I can do this. Easy. I’m just an old friend, remember? Keeping my professional life separate from my personal life is something I do every day.

  There shouldn’t be a difference now.

  The director yells action and music engulfs the sound stage once again. The bruising melody of the ballad hits my ears. Another take of words that strikes a little too close to home.

  Did you know? Did you care?

  I looked up to find you weren’t there.

  Kid gloves. Holding tight.

  I still reach for you in the dark of night.

  Shattered hopes. Love undefined.

  You’ve always owned this heart of mine.

  Yeah, it should be easy . . . if I don’t listen to his lyrics.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vince

  “Fuck.” Dammit. “Sorry, guys. My bad,” I groan, holding up my hands to peer beyond the stage lights. “I swear I know the words to my own song.”

  “No biggie,” my director says from the darkness. “It’s been a long night. It happens to the best of us.”

  No need to stroke my ego. I’m fucking up and I know it.

  “Let’s take a break from this scene,” he says, his voice coming closer until I can see his shadowed face. “We’ll give your voice a rest and move to the fight scene. That way we can get Jennifer wrapped and off set and then move back to this part.” He motions to the actress.

  “Sounds good.”

  And before I have a chance to unhook my guitar strap from around my neck, the whole room begins to shift their focus to the right where a mock backstage area has been created for the fight scene. Fucking Hollywood, man.

  The place where something can be made of nothing. A set. A scene. Even a rock star. I’m living proof of that.

  I hand my guitar to the assistant they’ve assigned to me, all five foot nothing of her doe eyes and trembling hands, and head for my bottle of water just offstage. My first swig has me wishing it were something stronger. I need something to take the fucking edge off.

  And why is that, Jennings?

  Why do you keep fucking up? Why is your head so far up your ass you can’t remember the words you wrote?

  I search the darkness beyond the stage again and come up empty. It’s probably for the better. Seeing her will just fuck with my concentration even more.

  Goddamn Bristol Matthews.

  To say this would be the last place I’d think to see her would be a lie. I’d expect to see her here. Just not as a bullshit gofer, whatever the fuck position she has.

  And yet I look along the walls for her again.

  Fuck this.

  “I need something else,” I say to my assistant. A little something never hurts. “Something stronger.”

  The poor kid’s eyes grow wide as if she can’t believe I’m asking for alcohol. Definite newbie. Alcohol has nothing on some of the shit I’ve seen asked for—and provided—on set. Onstage. Anywhere, really.

  “Um, is that allowed?” she asks.

  “My stage. My rules.” I wink. “A greyhound, please. Whoever has the alcohol will know what’s in it.” She just stands there and stares at me.

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am.” I smirk and she remains standing there. “Pretty please.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Vincent. I mean Jennings, I mean—”

  “Vince is fine.”

  It’s going to be a long fucking night if her sputtering is any indication.

  But she does her job and she does it well, because the drink is in my hand within minutes. It’s stiff as hell. Just the way I like it.

  “Any questions?” the director asks as he tries to focus my distracted attention on the storyboard in front of me.

  It looks like a graphic novel with each square illustrated, depicting what’s in the next scene of the music video. It’s nothing creatively groundbreaking in terms of music videos—hell, music videos are dying in a sense—but they are a necessity for publicity’s sake.

  And no matter how many I’ve done, it’s still pretty fucking cool to get to make them.

  “Got it. Pretend to argue. Throw my glass against the wall. Jennifer takes a swing at me, and then I pin her against the wall. Kiss her breathless.” I nod and take a sip, my smirk lopsided. “You know, just like I do with every woman I meet backstage.” My joke draws some laughs, but when I glance back to the storyboard again, something strikes me.

  Similar scenario but without the fight.

  The last time I saw Bristol, this was how it started. Me. Her. Against the wall in the hotel hallway. Breathless. Desperate.

  How it ended was even fucking better.

  Christ. I haven’t thought about that in years. Scratch that. I have. Off and on. When I write songs. When I see someone who looks like her. When I have an off night, drink a few too many beers and curse why what is, is.

  Hell, that night between us was supposed to be closure, but all it did was open wounds. Wounds I then tried to seal shut with superglue, never to be opened again.

  Until now.

  Until I saw her standing there staring at McMann, and it all came rushing back.

  Fucking hell.

  Was it the same for her after that night? Is it the same for her seeing me now?

  It’s not like you’d know, Jennings, since you blocked her number from your cell after that night.

  Christ.

  I take another long sip of my drink and ready myself for this next scene.

  Not like it’s a hardship kissing another woman for the sake of a video. Or for any reason, really.

  But as we go through the drills—wide shot, close-up shot, detail shot—take after take, kiss after intense kiss, it’s Bristol who’s on my mind. It’s Bristol who is fucking up my concentration.

  Is she watching?

  Is she jealous?

  Is she wishing she were the one I’m kissing?

  Mature. Real fucking mature.

  Then again, there’s no goddamn law that says I have to be.

