It’s two in the morning when the last act of the night strums the final chord of their set; nearly two thirty by the time we manage to get everyone out the door so the staff can close up. We all work in silence, too exhausted to speak after eight straight hours of taking orders. Jay restocks the bar with bottles from the back room. Carly organizes the stage equipment and sound booth. Adam is in his office counting the cash and going over the schedule. Isaac floats from task to task like a shadow, silently overseeing everything. I sweep the floor, wipe down tables, and try not to think too much about a certain musician who’s been haunting my thoughts since I left him in the dark.

Frankly, I don’t have time to think about Ryder. Not his broad shoulders or the close-trimmed crop of facial hair that surrounds his smirking mouth. Not the way his voice rasped out in the night, smoother than silk against my skin. Not the distracting fact that he’s got two different colored irises: one blue, one brown, both capable of seeing straight through me.

I have far more important matters to dwell on, at the moment.

It’s only now, in the quiet aftermath of this chaotic first shift, that reality boils back to the surface. I’ve been too busy taking drink orders to spare any thought to trivial things… like the fact that I don’t know a soul in Nashville outside the four walls of this establishment… and the reality that I don’t even have a place to stay tonight.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I didn’t anticipate Isaac hiring me on the spot this afternoon. I thought I’d have a day or two to sort out my living situation before I started working here. But I couldn’t exactly say no when he offered. And now…

I’m totally screwed.

I’ll probably end up sleeping on a park bench, shivering in the darkness and hoping I don’t encounter anyone with nefarious intentions. True, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept outside, but I’m not exactly relishing the prospect of a muggy, mosquito-filled night in an unfamiliar city.

“You weren’t half bad tonight, kid.”

I jump at the sudden sound of Isaac’s voice, spilling a small pile of salt on the tabletop in the process.

“Oh, sugar!” I curse, sweeping my mess into the palm of my hand. “Sorry about that, I’m not usually such a klutz…”

Isaac’s brows are by his hairline. “You’re aware that’s salt… not sugar?”

“I know it’s salt. I meant oh, sugar as in oh, sh..oot.” I finish lamely, unable to bring myself to say the word even now. “Old habit, I guess. My Gran always replaces her swears with sweets. Donuts instead of damn. Or, if she’s really revved up, fudge instead of fu… Well, I’m sure you get the idea.”

He stares at me blankly.

“I’m not a priss or anything,” I say defensively. “I don’t mind if other people swear around me. But every time I try, I think of Gran saying, ‘If you talk like a sailor you’ll never marry one,’ and I can’t seem to get the word past my lips.” I swallow hard. “Her first husband was a Navy man, you see.”

Isaac’s brows are so far up his forehead, they’re about to disappear.

“Not that I want to get married anytime soon. Or ever,” I say hurriedly, unsure how I even landed myself on this topic. I blame the lack of sleep. Lack of food. Lack of anything resembling a proper life plan.

I bite my lip so I’ll stop talking.

“So, it’s real then,” Isaac grunts.

“Wh-what?”

“The sweet-as-pie act. It’s not an act at all.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Course you don’t.” He sighs deeply. “Frankly, I didn’t expect you to last the night. But, sweet or not, you’re no pushover. You can handle yourself in a dense crowd, you’re fast on your feet, you messed up fewer orders than girls who’ve been here five times as long, and the staff likes you.”

My eyes dart toward the door to the back room, where Adam disappeared a few minutes ago. Seeing my expression, Isaac chuckles. “Ah, hell, don’t worry about Adam. He treats everyone like they’re gum stuck to his shoe.”

I laugh. “Oh, good. I won’t take it personally, then.”

“Point is, you surprised me. I think you’re a good fit here.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Isaac. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t have my newest employee sleeping on the streets.”

My cheeks flame with embarrassment. I’d forgotten that, while storming out of here earlier in a moment of high temper, I let slip my current housing situation.

“I’ll be fine,” I swallow. “I’ll use the tips I made tonight to rent a room. There’s nothing in my budget around here, but there’s a place a mile or so away— The Southern Comfort Inn? I looked it up before I booked my bus ticket.”

“You can’t stay there,” Isaac barks gruffly.

My hand curls into a fist around the small pile of salt in my palm. “Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say the typical Southern Comfort clientele pay by the hour.” He looks almost embarrassed, red staining the skin of his neck. “Girl like you doesn’t belong in a place like that.”

“A bed’s a bed. I’m not fussy,” I murmur. “And I’m sure I’ve slept in worse places.”

