“That was amazing, Em!” I tell my youngest sister after watching the opening band disappear around the wall behind the stage. Their phenomenal energy still has me buzzing.

“I’m glad you dug it,” Emily says.

“Do you know both bands?” I ask.

As a tattoo artist, Emily connects with a ton of people in Charlotte’s creative circle. She meets people from all over, but she’s ingrained in the local community.

“Just the opening band. They’re sweet guys. I’ve done a lot of Fozzie’s tattoos. Ask to see the trampoline man. It’s some of my best work.” She says it with a wink, and I have no clue what that means.

The only time I get to see Em’s work is when I scroll though her Instagram. She uses that as her portfolio. I don’t know anyone she tattoos. Her art is amazing, though. It always has been, even when it’s pencils to paper or acrylics to canvas.

“Sorry, but—which one was Fozzie?” I ask.

She mentioned Fozzie, Austin, and Tim multiple times tonight during drinks before the set, but I still don’t know which guy plays which instrument.

Em smiles. “The drummer.”

One of the things I love the most about her is that she’s very chill. She accepts everyone. Well, almost everyone. She doesn’t hold it against me that I don’t know much about her life. We’re almost seven years apart, which means we didn’t really grow up together. We were never in high school or college at the same time. Growing up, I used to pretend she was my baby, even when our parents were around, but once she grew out of that cute newborn age, I grew out of babies. Emily is the eccentric, artistic, wild child who gives our parents regular headaches. Still.

She continues, “Austin is the lead singer who couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Whatever. That’s ridiculous.” I brush off her comment. I mean, a part of me hoped his sexy gaze was for me, but I know I’m not the kind of girl hot musicians fall for, so I assumed he’d been eye-fucking Emily, Maddie, or any number of random beautiful girls around us.

“Where did Maddie go?” I ask, craning my neck to search the crowded room.

Maddie is the middle child, the beautiful socialite with a huge personality. As Senior Vice President of Feminine Apparel and Cosmetics, she’s the only one of us who works for Commons Department Store, the business our father started almost thirty years ago. (Yes, that’s her official title. Emily and I love to tease her about it.)

Though, Em did work there for a few months after she graduated high school. In an effort to get her excited about working with the family, Daddy tried to incorporate her personal talents, asking her to design a clothing line. His vision was to have a section of the store geared toward younger, funkier patrons. For various reasons, that idea was never going to work out.

One: Emily didn’t last long under Daddy’s watchful eye and helpful advice. Two: She’s opposed to the wealth and class differences corporate America creates in our country. Three: The appeal of the Commons Store leans more toward middle-aged soccer moms than Em’s punk-rock goth vibe.

I have to give him credit for trying to get Emily involved, though. I know she thinks he tried to use her artistic eye as a pawn in his quest for more wealth. But I knew, deep down, he was trying to get her interested and involved in the family business by allowing her to use her talent and creativity. At least that’s how I saw it.

“Oh, she’s letting you call her Maddie? I have to call her Madeline when we’re in public.”

“She’s still on that kick?” I roll my eyes. “It’s so pretentious.”

“Wow, Liz! Coming from you, that’s saying something.”

“Do you think I’m pretentious?” I ask.

Unlike Emily, I have this bad habit of caring what people think. I can’t help it. It’s the world I grew up in. As the oldest, I’d been groomed by my parents to swallow every spoonful of advice they dished out about how I’m supposed to be and how I should conduct myself. But I never thought of myself as pretentious. Then again, most people who are, probably don’t think they are.

“You’re Harris Commons’ daughter and you’re a surgeon. In many people’s eyes, that’s, like, the definition of pretentious.” Emily winks at me. “I’m kidding, ya know. You’re the most chill, down-to-earth surgeon I’ve ever met.”

“Former surgeon,” I mumble, looking down at the scar on my right ring finger. Reality flushes away the brief moment of happiness I’d found tonight losing myself in the first concert I’d attended since freshman year of college. The rush of adrenaline searing through my veins from watching the sultry, tattooed, lead singer quickly fades.

