“Hey,” I murmur, needing to do or say something.

  Vince lifts his head and meets my eyes. His gaze is strong, resolute, and the soft smile and subtle nod he gives me says even more. Tonight has meant something to him too.

  His hand goes to his opposing wrist, the one with the bracelet I gave him so many years ago, and he smiles. His smile lights up the room despite the sudden sense of gravity I feel from him. But the moment is fleeting as the staff swoops in and tells him it’s showtime.

  I’m nervous for him. The crowd is small compared to the sold-out arenas he’s used to, and yet I still can’t imagine willingly standing onstage and opening myself up to everyone’s criticism, judgment, and let’s face it, adoration.

  He’s announced as only a “special guest.” I watch from stage right as the lights go up on him standing center stage, his head down with the hood of his sweatshirt casting shadows over his face, and his hands positioned on his acoustic guitar.

  He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look up. He simply starts playing.

  It’s slow and haunting at first. Just Vince and the acoustics. Just bated breath from the audience and chills chasing over my skin. Just his fingers and his talent and a microphone to share it.

  It’s one thing to watch him from the nosebleed seats in an arena. You can hear the music there and sense that he’s enjoying himself.

  It’s another to stand a few feet from him and watch the music take over him. Own him. Soothe and possess him. Become a part of him from the posture of his body and the tendons taut in his neck.

  He finishes the guitar solo, lets the note die until the silence eats the room. And with timing that has clearly been perfected, before the crowd begins to clap, Vince flings his head back, so the hoodie falls off, and kicks into Bent’s most popular song.

  The crowd recognizes both him and the song and goes absolutely batshit crazy. Even from where I stand behind the speakers, the roar is insane.

  Vince soaks it all in, his presence dominating and a cocky smirk on his lips. He plays the chords without thought before stepping forward and singing the opening bars of the song.

  The words Hawkin usually sings.

  Play me. Beg me. Take me. Make me.

  Be the one to make me fall.

  Be the one to take it all.

  It doesn’t matter to the crowd, though. They’re still in shock over their luck to be here tonight. Phones are out recording, live-streaming, sharing everything that is Vince Jennings.

  I catch the quick glances over his shoulder as if he’s looking for his band—something from years of habit. I notice the stutter of his expression on his face when he realizes his bandmate brothers aren’t there. But it’s slight and it’s quick.

  But it’s there.

  “How’re you all doing tonight?” he asks after a few songs. He’s breathless, sweaty, and by the grin on his face, loving every minute.

  The crowd roars in response. He hangs his head sheepishly and laughs before looking back up at them and taking a seat on the stool that a stagehand has run out to him.

  “So, I was in town for a few things and got the itch to play. My people contacted their people and asked if I could play a few songs for you tonight.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s already damp. “I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your evening.”

  He doesn’t even finish. The audience drowns out his words with their appreciation.

  “I guess that means I’m forgiven.” More cheering. “Smaller is sometimes better. Venues. I’m talking venues, people. Fuck, man. Get your minds out of the gutter.” He laughs. It’s the purest sound to me.

  And it sounds just like Jagger.

  The thought staggers me when it shouldn’t. The guilt that I’m keeping this incredibly perfect human being from Vince even more so.

  But standing here, watching him, knowing him . . . loving him, I know this is where Vince is meant to be.

  This was why he left all those years ago.

  He belongs to them.

  Not to me.

  And I was right all those years ago not to try harder to make him something he didn’t want to be, no matter how much I’d love him to be.

  “So, I’ve written some stuff for the new album.”

  “I love Hawkin!” a woman screams from the darkness.

  Vince’s smile is bittersweet, his voice a reflection of it. “I do too, sweetheart, but I have a feeling your type of love might involve knee pads and handcuffs.” He holds his hands up. “To each your own.”

  The crowd laughs and the heckler shouts, “Damn right.”

  “As I was saying,” he says through a chuckle. “I’ve written some new stuff. I wanted to try a bit of it out. See if you guys like it so I know if I’m on the right track. Do you think if I played it for you, that you could let me know if you like it?”

  More riotous applause.

  “Okay. Sounds good.” He clears his throat as he grabs his guitar pick and then adjusts the mic. “This one uh . . . it means a lot to me. You see . . . it’s about a girl . . .” Vince looks over at me. His smile softens. His eyes swim with so much emotion I don’t know which to settle on. “A girl whose different is her beautiful. The song’s called Sweet Regret.”

  Mistakes. Headaches.

  My heart is here, it’s yours to take.

  Drowned out. Holding on.

  Is your love for me still going strong?

  Drawn lines. Mixed signs.

  I walked away without a word.

  Blocked calls. Punched walls.

  Your silent tears I never heard.

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bristol

  Something has shifted between us.

  I don’t know if it’s the song or the look he gave me afterwards or the tears I pretended not to cry, but something has shifted.

  Almost a resignation of our fate.

  Didn’t he say as much in the song he wrote? In the lyrics he sang? In the way he came offstage, pulled me against him, and just held on as if he were saying goodbye?