He stares at me for a beat, a hundred questions he’d like to ask evident in his eyes. He suppresses them — for now, at least. “I suppose you plan to walk there alone, in the middle of the night?”

My lips twist. “Unless I’ve suddenly developed the powers of teleportation…”

“Rough part of town.”

“I’m not some wilting flower. I can handle myself.”

“That may be. But I won’t sleep tonight if I let you walk out of here by yourself, headed toward what’s, for all intents and purposes, a whorehouse. Folks say I’m a mean bastard, and they’re mostly right, but even I have my limits.” He pauses, staring at me. The expression on his face tells me he’s already regretting whatever he’s about to say. “There’s a room upstairs. I used to crash there on late nights in my younger years, when I first opened this place. It’s a dusty mess, hasn’t been used in a damn near decade. Mattress is lumpier than my ex-wife’s mashed potatoes. Not much bigger than a closet, really.” He blows out a breath. “But you can stay there, at least until you get on your feet.”

I blink, stunned into silence by the offer.

He rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a separate set of stairs that lead to the lot out back, so you can come and go as you please during the day. Just make sure you lock up when you leave. And don’t be late tomorrow night. It’s Friday so we’ll be slammed. Plus, Dotty has the flu, which means her three kids will have it soon if they don’t already. I’ll need you to take over her shifts for a while.”

I nod, feeling too overwhelmed to speak.

“Grab a granola bar from the staff kitchen before you go,” he orders in a brusque tone. “You get any thinner, you’ll disappear.”

“Isaac…” His kindness is so unexpected, I can’t help it. My eyes start to sting.

“Ah, hell. Don’t do that.” Seeing the tears glossing over my eyes, Isaac is now blushing in earnest. It’s almost comical to see such a big bear of a man undone by a few waterworks.

“S-sorry,” I hiccup, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from trickling out. “I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Just take the damn key. I’m going home.”

With that, he presses something into my palm and walks away. I stare down at the brass key sitting atop the small pile of pale white salt until the tears start to fall in earnest. Just like that, in the span of a single day, I have a job. I have a home. And, for the first time in as long as I can remember…

I have hope.

* * *

“You need a ride somewhere?” Carly asks as we step through the back exit into the staff lot.

“No.” I clutch the key a bit more firmly, trying not to drop it. I’m already juggling my bag and my guitar. “Thanks though.”

We walk in silence, listening as Adam locks the door behind us. My eyes linger for a moment on the spot where I stood with Ryder a few hours ago, before the end of my break forced me to bolt. He never came back inside, after that. I wonder where he went… and who he went with…

A scowl contorts my features.

It’s none of your business if he went home with a hundred girls and hosted the biggest orgy known to man, I scold myself. He’s not yours. He never will be.

“What are you frowning at?” Carly asks.

“Nothing.” I force my face into a blank mask.

“Uh huh.” Carly makes a doubtful sound, but doesn’t push for details. “You just moved here, right?”

“Today.” I nod. “Or… yesterday, I guess, since it’s now officially tomorrow.”

“Damn, girl. One day in Nashville and you’re already working at The Nightingale? It took me six months to get an interview. How’d you swing that?”

“I just got lucky, I guess.”

She laughs. “Well, mark me down as impressed. You have a place to crash tonight?”

“I’m actually staying here.” I jerk my chin toward the set of rickety wooden stairs that hug the back side of the building. They look like they haven’t been used in quite a while. And by quite a while I mean since the 1980s.

“Here?” Adam interjects, catching up with us. “What do you mean, here?”

“Isaac said I could crash in the room over the bar.” I hold up the key, proof of my new lodgings.

Adam’s face twists in displeasure. “Why would he do that?”

“Adam.” Carly elbows him. “Lay off.”

“I’m just wondering how the new girl is suddenly privy to free rent on top of her tips. I didn’t realize I was running a charity, here.”

“It’s only temporary,” I murmur. “Until I find somewhere else to stay.”

He stares at me with a scowl marring his handsome face. It’s strange someone could be so attractive on the outside, yet so unattractive where it counts.

“Whatever,” he mutters, heading for his truck. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Be on time.”

I swallow down a snippy retort, knowing it won’t do me any favors to engage with him. But in my head I tell him to go fudge himself, as Gran would say.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Carly murmurs as we watch him peel out of the parking lot. “He’ll warm up.”

“Really?”

“Eventually. Maybe. Possibly.”

“How encouraging.” I snort. “Bye, Carly.”

“See you tomorrow, Felicity.”