“Stop! You’ll be chopping people up again in no time, Liz. Give your hand time to heal.” She loops her arm in mine. “Come on! Let’s go tell the guys how great they were.”

Emily has no clue how bad my injury is. No one does.

Six months ago, I suffered a critical hand injury in a car accident. The antique diamond-and-sapphire ring my grandmother passed down to me on my sixteenth birthday got caught on something—I can’t remember what—and tore the finger away from my hand. The injury, called ring avulsion, required multiple surgeries to repair severed tendons in my right hand. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse. In many cases ring avulsion results in amputation.

The injury took away my ability to operate—which brought the third year of my surgical residency to a grinding halt. Thankfully, my parents worked with my mentor and the head of the residency program at CHC—Carolina Hospital Center—to pull a ton of strings and push through a year-long fellowship in Surgical Critical Care. It will give me a year to rehab from my injury, with the ability to jump back into my residency when I get clearance to operate again. Had they not been able to do that, I would have been forced to quit the program altogether. Needless to say, a surgical residency is pretty intense and competitive, and there’s no room for a surgeon who can’t operate, no matter what the reason.

After months of intense physical therapy, I have this gut feeling that I’ll never perform another surgery. Instead of coming clean and admitting it to my colleagues, I keep sleepwalking though the weeks, mouth plastered in a fake smile, pretending I’ll be given the green light to operate soon. As each day passes, I fall deeper and deeper into a spiral.

What am I going to do if I can’t perform surgery? All those years—all those dreams—wasted.

My sister leads me to the back of the venue where the bands have merchandise tables set up. While we stand in line, Emily bumps my shoulder with hers and nods toward the door. “Of course she’d find the most Chad-looking guy in here to talk to.”

Turning my gaze in the direction Emily nodded, I groan internally at the sight. Maddie’s talking to Jordan Fletcher, the head surgical resident in my program. My heart races and bile forms in my throat, building up so quickly I can barely swallow it back. A concert with my sisters was supposed to give me a break from the anxiety and anger swirling in my head, and through my blood, about the future of my career. Instead, I’m faced with the one person with the power to ruin my entire night. In trying to remove myself from all the crap piling up in my life, I’ve inadvertently shoveled more on top.

Jordan is the last person I expected to see here tonight. The Underground doesn’t seem like the type of place where he’d hang out. Then again, I don’t know much about his life outside of the hospital. He never accepts when any of us surgical residents ask him if he wants to grab a drink. We work ridiculous, exhausting hours, but there are times when we need to let off steam and talk with people who understand what we’re going through. He rarely participates in any of our banter at the hospital either. If he speaks to us, his peers, at all, it’s usually barking orders or a condescending remark about our performance. Evidently, the only people worth his time are the ones who can help him advance. If anyone could be called pretentious, it’s him. Daddy would love him.

At first, I wonder how Maddie knows him, but as the social butterfly of our family, she’d earned the nickname Mayor Maddie years ago, so I shouldn’t be surprised when she knows anyone.

Before I have a chance to tell Emily I don’t want to go over there, she starts yelling.

“Madeline!” she calls out in the thickest redneck accent I’ve ever heard. “Madeline, when we gonna hit up that NASCAR race you been wantin’ to go to? I ain’t never been, but I reckon I’ll go with you if you want to. I hear they throw chicken bones!”

When Maddie turns around, her brows are furrowed and her lips are spread in a thin line. It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. She looks just like Mama when she’s trying to let someone know how embarrassed she is, yet still keep her cool in front of other people.

“You’re terrible,” I say to Emily.

“After this we should go to the bar next door to do some shots. We’ll get super trashed and barf in her car on the way home.”

I think she’s kidding, but just in case, I better shut it down. “As fun as that sounds—”

“I’m in,” a male voice in front of us says.

“Austin!” Emily jumps into the arms of the man I recognize as the sexy singer of the opening band. With his dirty-blond hair and tattoos covering every inch of visible skin from neck down, he’s hard to miss. “You guys fucking slayed!”