  Jennifer’s fingernails rake down my back as her tongue dances with mine. And as much as there are lights and people watching, it’s hard not to be turned on by the feel of her body against mine. By the unprofessional hum of her approval against my chest. By the heat of her pussy on my thigh where it’s pressed between her legs.

  She’s sending all the signals that she’d be willing to continue where we leave off after we’re both wrapped from the set.

  Another time maybe.

  Another place.

  Somewhere where Bristol isn’t, perhaps.

  But why? It’s not like knowing she exists has prevented me from living my life over the years. I’ve kissed a whole hell of a lot of women. I’ve fucked more than I can count. All without giving a thought to how it would make Bristol feel.

  I’m a rock star. That’s just how it goes.

  So why in the fuck is it bugging me now?

  “Can you get into it a little more, Vince?” the director asks.

  “If I get any more into it, I’ll be inside her,” I say, garnering a laugh from the crew and the clenching of her thigh against mine.

  “Right. Yes.” Clearly, I’m not selling it by the director’s comments. “Put your hand on her breast. Yes. Like that. Fist your other in her hair. Good.” He hums in approval and then I assume he speaks to the director of photography. “Zoom in on her hand twisted in his shirt. Then on his knee between her thighs. Then on their mouths as they move. Yes. Perfect. Believable. Sexy as hell.”

  We keep going. Making out in a roomful of people—not like that’s new to me—but not typically with cameras and bright lights documenting each slip of the tongue.

  Is Bristol still an incredible kisser?

  Is her taste still as addictive as I remember?

  “Cut,” the director yells out.

  We untangle ourselves from each other, and when I look up, I lock eyes with Bristol where she stands a few feet over the director’s shoulder.

  Seeing her hits me like a sucker punch, even more than when she turned around earlier today.

  She doesn’t get to look at me like that. Not with the hurt. Not with the pain. Not with those big brown eyes judging me for doing my job. Those eyes that used to own me.

  She’s the past. The one who let me walk away. The one who agreed to one incredible night.

  She’s the one who . . . just stormed out of this sound stage.

  Shit.

  Damn.

  Fuck.

  Why do you care, Vince?

  I run a hand through my hair and down the rest of my current drink. “I need a fucking minute,” I mutter to anyone in earshot, knowing they won’t say a word. They’re here because of me. Perks of being the star.

  A low chuckle hums across the room. They’re assuming I’ve got a hard-on that I need to calm down.

  They can think whatever the fuck they want. It’s not like I’ve ever cared one way or another, and I sure as hell don’t now as I casually make my way toward the exit doors Bristol just pushed through.

  McMann steps in my way. “Everything okay? Need me to take care of something for you?”

  I hold up my cell. “Need to make a quick call.” It’s the only explanation I give.

  “Not a problem,” he says as I move past him. “Oh, and if you need anything, I’ve assigned our junior associate Bristol to you. She can take care of whatever your needs happen to be.”

  I’ve got a whole lot of needs when it comes to her, Xav. You might not want to say that.

  “Ten-four,” I say and keep moving right on out the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Vince

  She’s standing a few feet to the left of the exit. Her back is to me with her arms crossed and shoulders hunched to ward off the cold night air.

  Why is seeing her again fucking with my head? She was a lifetime ago. Done and over with.

  Have I missed her? Christ, after I walked away the last time, she owned my mind right along with my breaking fucking heart. She’s the only thing I’ve ever loved other than music. I hated leaving her, but it was the right thing to do.

  I get that she might still be mad at my chickenshit exit that morning, but this tension between us feels so wrong. So . . . off.

  In the past, we’d see each other and the rights, wrongs, and everything in between would just evaporate into thin air until it left just us again. That had always been our M.O.

  How do I get that back? How do I fix this?

  Slow down, Vin. Your time here is limited. Don’t start what you can’t fucking finish.

  “Bristol.”

  “Please, Vince. Don’t do this right now.”

  “Do what? Since when is talking a crime?”

  Her shoulders slowly drop, and then she finally turns to look at me.

  Fucking hell, she’s gorgeous.

  The dark hair in waves down her back. The big, light brown eyes. The pouty, pink lips. The full curves of her body—that she always hated and felt judged for—underneath her black jeans and sweater.

  She’s still stunning.

  “This is not the time or place to rehash our past, okay? I need you to just get back to work.”

  Beautiful and professional.

  So why do her words feel like a punch to my gut?

  “Sure. Fine. No rehashing. But can you at least explain why you’re angry at me?” When she just continues to stare at the ground, I take a step closer. “Talk to me, Shug.”

  She grits her teeth and meets my eyes. “Look. You have a roomful of people in there waiting on you hand and foot,” she says, all business and completely ignoring my question. “You should get back to them.”

  “According to what Xavier promised me, you’re supposed to be doing the same.”

  I go for the wisecrack and only get her hands fisted at her sides in return. It used to be so easy to make her laugh. What am I missing here? Why is she so closed off?

  “I don’t wait on anyone hand and foot.” There’s that fire of hers I used to love. “But as the person who’s been tasked with making sure you do what’s needed, I kindly request that we stop talking so you can get to work. I assure you that everyone inside would like to finish sooner rather than later so they can go home to their families before the sun rises.”

