The venue is crowed and kind of scary with it. The place is only supposed to hold around a thousand people, but taking a wild guess I’d say there must be over fifteen hundred here tonight. Fuck knows who’s in charge around here. This shit has lawsuit written all over it.

As the third song of our set draws to a close, I start toward the drum kit and fetch up a small towel and bottle of water from the platform.

The house lights dim as I sip some water and swagger back to the mic stand. For a split second—darkness, save for a few cellphone cameras held aloft in the crowd.

As Scott—our bassist—pulls on a low E, which sounds like the rumble of a fighter jet ready for takeoff, the stage lights hit the audience. Everyone roars and cheers in the spotlight. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

A sea of blotchy red faces smiles up at us, arms reaching out for a touch of something spiritual perhaps. For them this is their church, their temple, and I am their leader.

I love intimate shows like these. They give me a chance to really play with the fans.

The club is awash in darkness again, Scott’s low thrum on the bass now building.

Then, the lights flash back on the crowd.

I stumble back in shock, almost tripping over a rogue wire cable.

That . . . couldn’t have been . . . could it?

Lights go off again, and then—with Mike’s ferocious drums exploding into glorious life—our forth song kicks in like a juggernaut plowing through an antique store.

I’m paralyzed, gazing out at the throng of fans. I try to search for what I thought I saw. But like a ghost, it’s gone—just a subliminal flash.

I’m fucking sure it was her.

The music passes over me like a wave of white noise. Panic shoots through me—like that feeling of fight and flight, when all you can do is stand motionless and wait for the assault.

“Jay,” my guitarist, Tommy, shouts.

The fans jump up and down, manic, wild, and oblivious to my mid-set meltdown.

“Jay,” he shouts again. “What are you doing, man? Sing the goddamn song!”

I turn my head toward him. He scowls at me and jerks his chin to the mic in front of me.

As though I’ve had a bucket of ice cold water chucked over me to wake me up, I grip onto the mic stand and start singing—the verse over the chorus. I glance back at Tommy who curses to himself and recedes backwards, his attention fixed on the notes he’s playing.

Trying to redeem my holy fuck up, I jump down to the small gap between the stage and the fans. They all reach out in hysteria, some leaning right over the steel barriers only to be pushed back by security.

I can’t sing. I’m too busy trying to find that face. Holding the mic out, I let the euphoric crowd fill in.

* * *

I burst into the band’s dressing room. They all look surprised. Scott holds out a beer for me. “Nice of you to join us, dude.”

Tommy laughs. “What’s wrong, Madonna sick of her own room now?”

“Mike,” I say in a low voice. “Can I have a word?”

Mike narrows his eyes at me as he changes his t-shirt.

Tommy pushes from his stool and slowly walks over to me. “Wanna tell us what the fuck happened tonight?”

“Don’t bust my balls.”

He scoffs.

Mike walks over from the back of the room and places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Leave it out. We all screw up sometimes.”

Tommy backs off, cursing under his breath between sips of beer.

Mike grins at me. “He’ll be okay in a bit. What do you want to talk about?”

I lean closer. “I saw her.”

“Who?” He frowns. “Krissy?”

“Suzie.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“I mean it. Didn’t you see her . . . in the crowd?”

“No, man.” He places a hand on my arm. “All you need is some rest, bud.”

I start to talk but then stop myself. Perhaps it’s just paranoia?

I hear the sound of Monica and Krissy coming down the hallway. They’re laughing and joking around. I’m in no mood.

“Hi boys,” Monica says when she gets to the foot of the dressing room door.

The whole band greets her with the same wolf whistles and vague sexual innuendos as always. Christ, if I were Greg I’d take huge exception to men addressing my girl like that.

My girl.

Krissy presses close to me, hooking her arm around my waist. “That was such a cool gig.”

I stare down at her.

She smiles. “So much better than the bigger concerts.” She reaches up toward me on tip toes. I think she wants to kiss me.

I shrug her off. “You’re drunk.”

Her brows pinch. “So what? That’s rock and roll.” A hiccup pushes from her lips.

Monica snorts, surveying her friend wrapped around me like a needy cobra.

I pull away from Krissy and head off to my private dressing room.

* * *

An hour later I’m knocking on Monica and Krissy’s hotel door. I feel shitty.

Monica opens up, just an inch. She doesn’t look at me.

“Is Krissy—?”

“Tell him to go away.” I hear Krissy call.

Monica forces her gaze to mine. She gives me the same look a dog owner would to their pooch if it just defecated on the rug.

I push my head through the gap in the door. “Krissy, I’m sorry.”

“Jay,” Monica grumbles, trying to push me back.

Krissy’s sat in the same clothes she wore to the gig—baggy band tee, ripped Levis, battered old converses, hair tied up in a wayward bun. Her arms and legs are crossed on the bed and she pouts, staring at the TV—which isn’t on—and pretending I don’t exist. She looks funny, like a sulky ass kid . . . adorable and pathetic.

I whisper to Monica. “Don’t you want to get rid of her so you can have the room all to yourself with Greg?”

She frowns at me. “I can go to Greg’s room anytime I want. He doesn’t need to come here. You booked him one, remember?”

Krissy springs to her feet. Pushing Monica aside, she flings the door wide open. “What do you want?”

Man, she really is pissed.

I lean against the doorframe. “I didn’t mean to be a cold motherfucker before.”

“Well you were . . . and that’s what counts.” She looks at Monica for confirmation. Monica just shrugs and starts over to the dressing table.

“I know I was.” I take her hand. She flinches at first but doesn’t completely pull away. “Come to my room.”

The rage in her pretty face softens. Her cute little button nose, once scrunched up and flaring, relaxes.

“You‘ll have a lot of making up to do,” Monica tells me with a slight laugh.

I stare into Krissy’s perfect baby blues. “Sounds good.”

“I need a shower first,” Krissy says, swaying on the spot.

“Have one at mine.”

Her cheeks warm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I stink.”

“But—”

Push. Slam. Door: right in my face.

Can’t help but laugh. I deserved that.

Walking to my room, thoughts of some serious make up time run riot inside my head.

Fuck the paranoia of earlier. To hell if I’m going to let a mistake from my past screw up what me and Krissy have.

That mistake is history.

And that’s all that matters.