If his charisma on stage was enough to have me throbbing between my legs, standing a few feet away is practically orgasm-inducing. As he hugs Emily, his penetrating blue eyes catch mine from beneath the shadow of his black hoodie.

I lick my lips involuntarily, which makes his mouth quirk. A tingle zings though my system and I immediately cast my eyes downward. The intensity of standing this close, and not having his hypnotizing performance as a reason to stare at him, is too much.

When Emily pulls away, he asks, “Who’s this?”

“This is Liz, my oldest sister.”

Oldest sister. Thanks, Em. Other terms that might have been equally embarrassing: Spinster. Cat lady. Nerd. Former medical professional. All true to varying degrees.

“Hug Fozzie. He said he has something to give you?” Austin shrugs.

“Awww yeah!” She practically tackles the tall, lanky, bleached-blond standing a bit behind Austin.

Crap. I guess it’s my turn to say something. My hands shake as I try to think of something without Emily there as a buffer.

“It was a phenomenal show. You guys have really great, um, energy,” I stammer, attempting to find the words to sound cool and hip, like I go to shows all the time. I don’t know what else to say, but I’m not ready to walk away yet.

“Thank you,” he says, as he swipes the hoodie from his head. “That means—”

“That last song really moved me. I almost cried,” I gush without giving him a chance to finish speaking.

Our eyes lock for a moment before Austin drops his gaze to my chest. At first, I thought there was something behind our intense connection, but the appraisal makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment. He only wants one thing—and that thing is not my compliments on a silly song. That’s what I get for romanticizing the situation instead of being my logical self.

“Can you, um, sign my ticket?” I reach into the pocket of my dress and pull out a limp piece of paper. I’m mortified when I realize it’s damp from sweat. Before I can pull back, he plucks it out of my hand.

His smile falters for a split second as he holds the ticket, then he turns around and grabs a piece of paper from the table behind him. “How about I sign this for you? It’s almost as good.”

I’m so embarrassed, I want to crawl under their merchandise table, and I’m pretty sure Austin wants me to do the same. He’s just too kind to say anything.

He finishes writing on the paper, but before he hands it over, he wraps his arms around me. The move surprises me, but I’m not upset by it. He’s hugged almost every person that’s come through the line, so I figure it’s just what he does. The sense of warmth and safety I feel in his strong arms is unexplainable.

He starts to pull away, then pauses, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “You have the most gorgeous, intense eyes.”

My heart speeds up and a shiver rushes through my body. Nothing about this man is as I expected him to be. It’s a refreshing surprise. “Thank you.”

He runs a hand through the long patch of hair on top of his head. It keeps flopping over the short sides. “You threw me off tonight.”

Embarrassed, I try to take a step back. “Really? How—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

He shakes his head. “No sorries. It was brilliant. It felt like you could see into my soul. Haven’t felt anything like that in a long time.”

Good lord! What is this man doing to me? Everything he says sparks new flames in me.

When he releases me, Austin hands me the paper and says, “You gonna hang out for a minute? I’d like to talk more, but we have a few more people to meet.” He nods behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, where the line stretches back to the bathrooms, which are located behind the stage, on the opposite end of the room.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I lift my hand to slip the loose strands of hair behind my ears, but Austin’s fingers get there before mine and he completes the task. A jolt of lust zings through my veins when his fingertips brush across my cheek and upper ear. His touch feels natural. Comfortable. Which makes me think the two drinks I’ve had tonight have already put me over the edge. I smile shyly while gazing at him through thick eyelashes.

I begin to walk away, dazed by the interaction.

“Hey!” Austin calls.

I turn around immediately, though he could be talking to someone else completely.

“Stay close.”

“But—” He’ll be back there all night with a line that long.

Austin must recognize my puzzled expression, because he says, “We don’t sell merch or sign while Intermission is playing so I’ll only be a few more minutes. We can catch their set together if that’s cool?”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah.” I nod like I understand anything about how this part of a show runs. I’ve never met a band before. I usually just listen to the music and leave.

My initial thought was to find Emily again, but now I’m unsure of exactly where I should go. It seems unnatural to hang out by myself near the merch table, so I step away from the line of people waiting to meet Austin and his bandmates, and lean against a railing.