  “Fine. I will. Right after this conversation.”

  “Why even have it?”

  “Because I’m more than certain it’s an important one.” I take a step closer and instinct, old memories, I don’t know what, has me trying to run my hands up and down her biceps to ward off the night’s chill. She takes a hasty step backward.

  “I don’t bite.” My chuckle this time earns me an exasperated sigh.

  “Vince, you can’t just walk in here and act like there is no past between us, but touch me like there is.”

  “Then maybe we should talk about that past. You’re the one trying to ignore it.”

  Her face pulls tight but her eyes relay that there’s so much more than her words are saying. “I can’t do a repeat of seven years ago where you play with me while you’re in town and then return back to your glamorous life without ever looking back.”

  Um, wow. Okay. I sure as fuck wasn’t expecting that one.

  “Play with you? That’s what you called what happened last time? Because from where I was standing, you were a more than willing participant.”

  “Were. Past tense.” She gives a quick nod of her head. “Rest assured that won’t be happening again.”

  “Who said I wanted it to?” My words are cruel but serve a purpose.

  Her reaction is what I needed to see.

  The wince in her expression. The flare of her nostrils. The grit of her teeth.

  She’s bluffing. There’s still something there. Always has been. Good to see I’m not the only one who feels it.

  And fuck me for still wanting it.

  Then again, haven’t I always despite convincing myself otherwise?

  “Keep thinking along those lines,” she says, her words betraying the look in her eyes. “There is no want on this end either.”

  “So who is he then?”

  Shock flashes through her eyes and lands like a punch to my gut. She’s with someone? Dating? Married?

  Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Vin.

  My stomach churns at the thought as I glance at her finger, looking for a ring, but her hand is tucked under her other arm and I can’t see it.

  “That’s rich. You thinking the only reason I don’t want anything to happen between us is because of another man. Maybe there is one. Maybe there isn’t. My life is none of your business.”

  And why does not getting a concrete answer drive me mad?

  “Fair,” I say and let a slow smile crawl on my lips. “But c’mon, it’s us we’re talking about.”

  “There is no us, Vince.”

  “And yet you still think about me.” C’mon. Smile for me, Shug. Once I get that, I know I’ll be able to get more out of you. Like why you seem so angry with me.

  “Never. Rarely. It’s just . . .” She draws in a deep breath. “It’s not that easy anymore. Life’s not that easy.”

  “It’s only hard if you make it that way.”

  “Not all of us have choices like that.”

  “What does that even mean? What happened that I don’t know about?” How about seven years’ worth of life, Vin? The look in her eyes says she’s thinking the same damn thing. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. “So, how long ago did you make the move out here?”

  She looks up at me from beneath her lashes almost as if she’s debating whether answering the question will be letting me in too much. The slightest nod of her head says she doesn’t think so. “A while ago.”

  Not all of us have choices like that.

  Her words hit my ears again and pique my curiosity. “Is that why you’re a junior associate for McMann?”

  “Come again?”

  Huh. Touchy subject. Maybe if I push enough of her buttons, I’ll sneak past that goddamn wall she’s put up and get a reaction out of her. A reaction that isn’t so measured and guarded. One that will give me a fucking clue into what she’s being so protective of.

  “You said not all of us have choices like that. What did that mean? What happened? Is life being hard why the dreams you had are still just that, dreams?”

  “Talking to me for ten minutes after seven years doesn’t give you the right to ask that question.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t, but I’m confused why you’re with McMann in a job that’s way fucking beneath you.” Her wince is telling. I just wish I knew what it told. “Being a babysitter for spoiled assholes is overrated, Bristol.”

  Something flashes in her eyes. It’s so brief that I can’t read it, but it’s followed by a stiffening of her spine. God, her fire is a turn-on, even now. “Why did you leave your best friends behind—leave a good fucking thing—and go out on your own? Huh? What happened with Hawke and the guys? With Bent? Did your ego get too big that you thought you didn’t need them anymore?”

  “Tou-fucking-ché.” Got to admire a woman who knows how to hit where it hurts. And that fucking hurt.

  Seems like life has given Bristol Matthews a stronger backbone.

  “And while we’re at it, stick to what you do best. Domino was decent,” she says, referring to my last single that flopped, “but it wasn’t you. There was no edge to it. No trademark Vincent Jennings sound. It was soft. Generic. More like white noise that blended into the background.”

  “For someone who hasn’t thought about me at all, you sure have a lot to say.” She’s on point about the song. I hate it, but she’s right. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.

  “Call it professional research.”

  “Bullshit. You didn’t know I signed with McMann until tonight and yet you claim knowing my songs is research. Pretend all you want, but you still think of me. You still follow me.”

  “And your ego is still as big as Texas.”

  Among other things.

  “So you don’t want to talk about our past. You don’t want to talk about what you’re up to now.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. “It’s going to be a pretty boring conversation standing here, staring at each other, and not speaking at all.”