I’m Felicity.

Of course she is.

It makes perfect sense that her name means pure joy. I want to laugh when she tells me, but I’m still too angry. I manage to keep my rage contained beneath the surface, hidden away from her, but I can feel it charging through my system like an offensive tackle.

The moment I grabbed her arm, I knew. She tried to conceal it, but I saw the way her face went pale, felt the sudden tension in her body. That kind of reaction doesn’t come from nowhere.

Someone’s hit her. Recently enough that she’s still flinching whenever any man moves too fast around her. Combine that with the lyrics to the song she was signing earlier — the most haunted, heartbreaking fucking melody I’ve ever heard — and I’m seeing red.

Who is this fucker who tore through her life like a tornado?

Father?

Friend?

Ex-boyfriend?

I want to ask who he is — hell, I want to track him down and show him what a real punch feels like. But I see the wild look in her eyes and know she’s already preparing to bolt. One more push, she might never speak to me again.

So, I bite my tongue and bide my time.

Not now. Not here.

But someday — someday soon — she’s going to tell me the story of who she is, and where she came from, and what she left behind.

I stare at her, barely breathing. “Felicity.”

Some of the fear goes out of her eyes when I say her name. I take an tentative step closer. “It’s nice to meet you. Officially.”

She doesn’t return the sentiment, but a small smile blooms on her face. It’s such a sweet sight, it’s almost enough to make me forget how shitty my night has been up till this point.

“It’s getting late. You should get going.” I glance at the staff parking lot, but it’s empty. “Is your car here?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“You’re not walking home alone at this time of night.” I glower at the thought and, without thinking, I reach out and take her hand. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t flinch this time when I touch her. She actually lets me drag her a half-dozen steps before she digs her heels in. “Where, exactly, do you think we’re going?”

“I’ll walk you home. Or, at the very least, split an Uber with you. I’ve got a loft right by the river that I share with Linc and Aiden, but I don’t mind riding with you.”

Her eyes widen. “Never would’ve pegged Ryder Woods as the chivalrous type.”

“I don’t have a chivalrous bone in my body,” I assure her. “My motives are purely selfish.”

“How so?”

I get to spend more time with you, I think but don’t say.

“I get to crawl into my bed without worrying you’ve been abducted by a serial killer. Can’t have that on my conscience, sweetheart. Fucks with my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, and you need so much of that.”

“A solid eight hours. Nine, if I’ve got a gig the next night.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, rest assured, I’m not walking anywhere. Zero chance of abduction.”

I must look dubious, because she holds up the set of keys in her hand and shakes them at me like a maraca. “See these?”

I nod.

She jerks her chin at the stairs that lead to the second floor apartment above the bar. Her lips twist. “I live upstairs.”

“Shit. Really?”

“Yep.”

I rub my stubble, feeling like a total tool. I’m so out of my comfort zone here, it’s almost laughable. Flirting and fucking: those I can handle, no problem. It’s this shit — this good guy shit — that trips me up. Probably ‘cause I’ve never had any practice at it.

“Guess it’s goodnight, then.” I glance down and realize I’m still holding her hand. It looks so small inside mine. Fragile. I tell myself to drop it, but my fingers don’t cooperate. “Sorry I tied up your night with my drunken bullshit. Not my finest hour.”

“I’m sure the hangover will be punishment enough. And it was actually pretty amusing.”

“I live to please.” With effort, I let go of her hand. I clench mine into a fist so it doesn’t feel so empty. “Goodnight, Felicity.”

“Goodnight, Ryder,” she murmurs, walking toward her stairs. I watch her go, rooted to the spot like some sappy, sullen version of Romeo staring up at Juliet’s balcony, wanting something he can’t ever have. Something doomed to fail from the very start.

She unlocks the door, but turns to peer down over the railing at me one last time before stepping inside.

“Are you guys playing here again anytime soon?”

Am I crazy, or is that hope in her voice?

“Not for a while,” I tell her, a pang of regret moving through me. “We’ve got a gig at Tootsie’s on Broadway next Friday, then we’re one of the opening acts at the Let Freedom Sing festival the following week.”

She looks at me blankly.

“Shit, I forget you’re new here.” I grin. “Every year on the Fourth of July they shut down the streets and set up a stage down by the river. There’s live music all day, plus a big firework display when the sun goes down, of course. Our time slot is pretty prime this year, so it should be solid exposure for the band.”

Assuming we’re still playing together.

Assuming I’m not out in LA by then.

“Oh,” Felicity says, brows arching. “That sounds like a good time.”