I feel this odd, unexplainable connection to him. It’s ridiculous to even think about. I’m sure a hundred girls in this venue would say they feel the same kind of connection. It’s that innate charisma some performers have. But I can’t get over the eerily familiar feeling when Austin reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear—almost intimate—like he’d done it before. Which is odd, because no one has ever done that—other than my mother when I was a kid.

“What’s that?” Emily pops up behind me. She cranes her neck to get a better gaze at the paper I’m clutching. “You got a signed set list? Rock on, girl! I should take you to more shows.” She pauses for a minute, then plucks the paper from my hands and holds it close to her face. “Is that a phone number?”

Startled at the question, I yank the paper back. Since asking Austin for his autograph was only an attempt to steer the conversation away from my awkwardness, I hadn’t even looked to see what he’d written. “No. That’s ridic—”

Yet there it is. A seven-digit number starting with 704—Charlotte’s main area code.

“Austin gave you his digits. Damn, Liz! What the hell did you do? Offer to give him head after the show?”

“Emily! Geez.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’m aware that it’s her crude way of teasing, but she knows I don’t appreciate jokes like that.

“I’m kidding.”

“I know.” I pause before folding the paper and tucking it into my dress pocket. “Hey Em!”

“Yeah?”

“Can we not tell Maddie about this?”

“No worries, babe. Your dirty little secret is safe with me.”

And I knew it would be, because Maddie and Emily aren’t close at all. I have no clue how Emily even got her to come out with us tonight. They are in very different social circles, as evidenced by the way Maddie ditched us as soon as the first set ended. She’s not a brat, but she likes to feel comfortable when she’s out. And she hasn’t felt comfortable around Emily in years.

Hell, Em’s circle isn’t mine either. Then again, I don’t really have one of those. I’d been busy for years, working my way through med school and the first three years of a five-year rotation in my surgical residency. Partying has never been a part of my life.

“How’re you doing? Depression lifted now that you pulled the number of a hot rock god?” Em asks, throwing in a wink.

“It doesn’t really work that way.”

Her smile drops. “I know, Liz. I’m just trying to cheer you up. You’ve been in such a rough place since the accident.”

Her comment surprises me; I didn’t think Emily noticed anything about me or how I felt. I don’t want to sound like I think my sister is an insensitive jerk so I keep my mouth shut. Sisters by blood, but not necessarily by choice. I could always picture Em hopping on a bus to New York or LA and never looking back. I know she loves us, but I also know how hard she’s worked to distance herself from our family. I doubt any of her friends know anything about her background.

“Tonight definitely cheered me up.” I press my shoulder against hers. “Thanks for asking me to hang out. I needed this.”

“I know, Lou,” she says, using the shortened form of Lizzie Lou, my childhood nickname. “Now let’s go to the bar,” Em says, taking my hand and tugging.

My feet stay firmly in place. “I can’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“Austin asked me to stay close.” I glance at him quickly. He’s beaming as a girl hands him something. Wrinkles crinkle at the sides of his eyes as a large open-mouth smile radiates from under his facial hair. His smile lights up the room.

“Are you a fucking black lab named Bella? You’re not gonna sit and stay because a guy tells you to. Walk with me.”

I never thought of it that way. I thought it was interest and lust. Is this a test of how much of a doormat I can be? Seeing how far he can push me? Do girls usually sit and stay at his command? Usually, I consider myself a strong, independent woman; now I feel like an idiot falling for the first person.

“I don’t play relationship games, Em. If I like someone I let them know.”

“It’s not a game,” she says sliding herself between two people at the bar. “It’s self-respect and it shows you value yourself and your time. You’re not the kind of girl who obeys a man’s every command. What would you have said to John Stallings, MD, if he had told you to sit and stay?”

I laugh—which is exactly what I would have done to John. He didn’t like being laughed at, which is funny because he always introduced himself as “John Stallings, MD” no matter what situation he was in—and that alone was enough to bust a gut. I guess he was extremely proud of his title. “I would have walked away to find you or Emily.”

