I sit there and stare at her place long past the time the lights turn out. It’s either sit here or stare at my ceiling. Insomnia is a bitch to say the least.

  Those fucking what ifs come back to haunt me in the silence of my car.

  My fingers begin to tap out a riff on the steering wheel.

  Chords start repeating over and over in my head.

  Those fucking lyrics that have eluded me week after week materialize out of nowhere.

  One night. Love shined.

  The taste of you stuck in my mind.

  Sunrise. Goodbyes.

  The words we said were total lies.

  Long roads. Dead ends.

  Being fine alone was all pretend.

  On the road. On the stage.

  To live without you I had to disengage.

  You were the one, right from the start.

  Because of that, I broke your heart.

  I’ve always loved you,

  But could never keep you.

  You won’t forgive.

  And I can’t forget.

  You’ve always been my sweet regret.

  I look down at the words I scribbled on the back of a receipt I had in my wallet. I read them over and over, the music to accompany them all but composing itself in my head.

  I guess my muse is talking again.

  Too bad I can’t tell her the words she deserves to hear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vince

  A trip back to Fairfield wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. On the outskirts of the Bay Area, it’s known for being close to vineyards but not having any, hot summer weather, lack of jobs, and home of one Deegan Jennings.

  I’d much rather not have it claim that last fucking part.

  When I left here, the only thing that ever tempted me to come back was Bristol. It’s not lost on me that she was here today too as I strolled down memory lane. A lane where the only good ones were with her.

  A visit to the only high school. A reunion with the school music teacher who taught me how to read music. Another to the first underground club I played in where I lied about my age so I could take the stage. A sit-down interview that ate up the rest of the fucking day.

  Word got out I was there. Fucking small town. By the way people showed up, I’m sure texts were flying over where the camera crews were as the day wore on.

  I didn’t mind it. It’s not like I’m not used to it yet. McMann fucking loved it, but attention is his thing.

  The fuck all of it was that it had me looking in every single crowd, worried my dad would be there. Concerned he was going to show up drunk, make a scene, and reveal me for the imposter he says I am.

  Just because he didn’t show didn’t mean he was immune to the rumors. The texts came. Oh how they fucking came. One after another.

  Dad: Ah how cute, you’re pretending to be a real rock star today.

  Dad: Where can we meet up?

  Dad: You know where to drop off a check.

  Dad: I’m sitting here waiting.

  Dad: Last. Fucking. Chance. Make it right.

  Same shit. Different day.

  I scrub a hand over my face, grateful to be rid of all the goddamn makeup they put on me today so I wouldn’t look washed out during filming.

  And more than grateful for the hour-long car ride away from that shithole town and relieved to be sitting amid the bright lights of San Francisco. The skyscraper-peppered skyline. The red of the Golden Gate Bridge lost in a haze of fog. The haunting shadow of Alcatraz in its midst.

  My beer is empty.

  My mind is wandering.

  My body is tired.

  And my sigh weighs a fucking ton when my cell rings. But when I look at the screen, I’m surprised because it’s not who I think it is.

  “Hawkin?”

  “Hey.”

  Awkwardness permeates the silence.

  How are you?

  I fucked up.

  I miss the fuck out of you.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask, voice gruff, head spinning, and pride refusing to let me say the things I need to say. Should say.

  “You good?”

  “Great. Perfect. Why?”

  “No reason.” He clears his throat. “I was at the studio today.”

  “Yeah?” Why is he telling me this?

  “Yeah. Noah played me the last track you laid down,” he says, and I wince. “It’s good, man. Really good.”

  “It’s shit and you know it.”

  “You always were hard on yourself.”

  “Some things never change, huh?”

  “Yeah. Guess so.”

  Why is it so hard to talk to the man who used to be my closest friend?

  “How’s Quinlan?”

  Go back to your pretentious fucking wife.

  My own words echo back to me, and I deserve the hesitation he gives in response. “Things are good all around.”

  “Good. Glad to hear.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, uncertain how to swallow my pride and take that step forward.

  Just fucking do it, Jennings.

  I go to open my mouth, but before I can get anything out, Hawke speaks. “I’ve gotta get going.”

  “Yeah. Sure. No prob.”

  “Maybe I’ll talk to you sometime.”

  “Maybe,” I murmur, the silence stretching. “Hey, Hawke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the call.”

  “No problem.”

  When the connection ends, I stare at the screen for longer than I should, uncertain how I feel about the conversation other than feeling fucking reckless.

  The last thing I want to do is have dinner with Xavier. The fucker is so far up my ass he can see out my belly button. I’m used to freedom, to not being managed with kid gloves, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling confined.

  And it’s all the worse knowing he’s on one side of my room and Bristol is on the other.

  Fuck it.

  Bristol’s eyes are wide with surprise when she opens her door and finds me there.

  “You’re back.”

  She took a separate car back to the city than we did so she could stay behind and visit with her dad.