I nod and lock my jaw shut to prevent myself from doing something idiotic — like asking her to come to the festival with me. I can’t get involved, especially not with someone like her. She needs stability. Security. Basically the exact opposite of everything I have to offer. All I can give her is sex without strings. And even if I tried to change… to be different for her…

How long would it last before I leave?

A few days?

A few weeks?

The plain truth is, I’m getting out of this city. The more entanglements I have when that day comes, the harder it will be to walk away. So, as much as I want to kick my own ass for doing it… I keep my mouth shut and let the opportunity slide by without asking her out or making any kind of plans to see her again.

A large yawn overtakes her face, drawing my attention to her mouth.

“‘Scuse me.” She smiles, looking drowsy as she leans against the railing. Her ponytail is coming loose; several long tendrils of hair frame her face. The urge to touch her becomes almost unbearable.

“Get to sleep before you fall over, kiddo,” I force myself to call, sounding blasé even to my own ears. “Nashville is a small town. I’m sure I’ll see you around sometime.”

Surprise — or is it disappointment? — flashes across her face, but she just nods.

“Oh. Yeah. See you around,” she echoes in a dull voice, turning away from me.

It could be my imagination, but I think her door slams a bit harder than necessary. I tell myself this is for the best in the long run, but it’s pretty damn unconvincing. I’m so fucking tempted to run up those stairs in three bounds, knock down her door, and pull her into my arms. To slide my hands into that hair and crush my lips against hers, kissing her until her body melts into mine. Until she stops caring that I’m a messed up asshole who’s no good for her; until I no longer remember that I’d only leave her hurt when I inevitably walk away.

The temptation is strong enough that I make it to the bottom step before I manage to stop myself.

Romeo climbed that balcony, and they both wound up dead.

I light a cigarette and inhale deeply, relishing the smoke as it swirls around in my lungs. The rush of nicotine is a soothing balm on the sharp blades still cutting me up inside. It’s merely a bandaid fix, a temporary numbing agent, but it’s better than nothing.

I cut down a few side streets and start the twenty minute walk toward the river. It’s late — almost four — and the city is quiet this far from the main strip, which suits me fine. It’s always easier to brood alone in the dark.

I’m relatively sober now, which is impressive given the amount of alcohol I consumed earlier. When I left Lacey after the Red Machine meeting, I proceeded to put a considerable dent in the bottle of whiskey we’d ordered for the booth. Lincoln and Aiden tried to get me to leave when they headed home, each with a groupie in tow, but I refused to budge. Hell, I felt so damn guilty for keeping them in the dark about the potential deal that I could barely meet their eyes.

I’d be an idiot not to consider this opportunity. It’s the dream. Everything I’ve been working toward since I started playing music in this town, when I was a lanky sixteen year old kid with no idea what I was doing on the stage and even less off it.

Record deal.

Los Angeles.

Freedom.

They’ve been my goals for so long, I barely remember a time I wanted anything else. So, yeah. I’m considering it. I’d be crazy not to…. even if accepting it makes me the shittiest friend known to man.

If you’re on the Titanic, post-iceberg, and there’s only one spot left in that lifeboat…

Do you take it?

Do you leave your friends to go down with the sinking ship, and save yourself?

I asked myself these questions as I poured glass after glass of amber liquor down my throat, as if there might be answers lurking at the bottom of that bottle.

There weren’t.

I don’t remember passing out in the booth… but I’ll never forget waking up to the prettiest damn voice I’d ever heard in my life. Not thin and overly sharp, like Lacey’s soprano has a tendency to be. This voice reverberated along my senses, sunk into my nervous system and seized control. A stunning, rich alto that made my eyes spring wide, even before I recognized its owner.

Felicity.

I told her the song was good. It wasn’t good. It was un-fucking-believable. It was poetry and pain, the kind of music that grabs strangers by the heart the instant they hear it on the radio and squeezes until they’re bleeding internally, begging for mercy.

Hearing her sing, knowing she’s a writer… it only makes this inexplicable pull I feel toward her stronger. Unfamiliar sensations tug at me as I walk along the Cumberland River, blowing smoke out my nostrils into the night sky.

I want to make things with her — music she won’t sing, promises I can’t keep, love that won’t last.

I want to know her. To unravel her secrets, layer by layer. To strip her bare.

Not her clothes. Her goddamned soul.

I stub out my cigarette and immediately reach for another, knowing full well that no amount of nicotine is enough to ease this ache inside me.

When I finally let myself into our dark loft, hearing a chorus of snores through the thin walls of Aiden and Lincoln’s rooms, I crawl into my bed alone and I stare up at my ceiling, thinking about record execs with robotic smiles and friends who become enemies; cowards who hit women and songbirds who only sing without anyone around to hear.

I’m still tossing and turning when the sun starts to rise.