John Stallings, MD was my only long-term relationship. I’m not convinced our time together even qualifies as a relationship. We dated for two years while I was in med school and he was a resident at Columbia. Neither of us had time for each other, but he was the son of one of Mama’s sorority sisters who was married to a hedge-fund manager—so, of course, we were the perfect match in our mothers’ eyes.

But we all know perfect is an illusion. Perfect is subjective. Perfect changes from person to person. Imperfection is perfect.

Emily hands the bartender cash and grabs our drinks. She passes one to me. “Exactly. Don’t change who you are for Austin. A hundred girls in here would drop to their knees and suck him off if he asked. Don’t be that girl.”

“I’m not that girl,” I say without a shred of humor.

“I know you’re not that girl. I just meant don’t change who you are to be what you think someone else wants you to be. Be your strong self, Liz.”

“I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate the reminder. There wasn’t a power struggle. I know what those are, Em, believe me. This was regular old conversation. He said he wanted a chance to talk more,” I say, looking over my shoulder as we retreat from the crowded bar. “And watch the next band with me.”

“Well, look at you, you unassuming vixen! You just pulled the most elusive bachelor in the Charlotte music scene.”

“Pulled what? What does that mean?”

“Caught him, lured him in, became the object of his attention,” she explains. “Austin is, like, really introverted. He’s friendly and cool, but he keeps to himself. Fozzie says he’s a hopeless romantic, emphasis on the hopeless part.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s picky, I guess. He’s not about sleeping around or fucking a groupie in every city, ya know? Which isn’t that odd for a normal human being, I suppose. Fozzie just likes that life.”

My heart goes out to Emily. She and Fozzie have been friends for as long as I can remember. I’d always assumed they were a couple, but that’s another example of all the things I don’t know about Emily’s life.

“I still have to check out the trampoline man you did for him,” I say, changing the subject back to the tattoo she mentioned earlier. I don’t want to hear about Austin’s love life. Especially if it’s just secondhand gossip.

Plus, it’s none of my business since he’s the equivalent of a celebrity crush, if anything.

“Oh yeah!” Emily’s eyes light up.

As much as she tries to stay away from our family, she still has that spark of excitement when we ask about her work. No matter how cool or disconnected she tries to act, she wants validation. Who doesn’t?

“Fozzie!” Emily grabs me by the arm and pushes through the line to the drummer of Drowned World. “Show Liz trampoline man!”

Fozzie grins for a photo with fans, then steps aside. He holds up his hand, palm facing me. Near the outer edge, underneath his pinky, is a tiny stick figure above an oval with four legs. When he bends his hand up and down ever so slightly, the crease makes it look like the figure is jumping on a tiny trampoline.

I burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh! That’s great!” And it is. It’s hilarious and clever. I’m almost jealous. I don’t have any tattoos, but something like that wouldn’t be so bad.

Suddenly I want a random tattoo that has zero meaning to me. What am I thinking?

“Told you it was my best work,” Emily teases.

“I don’t agree with that statement, but it’s definitely clever.”

“It’s a metaphor for life,” Fozzie says.

Emily and I both cock our heads and stare at him, silently asking him to explain.

“Life is just a bunch of ups and downs. One day you’re so high you think you’re flying, but even when you fall back down, you know it’ll be okay. If you don’t have a foundation you trust to help you bounce back up from the lows, you’re gonna splat.”

I stare at him for a moment, then I turn slowly to look at Emily. Her eyes are wide in awe. “I did not expect something like that to come out of your mouth,” she says. Then she jumps into his arms and plants her lips on his.

It’s rude to judge the intellect of a person I barely know, but I sure as heck didn’t expect such a thoughtful answer, either. He’s got a point. I’ve been high. This current low has me wondering if I even have a foundation.

Excusing myself, I cut through the line and almost bump into a petite, middle-aged woman wearing a black Drowned World T-shirt and skinny jeans. She’s watching the band interact with fans, with a huge smile, which makes me wonder if she’s waiting for kids to go through the line.

“Great show, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“Oh absolutely! They were magnificent. I’ll never get tired of seeing them live.”

