“What is this bullshit?”

“The Bradford.”

“I know it’s the damn Bradford. But what the hell are we doing here?”

I glance at the building in front of us again, take another swig of the whisky bottle I’m holding, and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

“So?” I ask, not impressed by their choice of venue.

Sure, The Bradford is nice and all, but this is my fucking birthday. These guys should be dragging my ass to the sleaziest strip club in town, not to some upscale Manhattan building.

I mean, come the fuck on! We’re three young men making money hand over fist with every concert we do, and there are thousands of willing fans in Manhattan alone. Why am I not making out with the hottest model in a one-hundred mile radius while keeping the groupies at bay with a fucking sword?

“It’s your birthday, man,” Mike tells me, looking at Chris and grinning suspiciously. They’re both as drunk as a goldfish in a vodka bowl (nothing new there), and there’s something about the way they’re eyeing me that I simply don’t like.

“I know it’s my birthday. What I don’t know is what the hell we’re doing here,” I repeat, waving my whisky bottle at the Bradford. “I see no girls, and I see no liquor. Your idea of a good time is a fucking twisted one, that much I can tell you.”

“No faith in us, huh?” Chris asks dramatically.

“None.”

Shit, I hope these guys didn’t buy me a fucking apartment. I know I’m turning thirty and shit, but there’s no way they’re gonna kick me out of the tour bus. The damn thing is a pussy-magnet on wheels, complete with a fully stocked bar and a fucking full-time chef.

Yeah, let’s not even call it a bus—it’s more of a mansion you can drive around the country.

It’s fine if you feel impressed. I mean, even I’m impressed sometimes. It’s not like I ever expected to be filthy rich while having thousands upon thousands of adoring fans all over the world.

You see, I was never voted “most likely to succeed” in high school. I was just your garden variety nerd.

I know, I know—you’re used to seeing me up on the stage, right?

Fancy leather jacket, ragged jeans, forearms covered in sick tattoos, and melting everyone’s panties with my guitar. That’s me, alright. But that wasn’t me twelve years ago.

I had glasses, no tattoos, and I used to play the fucking tuba. How did I go from that to being voted Sexiest Man of the Year? (By three different publications...not that I’m bragging or anything.)

It’s pretty simple: heartbreak.

I react poorly when bad stuff happens. So when my eighteen-year old heart was broken, something else inside me broke as well. I smashed the fucking tuba, moved cities, picked up the guitar…and poured my fucking heart into the music.

My fingers bled for months. Next thing I knew I had Mike and Chris with me, and we were crushing it. Seriously, I don’t know who chased us the most—the fans or the record labels.

So, yeah, that’s me—Alexander Reeves, asshole galore. Just in case you’ve been living under a rock or something.

“So, this is what you’re going to do,” Evan starts, reaching for me and taking the whisky bottle out of my hands.

“You’re gonna get out of the limo,” he continues, straightening my jacket, “you’re gonna walk up to the building, and then you’re gonna ask the doorman for a certain Katherine Collins.”

No.

No fucking way.

“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. Leaning forward, I tap the partition separating us from the driver.

“Driver, get us out of—” I start, but Chris and Mike just push me back and pin me to the fucking seat.

“Do I need to repeat myself, man?” Chris asks with a sigh, although I know for a certainty he’s going to repeat himself. “You’re gonna get out of the limo, and you’re gonna get your ass inside the Bradford.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind? There’s no way I’m going in there and ask for…her.”

Jesus fuck, I can’t even say her name.

“Yes, you are,” they both tell me at the same time, and the look on their faces tells me they’ll kick me out of the limo if I refuse to cooperate.

“I mean,” Mike continues, “we’re a bit tired of that my-heart-was-broken bullshit, you know? It sure made us a lot of money, with you writing all those songs and whatnot, but I think it’s time you face your demons.”

“Katherine’s not my demon. I haven’t thought of her for ages now,” I lie, even though my heart has just tightened as her name danced on my lips.

Fuck, I dream of her every single night.

Katherine.

The first time I saw her, I was ten.

It felt as if I was hit by a bolt of lightning.

Pretty, smart, and a laugh that grabbed at your fucking soul and squeezed it tight. For eight years, I pined for her. But what could I do?

I was a nobody, and she was the daughter of a tycoon billionaire. Next thing I knew, she was dating some rich British asshole, and they were planning to go away for college together. That shit fucking tormented my eighteen-year old self, let me tell you that.

But I couldn’t let that happen, could I?

Nah, I might’ve been a nerd, but I wasn't a fucking spineless one. So my eighteen-year-old self decided I’d stop them. I mustered enough courage to walk all the way to her house and tell her I loved her.

Thing is, when I got there, there was a limo parked up-front. Her pretentious boyfriend was wearing a suit, and he was down on one knee; even from the distance, I could see an engagement ring glistening in the box he was holding up.

I turned on my heels as fast as I could, and the rest you already know: twelve years of drinking, fucking, and being a badass motherfucker.

Hey, I did alright.

But still…I never stopped thinking of her.

“Are you gonna do this or what?”

“She’s married, and—”

“You don’t fucking know that, do you? It’s been twelve years, for God’s sake! For all we know, she’s turned into a fucking monster, and you should have a harpoon on your hand. Either way, get in there, take a hard look at her, and move on with your life. It’s been too long, man.”

“Fuck, alright,” I mutter, and only then do I realize that my hands are shaking.

What the fuck’s wrong with me? Feeling as if I’m in a daze, I open the limo door and climb outside. The air’s cold, and there’s a slight breeze. I fasten my jacket and cross the road, still barely believing I’m actually doing this.

Inside the Bradford, I ask the portly doorman for Katherine.

“Not supposed to say,” he confides, “but I can’t say no to Alexander Reeves, can I?”

No, you fucking can’t, I think to myself, although all I do is politely thank the guy and take the elevator upstairs.

My heart feels like a jackhammer inside my chest, and even my vision is blurred. Maybe I’m just drunk. I mean, what the fuck—I can’t be nervous over a girl, right?

Stopping in front of her apartment door, I suck in a deep breath and knock.

I stand there for God knows how long, and then I hear soft footsteps coming from inside the apartment. When the door swings back, my heart stops.

There she is.

Katherine.