  It’s almost as if in his lyrics, Vince put all his cards on the table and yet we both realize he still can’t win the hand. There’s a small victory in making the play and a quiet defeat in knowing it still isn’t enough.

  We don’t speak on the car ride back to the hotel. Our fingers are linked and glances are shared, but no words are exchanged.

  Just absent thank-yous and you’re welcomes as doors are opened, as the elevator button is pushed, as we walk toward my hotel room door.

  I open it without inviting him in. I don’t need to. He just walks in behind me and closes the door at his back.

  He knows just like I do. No matter how much either of us was going to fight this, this undeniable draw we have toward each other, that in the end, it’s stronger than us.

  I give myself the grace to stare out the window at the city beyond. I’m not going to convince myself that being with Vince is for closure, that I’ll be able to walk away on my terms.

  Haven’t the years taught me that there are no terms when it comes to Vince? There is just the here and now. The moment to revel in. The tomorrows to forget about. The sensations to lose myself in. The feelings that I need to rein in and not let go of.

  “Shug.” His voice is quiet, so very different than the larger-than-life persona onstage a couple hours ago.

  With my heart in my throat, I turn to face the man I’ve loved most of my life with the knowledge that love alone is not enough.

  He reaches out and cups my face, making me feel like I’m the only one he sees. He moves closer, his eyes searching, for what I don’t know.

  Our faces are inches apart.

  Our bodies already heated.

  Our heads already imagining what the other will feel like again.

  Our hearts already knowing this might break us, but we can’t change what’s written in the stars.

  “I’ve thought about being with you again so many times,” he whispers and brushes my lips with his. “On lonely nights.” He unzips the back of my skirt. “When something reminds me of you.” He pushes it down over my hips as he kisses the curve of my neck. “When I allow myself the right to miss you.”

  Nerves rattle through me, stealing the moment away. My insecurities have me reaching to tug my shirt down to cover the stretchmarks on my hips. To distract from the sag of my breasts. To hide the thickness of my thighs. The battle scars I attribute to motherhood.

  “Shug. Look at me.”

  I plaster a smile on my face, but he doesn’t buy it for one second. “What? I’m fine. Just nervous. I’m not the same as I used to be.”

  He nods almost as if admitting that he’s nervous too. Almost as if he’s acknowledging that there is so much riding on this moment, so much anticipation built up toward it, that he’s afraid to mess it up too.

  He kisses me again. Our tongues dance and lips talk through actions. And as we do, he reaches down and takes my hem from my hands before slowly lifting my shirt over my head. My bra comes next.

  When I stiffen, he just shakes his head, slides his hands down my body, and lowers himself as he goes.

  “You’re beautiful, Bristol.” He kisses my stomach. “You always have been.” Another kiss to each of my hips. “You always will be.” He runs his hands down to the top of the boots I’m still wearing before going back up to cup my ass. “I’d offer to turn the lights off for you.” A kiss to the underside of my breast. “To make you feel more comfortable.” A kiss to the other. “But I’m a selfish man.” He’s back at eye level with me and there is no mistaking the desire in his eyes. “I don’t want to miss a single thing tonight and that includes getting to see you.” He kisses me tenderly. “I bared myself to you tonight. I laid it all out there for the world to hear. For you to know. Please don’t hide from me.”

  “Vince—”

  “Let me love you, Bristol. Let me show you the only other way I know how.”

  I initiate the kiss this time. My hands thread through the hair at the base of his neck as the soft cotton of his shirt tickles my bare skin. We kiss like we’ve never kissed before. Slow and timid. Soft and searching. Like we never want it to end.

  There’s intimacy to it. In reveling in the calm before the storm. In enjoying the now and forgetting about tomorrow. In trying to memorize every groan and gasp and the way he tastes and how his touch feels.

  I was too young to think about that last time. To try and burn the moment in my mind knowing it would be the only time. Not this time. Not now.

  It’s his shirt I take off.

  It’s his pants I unbuckle and push down now.

  It’s his body I admire in its incredible entirety.

  I kiss my way down his torso. Lips on his chest. Down the line of his abdomen. His happy trail. The dent of his hips. And then as I lower myself to my knees, I look up at him.

  His eyes grow dark, his breathing shallow, as I grab hold of his cock and slowly suck it into my mouth.

  His head rolls back on his shoulders and his thighs tense, but his hand finds its way under my chin and holds it there. I look up at him with his cock still in my mouth and my entire body begs for me to go faster so I can have his touch.

  “Keep going.” His dick twitches in my mouth. “I want to watch you. Your lips. Your cheeks. Your hand. Your eyes. I want to memorize this moment.”

  I begin to work him slowly. The softest scrape of my teeth earns a hiss of pleasure. The suction of my lips garners a firmer grip on my chin so he can fuck my mouth. The lick and hum over his length gets me murmured praise.

  “That’s it.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Let that fucking gorgeous mouth of yours work me over.”

  But woven in that praise is gentleness this time. A solemnity about the moment. An unspoken understanding that just like last time, we’re only getting one night.