  “I have been. Why, what’s up?”

  Over her shoulder I can see a laptop and textbooks scattered all over the bed. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun that only serves to highlight her long neck in the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt she’s wearing.

  “We’re going out.”

  “No, we’re not.” She steps forward and looks back and forth down the hall, no doubt for Xavier.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Rooted firmly with keeping my job.” She offers me a saccharine-sweet smile before trying to close the door.

  I stop it with my hand and walk in after her. “You want to be a lawyer, right? Become an agent and manage talent someday?” I move in front of her so she can’t avoid me. “You can study all you want, Shug, but the most valuable lessons you’re going to learn will be hands-on.”

  “No doubt you think those hands should be on you.” She rolls her eyes.

  “See? You’re already getting smarter.” She swats at me but laughs as I catch her hand, hold on to her wrist, and start pulling her to the door.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “I’m taking you to the kind of school only I can teach.”

  “What are you—”

  “Shh.” I put my finger up to her lips and wink. “I’m about to tell your boss I’m not feeling well and am skipping dinner tonight. The last thing you want him to do is hear you kidnapping me.” Her eyes widen as I lead her by the hand down the hall, passing in front of his room, to the elevator.

  “Vincent Jennings,” she whisper-yells . . . but only halfheartedly.

  “Help!” I play as the doors shut on us. “I’m being manhandled and abducted.”

  “That’s not even funny.” She shakes her head and looks at me, cheeks flushed but smile wide. “I need my purse. I need—”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I slide a glance over to her and pat myself on the back. We’re going to paint the fucking town while I spoil her rotten.

  And I’m going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

  • • •

  I motion my finger for Bristol to do a twirl. She just gives me the look—every man knows what the look is—but when the overly attentive salesclerk leaves the dressing area to remove the discarded clothes, Bristol does just that.

  Her skirt is short but classy. Her top is tight with killer cleavage and long sleeves. Her black boots are so high that all I can think about is what a hard time I’d have unzipping them since my hands would want to keep running up her thigh to her pussy.

  I may have paid for the boutique to stay open and cater to Bristol, but I’m pretty damn sure that price didn’t include the right to fuck her against the wall like my dick is begging me to do right now.

  It doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, though. But that would require quick and quiet—me getting mine only—and after waiting seven years to have Bristol Matthews again, you best be sure I want to take my time.

  But a man can dream.

  Fuck, can he dream.

  “That’s the one,” I say. Visions of peeling it off her later are already concrete fantasies in my mind.

  “I don’t know.” She grimaces as she studies herself in the mirror. “I think it’s too tight and shows too much—”

  “And you look incredible in it,” I say as I walk up behind her and press a kiss to the back of her exposed neck.

  When I meet her eyes in the mirror, she’s looking at me with an expression I’m not sure I can read but don’t think I’ll forget any time soon.

  She gives a quick shake of her head, almost as if she’s clearing whatever thoughts she’s thinking, and then refocuses on her reflection. She smooths her hands down her hips and narrows her eyes in indecision.

  “I’m telling you, that’s my favorite.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not as skinny as I used to be.”

  Fucking society and its bullshit standards.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  My silence pulls her eyes back to meet mine. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Vince . . .”

  I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her to face me. She does so reluctantly, her dubious expression reminding me so much of when we were in high school. It’s hard not to smile.

  “When I look at you, all I see is you. Don’t you get that? This body that has turned me on since I was sixteen years old. I assure you—”

  “This body has changed some, though.”

  “So has mine. More scars. More tattoos. More—”

  “Abs.” Another roll of her eyes that has me smiling.

  I reach out and frame her face so she’s forced to meet my eyes. “Your different is your beautiful, Shug. It always has been for me. It always will be for me. Don’t you see that?” For the first time since I’ve come back, when I brush my lips over hers, she doesn’t fight me and she sure as shit doesn’t hide the tears welling in her eyes.

  “Decided yet?” the salesperson says as she walks in the room, her heels stopping abruptly when she sees us. “I’m sorry. My apologies—”

  “We’ll take all of them.”

  “Vince—”

  “She’ll keep this one on. The rest can be sent to our hotel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bristol

  Your different is your beautiful.

  I haven’t been able to get that damn comment out of my head. Not after the boutique when he took me to a salon to get my hair and makeup done. Not after dinner on a rooftop with the view of the Golden Gate Bridge. And yet, it paled in comparison to the man across from me.

  “What about you, Vince? You’re here now, but where will you go next? After you finish the album. Back to New York? To London?” I take a bite of food, needing to have these answers to cement the many reasons these feelings—that keep growing through all the cracks of my heart like invasive weeds in a sidewalk—need to be ignored. “Do you ever plan on settling down? Settling in?”