She climbs behind the wheel of an older model sedan, yawning wide. I fight a jaw-cracking yawn of my own as I make my way up the back stairs and slide the key into the lock. It sticks at first, and there’s a brief moment of panic when I think I might wind up sleeping on a park bench after all… but with some jiggling and a forceful bump of my hip against the frame, the lock finally gives. The door swings inward with a rusty groan.

I fumble for a light switch in the dark. A shadeless bulb mounted against the ceiling flickers to life and I get my first look at my new crash pad. It’s no more than two hundred square feet. The air is stale from lack of circulation. Dust coats every surface my eyes land on.

To my left, there’s a narrow twin bed frame, stripped bare of all but a paper-thin mattress. A wooden rocking chair sits by the lone window. The three-drawer dresser looks as old as I am; the fogged antique mirror mounted above it is at least twice my age. There’s no kitchen, just a partially enclosed bathroom nook with a sink, shower, and toilet — all of which are streaked with rust stains and grime.

Home sweet home.

I take a step inside, set down my guitar beside the dresser, and sneeze when a cloud of dust wafts up into my face. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but I’m in no position to complain. I quickly lock the door behind me, the flimsy catch-chain offering merely the illusion of security. Since there’s nothing in here worth stealing, I should be safe enough. Still, I haul the heavy wooden rocking chair in front of the door as a precaution.

Old habits die hard.

I yank the sun-faded curtain across the window and strip quickly out of my black sneakers and work uniform. There’s a single sweatshirt in the small bag of clothes I brought with me when I left Hawkins. I hug it to my chest for a long moment before pulling it over my head. It smells like home. To most people, I’m sure that would be a comfort. To me, the scent sends a parade of memories flashing in front of my eyes that I’d do almost anything to forget.

The flare of a match striking in the dark.

The hiss of boiling liquid.

The creak of splitting wood.

A man screaming.

A woman sobbing.

A door slamming shut at my back.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I yank the garment over my head and set my backpack down beside the narrow bed frame. The mattress smells like mildew and the springs squeak in protest as I sit down on the edge. I pull a granola bar from my bag and tear off the wrapper with fingers that are shaky from hunger. It’s got raisins, which I normally avoid at all costs, but at the moment I’m too tired to pick them out and too hungry to care. I swallow the entire thing in about four seconds flat. It does precious little to alleviate the pangs in my empty stomach.

My muscles are aching and my eyelids feel leaden as I curl into a tight ball on the lumpy, stinking mattress with my knees tucked up to my chest and my head pillowed on my arms. For a long while, I stare up at the blooming water stains on the ceiling, thinking about how much my life has changed in the past twenty four hours… and how much it hasn’t.

New city. New job. New place to lay my head.

Same uncertainty. Same crushing doubt. Same chair wedged beneath a doorknob in the darkness to keep out the monsters.

I don’t turn off the light as I lay there, praying for sleep to come.

When it does, my dreams are full of blood and fire and death.

* * *

My first few weeks in Nashville pass in a blur. I settle into my new life as Felicity Wilkes so easily, I sometimes forget about Felicity Wilde, the sad girl with the tragic backstory. I know it’s only a matter of time before my past catches up to me, but I try not to think about that. Instead, I focus on the present. Small details of my new world here in Nashville: morning walks past the open-air cafe around the corner, the air perfumed by fresh biscuits and grits; afternoons at the park, watching dogs chase balls and toddlers chase bubbles; nights at the bar, serving drinks and expanding my musical education.

It takes a while, but eventually I stop looking over my shoulder every time I step out my doorway, or flinching every time the phone behind the bar rings. I stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and actually start living. Breathing. Even laughing occasionally when Carly makes a joke at Adam’s expense as we clean up from another shift of cocktails and country songs.

I’ve worked at The Nightingale every night since my arrival, usually stumbling upstairs to my room around three in the morning by the time the bar’s restocked and the floors are swept. After that first night, I discovered a thin wool blanket tucked away inside one of the dresser drawers along with a misshapen pillow, so my bed is no longer entirely threadbare when I collapse onto it face-first, my feet aching and numb from nine straight hours on them, my stomach protesting noisily from a steady diet of tap water and granola bars pilfered from the staff break room.

At this point, I’ve made enough cash to stop stockpiling my tips like a squirrel preparing for the first winter frost… but I can’t bring myself to waste single a penny. I’ll eventually have to splurge and restock some essentials — I’m getting dangerously low on deodorant and toothpaste — but the ever-growing wad of bills beneath the loose floorboard in the corner of my room is the only security blanket I have left in this world. Not to mention my only means of escape, if my past comes knocking at the door.