  To make amends.

  To make up for lost time.

  To love each other knowing there are no tomorrows.

  “I need to be inside you,” he whispers before helping me to my feet. He takes a moment to protect himself before sitting on the bed where I then straddle him.

  I lean forward and kiss him with an edged desperation as he positions his cock, and I sink ever so slowly down onto him. Our kisses smother his moan and my gasp as I seat himself fully within me.

  There’s a moment when we’re completely connected, when our eyes meet, and I swear to God he can see every single truth I’m hiding. That I love him. That I’ve only ever loved him. That I fear I’ll never be able to love another like him. That I’m the mother of his child.

  Time suspends.

  Emotion wells in our eyes.

  Then I begin to rock over him. Gentle. Slowly. Without any urgency.

  Our lips meet. Our hands roam. Our skin warms. Our bodies heat with desire and longing fulfilled.

  My fingers fist in his hair as my body starts to build. Layer upon layer. Brick upon brick. Emotion upon emotion.

  My breaths are shallow.

  My heart races.

  His name is a hum on my lips as his hands help me with each rise up and grind back down over him.

  “Look at me,” Vince murmurs.

  But I don’t.

  Can’t.

  There are tears in my eyes that I don’t understand. That confuse me, but only make the pleasure more intense and the moment more poignant.

  I love him with all that I am. With all that I have.

  “Dammit, Shug. Look at me. I want to remember you like this. I need to.”

  The break in his voice has me meeting his eyes as our bodies move together. As my fingernails begin to dig into his biceps, and my muscles tighten around his cock. I struggle to keep them open and locked on his because the sensations are too raw, too intense, too real. Every nerve feels touched. Every ounce of blood feels invigorated. Every suck in of breath feels intoxicating.

  “Eyes on me,” he murmurs as his face begins to pull tight and his muscles tense against mine.

  The orgasm hits me like a surging tidal wave instead of a bolt of lightning. It’s a slow swell of sensation that builds and builds and builds until it hits with a ferocity that’s deceptive.

  I rock my hips over Vince’s, wanting more friction to prolong the pleasure. To make the moment last.

  “Vince.” It’s a breathless plea and within a beat, he has his hand on the back of my neck and is bringing his lips to mine in a hungry kiss. One packed with the same violent desire that’s pulsing through me.

  “I’ve got you, Shug. I’ve got you,” he says as he holds me in place and begins to do the work for me with his own hips.

  He sets a bruising pace that is just what I need to set off the ripple effect again. To prolong the downfall. To keep us in this moment for as long as possible.

  And just as I begin to surge up again, just as I fall off that waterfall, Vince cries out my name in two broken syllables.

  His hands are on me, pulling me against him, squeezing around me as his lips find mine again. There is no space between us. No breath of air that isn’t shared. No heartbeat that isn’t reciprocated against our chests.

  It’s just Vince.

  It’s just me.

  It’s just one last sweet regret.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Bristol

  I reach out and rest my hand over Vince’s heart. Its beat is strong and steady. Much like his presence in my life, even when he’s nowhere near me.

  He’s on his side, arm under his head, elbow bent so the dark ink of his tattoos is stark against the crisp white of the pillowcase. His eyes are closed. A dusting of stubble is on his jaw. His expression is one of peace.

  It’s weird how I still see the boy in the man before me. Or maybe it’s the other way around. But they’re both still there. The one who ruined my heart, who filled it up with a love he doesn’t know about, who it will always love.

  I prop myself up on my elbow and study the dizzying array of tattoos on his arm and chest. Music notes, a guitar pick, the logo for Bent among others, but there is one in particular that I didn’t notice before that has me leaning closer. It’s on his left flank, written sideways, and completely out of character with the rest of them. C12H22O11.

  Tears burn in my eyes, the memories coming faster than I can process them, as I reach out to touch the molecular formula for sugar scarred into Vince.

  “You’re not concentrating.”

  “Because chemistry is boring.” Vince sighs in frustration. He immediately starts tapping his fingers on the desk to that beat that only he can hear in his head.

  I reach over and grab his wrist to stop him. “Maybe so, but you need it to graduate, Vincenzo.” I draw the nickname out I’ve given him. The one I’ve taken to using because not only does it annoy him, but because it makes me feel special. Like I have an inside joke with the cute boy at school. No one else is allowed to call him that.

  He rolls his eyes when I say it, but his cheeks flush pink.

  “Let’s face it. The minute I graduate I’m out of here. The last thing I’m ever going to need to know is molecular structures and the difference between neurons and protons.”

  “Neutrons.”

  “Same thing.”

  I laugh and slide another glance his way as he lowers his head to read the textbook once again. His teeth are sunk into his bottom lip, and that dark brown hair of his falls over his forehead covering the cut there that he said was from hitting an open cabinet door.

  I’ve heard the rumors about him before I agreed to tutor him last week. A loner who doesn’t care what people think. A bad boy who’s quick with his tongue and his fists. The guy your mom warns you about and that a girl like me should stay away from.