldn’t dare to miss a single moment, and Gerry couldn’t blame them. He remembered how that had felt: the excitement tweaked so hig