Thankfully, my tips tonight are flowing in even faster than usual. It’s Saturday and there’s a line out the door so long, you’d think Elvis himself was about to take the stage. I drop off a round of tequila shots to a group of particularly generous guys in the corner, then head back to the bar to put in a few more orders.

“Thanks, Jay,” I call, as he starts mixing the drinks.

He grunts in acknowledgment — apparently tonight will not be the night he betrays his strong silent type persona.

“Hey!” Carly appears out of thin air at my side, a platinum pixie blur. “How’s everything going out here?”

“Busy. We’re turning over tables so fast I can hardly keep up.”

“At least you’re getting in some solid cardio.”

“I can always count on you to find that silver lining, Carly.” I grin at her. “How’s the lineup looking?”

“All good so far. Everyone’s been on time for their slots… but we’ve got Lacey Briggs on the schedule next, so there’s a definite chance that’ll change.”

I go still, my heart beginning to pound faster. If Lacey’s on the schedule… that means Ryder is, too.

I haven’t seen him since that first night in the parking lot, a few weeks ago. I wish I could say he hasn’t been on my mind, but that would be a lie. At night, when I’m tossing and turning in my bed trying to get to sleep, I sometimes replay that moment we shared. Him and me, standing in the shadows. The tension in the tendons of his neck as he leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breaths coming fast. I’d wanted to lay my hand on his skin, to comfort him in some way. To tell him he wasn’t alone, even if it was only for a moment.

But that’s insane.

I barely know the man. He’s a virtual stranger. We’ll probably never speak again.

“Hello?” Carly snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”

I blush. “Sorry. I think I need some coffee, I’m out of it tonight.”

“Go grab a cup from the break room. I’ll cover for you for a few minutes.”

“Thanks. You want me to bring you one?”

She shakes her head and pushes me lightly toward the door. By the time I suck down a cup of coffee in the back and return to check on my tables, the folk singer on stage has finished her set. Carly walks up to the mic to introduce the next act.

“Hey, y’all! Hope you’re having a good time tonight! Our next act is a firecracker about to set this stage on fire… I think some of y’all may know her already…”

The audience starts to whistle.

“Please put your hands together and give a great, big Nashville welcome to…” Carly’s voice crescendoes. “Miss Lacey Briggs!”

The crowd cheers so loud, the window panes rattle in their frames. I find myself unable to look away as a curvy, peroxide blonde girl struts out on stage. She’s in the shortest pair of jean cut-off shorts I’ve ever laid eyes on, plus a sparkly pink halter top that leaves her midriff completely exposed and her rather large assets on display. There are rhinestones running up the seams of her pink cowboy boots, glittering each time she takes a step beneath the stage lights. She’s like a disco ball in human form — it’s almost too much to take in without experiencing sensory overload. I’m so fixated by her appearance, I almost don’t notice Ryder stepping onstage along with the rest of the band.

Almost.

It would take something truly spectacular to keep me from noticing him, even tucked away in the shadows on the left side of the stage. I drink in the sight of his faded blue shirt and tight fitted jeans like the first sip of water after a ten mile run. He’s even more gorgeous than I remember.

I find my hands shaking as I reach for my drink tray. Maybe that cup of coffee was a bad idea. I’m jittery enough already.

Lacey doesn’t greet the crowd — she just starts singing.

“Met a boy last night said he’d break my heart. I told him no chance honey it’s been broke from the start…” Her hips swivel suggestively in time to the beat as she belts out the opening verse. Lincoln is at the drums, pounding out a driving tempo. Aiden is playing like a devil. But it’s Ryder I can’t tear my eyes away from. How his fingers move so fast over the strings they seem to blur, how his rich baritone fills out the somewhat superficial sound of Lacey’s thin soprano.

Looking around, I have to say I’m the only one who finds fault with her performance. The audience is going crazy for Lacey. They watch wide-eyed and enraptured, pagans worshipping at her altar. By the time she reaches the chorus, she’s got them eating out of the palm of her hand.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, warn ya, warn ya…” Lacey grins sultrily and extends her mic out to the front row of swaying fans. They know the words by heart, and echo back eagerly.

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, warn ya, warn ya…

It’s not my type of music, but even I can’t deny it’s catchy as hell. I wonder if Lacey wrote the lyrics. If so, she’s more talented than I gave her credit for. This kind of tune was made for radio.

I watch the rest of their set with a mixture of reverence and resentment, delivering drinks with one eye fixed on the stage. Lacey Briggs may’ve been an unreliable waitress… but she was born to be famous. That kind of stage presence can’t be taught.