I don’t know how the hell we pull it off, but we do.

The songs aren’t as in-your-face as when Lacey sings them, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Who knew, beneath the sexy hip thrusts and breathy pauses, there was actually some solid music waiting to be heard?

We play an abbreviated set — five originals and two of our best covers — and the crowd goes crazy for us. For the first time in a long time, I actually find myself having fun on the stage. Maybe it’s the lack of a certain peroxide diva or maybe it’s simply the fact that, in the back of my mind, I’m aware this very well could be the last time I ever get to play with my best friends at my side.

Standing under the lights with my guitar in my hands, I let everything else go — my father’s impossible expectations, Lacey’s blatant manipulations, the pressure to secure a record deal, the feelings I’m battling for a girl I can’t have…

All of it fades out of focus and I just play. I play like I’ve got nothing left to lose. Because I don’t. And as devastatingly lonely as that is, there’s also something absolutely freeing about it.

Lincoln and Aiden are having the time of their lives. I’ve never seen them so engaged with the audience. A girl actually whips off her bra and throws it at Linc when he bangs out his solo during ‘Hurts Like Hell.’ By the time we segue into our final song, the crowd is in the palm of my hand. I could sing the fucking ABCs, they’d stick with me for it.

“This is our last song,” I say into the mic, breathing hard. The girls in the front row scream for me, lust shining in their eyes. “It’s our first time playing it live, but I doubt it’ll be your first time hearing it. So if you know the words, please sing along…”

I nod to Aiden as he starts strumming the intro. Linc’s sticks are soft against the skins, just the faintest acoustic accompaniment. And when I lean into the mic, cupping it in both my hands like I’m going in for a kiss, I close my eyes and think of her.

“Saw you in the crowd the other day

You were ten years older, ten years colder

When your gaze wandered my way…”

The girls in the front row begin to sing along. This tune is older than most of them by about thirty years, but they still know the words by heart. That’s the magic of a Bethany Hayes song. They were written to endure.

“Wish that I could tell you that you’re hated

All those tears I cried, ‘cause you never tried

And still, for years, I waited…”

Almost to the chorus, I open my eyes and see a sea of lights — a hundred cellphones lit up and swaying like shooting stars. When I start to sing the refrain, my voice is joined by a swell of others, from the front row to the far reaches at the back of the bar.

“’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone

And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…”

They belt it out at the top of their lungs, one of the most popular lines in country music history.

“Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…

You’re my only memory that never faded…

You never faded… Oh…”

The instruments fall away completely, so it’s fully acoustic. Just me and the crowd, sharing a moment. I scan the faces, my gaze sweeping across the room, trying to connect with as many people as I can before the final verse.

I nearly miss her.

She’s tucked behind a tall guy about six rows back, almost like she’s hiding from me. Her hair’s been curled and there’s too much makeup on her face, obscuring her natural beauty, but I’d recognize her anywhere.

Felicity.

My Felicity.

I can hardly believe she’s standing there, staring up at me. I know I should look away, but I don’t. The rest of the room no longer exists for me. I gaze into her eyes, at the unmistakable tears gathered in their corners as I sing her grandmother’s most popular song five decades after it was first performed in this very building.

Sure it’s sad, but it isn’t complicated.

You’re my only memory that never faded….

You never faded…

Faded…

When we finish the song, the applause is deafening.

“I’m Ryder Woods, that’s Aiden on bass and Lincoln on the drums. Thanks so much for coming out tonight, Nashville!”

I practically leap off the stage, cutting through the rabid crowd. Girls are clawing at my arms, jumping up to whisper in my ear, yelling words of praise. I ignore them. It’s rude and unprofessional and I don’t give two fucks. I shove my way into the middle of the audience, my frantic eyes sweeping left and right. Searching every face.

I don’t see her anywhere.

Did she leave?

I whirl around to make another sweep and practically run straight into her. She’s right there, five feet away, beautiful as ever in a tight red dress that steals my breath. Her eyes are glossy with tears as they lock on mine. I watch one roll down the apple of her cheek and for a split second, I’m paralyzed.

Her mouth opens, as if she’s going to say something. But I’m done talking.

I’m moving.

My feet are closing those final few steps.

My arms are sliding around her.

She’s falling into my chest.

And then I’m kissing her.

Kissing her like I’ve wanted to for weeks, like I should’ve done the first fucking time I saw her at The Nightingale. My mouth feasts on hers like a starving man at a banquet, trying to sate the need burning inside my veins.

There’s no satisfying my craving. It runs too deep, has been denied too long.

I could fucking devour her.

Wreck her and ruin her.

It still wouldn’t be enough.

My hands slide around to the small of her back, pressing her against me hard enough that I can feel every curve aligned with the planes of my chest. Her hands wind up past my shoulders, into my hair, and she drags my lips down harder, as if she’s equally desperate for me.

We stand there, intertwined and ravenous, until the buzzing crowd around us blurs out of focus. Until the world shrinks down to this moment. This kiss. All that’s left is her and me, our arms locked around each other so tight it’s hard to breathe.

But I don’t care about breathing.

We are drowning in each other, and neither of us is even remotely inclined to come up for air.