  Vince tilts his head and stares at me. The same stare he gave me when he kissed the back of my neck earlier in a rare show of true affection. “I don’t know if I’ll ever settle. I’m a selfish bastard, you know that,” he says with a ghost of a smile to cover up the self-deprecation. “The word home always had a bad connotation for me. A place to stay away from, so . . . who knows.” He chuckles, the emotion in his eyes cleared, the wall partially back up. “Maybe in my forties. This industry moves at a lightning pace. People come and go, are forgotten and buried when the next big thing comes. I just want to take the ride as long as I can, as far as I can. Every road takes me farther away from him and the life I never plan to have.”

  I think it’s the most honest thing he’s said to me since that night he left my bedroom. And it hurts at the same time.

  “What about Bent? About plans for—”

  “I don’t make plans for the future. It’s better for me if I just don’t.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Enough about me. Tonight’s all about you. Too much of the world revolves around me—it seems like everyone fucking already knows everything and if they don’t, the documentary will help that along.” He lifts a glass of wine to his lips but stares at me over the rim. “So tell me more . . .”

  “There’s not much more to tell,” I say, hurting, because the biggest thing in my life, the thing I talk and brag to everyone about, I can’t tell him. If I did, he’d ask for a picture and he’d know immediately.

  Jagger was my decision. He is my responsibility. And if there’s one thing I’m learning about Vince today—and the man I had sex with seven years ago—is that he doesn’t want to be trapped by anyone. He’s sick of people wanting things from him. The last thing I want is for him to think I had Jagger to bind him to me. To us. To contain him and prevent him from reaching his goal—conquering the world.

  So I won’t burden him with this truth. He’s made it clear a child is the last thing he wants. And I’m okay with that. I’ve more than come to terms with that.

  By the same token, I don’t want Jagger to believe he’s not wanted. It’s better to have no father at all than to know you have a father who doesn’t want you.

  “I’m sure there’s plenty to tell about your life, Bristol. I want to hear it all.”

  Dinner led to selfies on the Golden Gate Bridge. Laughter and antics. So much laughter. Sundaes at Ghirardelli. And to me standing backstage at Bottom of the Hill, with a huge crowd waiting, and Vince about to take the stage unannounced.

  I look at myself in the mirror across from me, my hand on my stomach, and wonder who this person is whose reflection is staring back at me.

  I definitely don’t look like the mom of a six-year-old . . . and dare I say it feels kind of awesome to be a little of my old self again.

  And while I say that now, it’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I miss Jagger ridiculously.

  It doesn’t help that my head’s buzzing from the whirlwind of tonight, and every time I look at Vince my heart races a little faster.

  “What are we doing here?” I glance up at the neon blue sign that says Bottom of the Hill and back to Vince.

  “Giving you your lesson for tonight.” He grins and it makes my pulse jump. He takes me by the hand and pulls me into what looks like a club once we’re inside. He ushers me to a back area and then pushes me forward at the small of my back.

  “This is why you brought your guitar with you.” The realization dawns on me that Vince intends to play here tonight. I was curious why it was in the car when we left the hotel.

  “Have guitar. Will travel.” He holds it up and flashes me a smile. “I’d planned to play here all along. It was the before playing stuff we did tonight that was impromptu.”

  “So then what do you need me to ask—”

  “Tim’s the owner. He drives a hard bargain and is a stickler when it comes to his schedule and not messing with it. Ask for him and then–”

  “I don’t want to be a promoter, Vince. I want to be an agent.”

  “And being an agent is advocating for your client. I’m your client. I want to try out my new stuff tonight. I’m so unpredictable and such an asshole that if you don’t give me what I want, I’m going to trash some shit up and give you even more to worry about.” His shit-eating grin tells me he’s joking, but the point is made. “Now what demands has your unpredictable client required you to fulfill?”

  I meet his eyes and sigh, secretly excited by the rush of adrenaline racing through my veins. “Say you want to play but be announced only as a special guest and not by name. That you need to have a quick sound check.”

  “Yep.” He looks at the time on his phone. “And they open their doors at ten so we’ve got to get moving.”

  “Okay.”

  He lifts his chin toward the back of the room. “He’s the one with the dark blue shirt on.”

  I start to walk away and am yanked back without warning, met with the slow, seductive warmth of Vince’s lips on mine. The butterflies in my belly flutter to life.

  “I wouldn’t be kissing my client,” I say when he steps back and winks.

  “I know but I figured we could both use some luck.”

  I glance over to Vince. He’s standing alone on one side of the room. His head is hanging down, his hands that have been fiddling with his guitar are now idle at his sides, and one could either think he has the weight of the world on his shoulders or he’s about to take on the world.

  Both give him a vulnerability I haven’t seen before.

  My chest constricts. Instinct has me wanting to walk up to him, slide my arms around his waist, and offer him moral support. But circumstances—our circumstances in particular—tell me I’m not sure that would be welcome. This isn’t high school. He’s a grown man.

  Tonight has been . . . incredible. Amazing. Once in a lifetime. The last thing I want to do is ruin it.