I’d been hurt, honestly, and more than a little jealous. Because new boyfriend. I hadn’t dated anyone. No time. No interest. I still held out hope that Sam would change her mind and we’d get back together. Clearly that wasn’t happening, and I had no claim on her. Not anymore. I was equally responsible for that decision, no matter how much I’d come to regret it.
As Marcus serenades my ex-girlfriend on stage in Philadelphia, I’m grateful that we’ve played this song countless times. I can’t tear my eyes away, and muscle memory is the only thing carrying me through. A flood of sensations fills my chest—shock, a dull ache, nostalgia as memories rush through my mind. Overlying it all is determination.
No matter what she’s been up to or who she’s dating—or, fuck me sideways, if she’s married—I’m going to talk to her at the very least. See what she’s doing now. How college went. If she’s happy.
If she’s single.
Dear Jesus, please let her be single.
Because those wide green eyes, filled with surprise when they locked on mine as she climbed onto her stool, encompass infinity, and I’d love it if I could lose myself in them again. And I’m not even going to get started on how luscious her curves have become. Mostly because I don’t need to pop a boner on stage. Let’s just say the last few years have been kind to her.
Marcus finishes the song, down on one knee, holding her hand and singing soulfully about undying love. I hit the final chords, all of us holding position as they fade, an eerie silence settling over the crowd for half a breath before they erupt into cheers.
Standing, Marcus pulls Samantha off her stool to take a bow with him, and I’m already in motion. We have an intermission right now, and I’m going to usher her off stage and into the greenroom. Hell, if she’ll agree to come to my dressing room, that’d be even better.
Visions flicker behind my eyes—kissing her again, feeling her skin, tasting her. I hover behind them, waiting for Marcus to finish whatever he’s saying to the crowd about taking a break to piss or some shit. As soon as he’s done, I butt in, inserting myself between them before Marcus can say anything else to Sam.
“Sam. It’s good to see you. Let me get you a snack in the greenroom before security takes you back to your seat.”
Marcus is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I get it. I never talk to the random chicks he pulls on stage. But this isn’t some random chick. This is Sam. I ignore him, keeping all my attention on Samantha’s eyes, once again wide with surprise and looking heartbreakingly vulnerable. She glances down at where my hand cups her elbow, then back up to my face. Her throat works visibly as she swallows, but then she gives a jerky nod and lets me steer her around the guitar and mic stands and back to the wings.
She doesn’t say anything as I lead her to the greenroom, and when we get there she just stares at me, her lips parted like she wants to say something but can’t quite come up with what it should be. I want to lean in and kiss her. That look on her face transporting me back to when we were together. But I fight back the urge, reminding myself of all the time that separates us.
I might think of her as the one that got away, but there’s no guarantee she sees me the same way. Hell, she might even be here with a boyfriend or—dammit—a husband. People our age get married all the fucking time.
Peeling my fingers off her arm, I busy myself with getting her a bottle of water from the bucket of ice on one of the tables before grabbing one for myself. “Wanna sit?” I tilt my head at a couch. “Or we could go to my dressing room if you don’t want to talk in front of god and everyone.”
She blinks a couple more times, that stunned expression on her face making me want to pull her close, then looks around the room, seeming to take it in for the first time. “No. Uh, no. This is fine. Yes. Let’s sit.”
I’m not sure why she’s so flustered to be here with me, but it makes me smile. Is she awestruck by my fame, such as it is? I mean, surely she should know that I’m part of Cataclysm, right? I didn’t start out with them originally, but I’ve been part of the band since we recorded our first album. I wasn’t on the demo. They brought me on when their original keyboard player didn’t want to drop out of school to sign with a label and go on the road. Bet he’s regretting that decision now.
We claim one of the couches. She sits almost stiffly, perched on the edge of the cushion. I leave space between us—no need to crowd her since she’s obviously nervous for whatever reason—draping my arm over the back of the couch and turning sideways with my leg propped up next to me so I can face her. I crack open my water bottle and gulp down half of it, swiping my forearm across my forehead to deal with the sweat beading there, trying to catch a quick whiff of my pits while I’m at it. Because do I stink? Is that why she’s acting like this?
I get sweaty during shows—the stage lights are blazing, and this many bodies packed into a space gets warm—but I put on deodorant beforehand. It still seems to be doing its job. I mean, I’m no spring daisy, but I don’t
