I huddled in my seat near the stage, cursing my best friend’s existence. A group of guys paused as they trudged by, slowing their pace to give me the once-over. I smiled tightly as I discreetly pulled on the neck of my low-cut blouse. Low cut was a nice way of saying there was nothing but skin between my neck and my navel.

Why did you let her talk you into this?

Not only did Tori wear me down at dinner the other night, convincing me to accompany her to the concert, but when I arrived at the lake house to get ready, she vetoed my skinny jeans and simple black button-down blouse. If I was truly serious about giving Austin a last hurrah, she’d quipped, I might as well go out in style.

Her style. Her old style, at least, judging by the amount of skin I had on display. She paired the barely there blouse with a short mini that made me glad I waxed. Yeah, it was that short.

I was about to dive under the seat when Tori teetered up, a big smile on her face and two plastic cups in hand.

“Where have you been?” I hissed, grabbing the extra-large frozen margarita.

She plopped into the seat next to me. “Long line at the concession stand.” She took a drink, then smacked her lips. I gulped the frozen concoction like I hadn’t had any liquid in days. “Chill out, T-Rex. You’re going to get a …”

“Ouch … fuck!” I pressed my palm to my forehead.

“… brain freeze.”

With my eyes screwed shut, I couldn’t see her smile. But I heard it in her voice.

I gave her a sidelong glance while I continued to rub my forehead. “I’m plenty chilly, thanks to your fashion advice.”

She settled into the chair, hooking the heel of her boot on the back of the seat in front of her. “Relax, you look hot.”

Honestly, she looked hot. I’d seen the jeans before, ripped to show skin in all the right places. But she paired them with a tight shirt that showed a nice expanse of midriff. And the boots. God, I hadn’t seen them in years. Black suede with four-inch heels.

Surprisingly, Tori wasn’t getting the usual amount of “Belle Grayson” attention. She looked like every other twenty-something-year-old fan tonight.

I glanced over my shoulder, giving the bodyguard I’d hired on the down low a small smile. At Tori’s insistence, we’d kept our plans for tonight completely secret. But I didn’t want to end up on the wrong side of a mob, or something worse, if things got real. Don’t get me wrong, this little adventure was fun. But she was her, and I was me, it was our band about to take the stage, and we were trying to blend in like tourists.

Tori sipped her drink, looking down her nose at her phone when Dylan’s name lit the screen. She hit ignore, then fixed her gaze on the stage.

“Why didn’t you tell Dylan where we were going?”

She shrugged. “He’s with Beckett. Didn’t want either of them to hulk out and ruin our fun.”

Hiding my skepticism, I stared into my drink. “We’re at the Caged show. You don’t think they’re going to find out?”

Another shrug. “You’ll be on a plane in the morning. And Dylan …” She blew out a breath. “He won’t say anything. He might get angry, but he won’t show it.”

I wondered if that’s the reason she’d never let their relationship blossom. Tori liked to fight. She preferred to win. But she never minded the battle. And her and Rhenn? God, they could battle.

The crowd milled around while we sipped our drinks in relative peace and companionable silence. It’d been years since I’d attended an event like this from the audience side. It was … thrilling.

Tucked in a corner to the right of the stage, our seats provided an optimal view. To my surprise, we were basically alone. Nobody around us. This was an open-air concert, so any seat was a premium.

I finished the margarita, a buzz tingling through me. “Wonder where everyone is?”

“These are industry seats,” Tori said. “I called in a favor. I want to experience the show, not fight off a mob.” Suddenly, someone appeared at our side, holding two drinks. I gaped as Tori reached past me, handing the dude a twenty in exchange for the beverages. “What?” She cocked a brow. “I got mad skills, or did you forget?”

Before I could answer, a single spotlight drew my attention to the stage, where a black Fender sat propped against the stool.

“Chase …?” Whipping my gaze to my best friend for confirmation, I found her smiling. “How?” I croaked.

If she answered, I didn’t hear. Because the crowd was on their feet, stomping and clapping. And then Chase emerged from the shadows and strode to his guitar, a hint of that victory grin on his face. Settling the strap of the Fender on his shoulder, he sank onto the stool.

“Hey, y’all,” he said into the mic. “I’m Chase. Who wants to hear a little music?”

My heart clenched when he strummed the opening bar to the first song I’d ever heard him play. One of his originals. The audience grew quiet, as if they knew something magical was about to happen. And it was. Because in that moment, I caught a glimpse of what Chase was born to be. A musician. And it didn’t matter if he was playing in front of thousands, or at Nite Owl, or just for me, his talent was bigger than any stage. Or any crowd.

With tears in my eyes, I sat back, and let the music take me away.