Oh, so maybe she’s a fan. No wonder the happiness radiates from her. Silly of me to think age has anything to do with loving music.

“I believe that. This was my first time and I already want to see another show.”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities. They’ve got big things coming up. I’m just so proud of them. They’ve worked so hard for this moment.”

“How long have you been a fan?”

“I’ve been the lead singer’s biggest fan for twenty-seven years.” She smiles and leans closer as if informing me of a secret. “He’s my son.”

“Oh! Oh my gosh! That’s awesome.” I place a hand on her forearm. “I imagine you must be so proud.”

“This is the dream he’s worked for his entire life. There’re no words to explain how happy I am for him.”

The excitement she has for her son’s career and accomplishments is beautiful. Though, it makes me feel a bit blue. I don’t remember my parents ever getting that excited over anything I’ve ever done. Supportive, yes. But it’s almost as if every time I reach the next level, it’s expected, rather than something to celebrate. Even before the high wears off, there’s the question, “What’s next?”

“Sounds like you instilled some great work ethic in him,” I say. My parents always love to hear people compliment their parenting, so I figure she probably likes it, too.

“The talent came from his father, but that drive to succeed is all his own. The only thing I tried to do was tell him it’s okay to pursue his passion rather than settle for something he hated doing. Who am I to tell someone what type of life he should lead?”

Austin has the best mom ever. The only thing I’ve ever known is people telling me what kind of life I should lead. What kind of career I should have. What kind of people I should be friends with and date. I’m not saying I don’t have free will, but I was raised with other people’s expectations of how I should be.

I swallow back emotion. “That’s brilliant parenting. More people should be that accepting.”

“It’s unconditional love, sweetheart. You’ll understand someday.” She pats my hand. “Excuse me, but my brother and nephew are about to leave and I’m going to see if I can scoot them in to see Austin right quick.”

When she’s far enough away, I release a breath. Okay, that was creepy—I had my hand on the poor woman’s arm the entire conversation. Good thing it was quick. She’s probably going to tell Austin about the creepy fan. As if I haven’t been awkward enough around him.

He’s just a human. A hot, popular, lusted-after, musician—but still a human. Time to get my head on straight. Because if Emily’s observations are correct, and I am the object of his attention, I don’t want to waste the opportunity. Our connection is too strong—even if it’s purely physical.

“Thanks for waiting,” I hear at the same time I feel a warm hand on the small of my back. Austin leads me toward the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

He nods, then leans over and orders a gin and tonic and Jack and Coke from the bartender, then turns his attention back to me.

“What do you do, Liz?” he asks as we wait for our drinks.

It’s so casual, like regular conversation. Which is totally normal any other time, but it surprises me because he just stepped off the stage less than thirty minutes ago, before taking photos and signing autographs for a winding line of adoring fans. I expected questions about himself or the show.

“I’m in my residency. Surgical,” I add. “To be a surgeon.”

“That’s rad.”

“Well, I love it, but I don’t know how rad it is.” I pause, the word “rad” sticks in my throat. I’ve never used it before. “Playing music in front of hundreds of screaming fans seems a whole lot rad-der.” I finish, feeling like an absolute idiot.

If Austin thinks I’m a complete tool, he doesn’t show it. He takes our drinks off the bar and hands me one. “Guess we’re both pretty fucking phenomenal, eh, babe?”

“Thank you,” I say accepting the drink. I’m not good at small talk or flirting. Or not turning into a complete tool around men who are ridiculously hot and out of my league.

“Oh my gosh! Austin! You were so awesome!” shrieks a tall, slim blonde in a black midriff top and low-slung jeans.

Suddenly he’s flocked by a gaggle of giggling girls. I say girls, because I’m not even sure if they’re out of high school yet. Then again, even college kids look super young to me and I’m not too far from their age. Sometimes I feel like I’m forty-five.

I take a step back, but Austin grabs my hand to keep me close.

“I appreciate that so much. We’ll be at the merch table again after Intermission finishes up.”

He tugs me toward the main floor where there’s some empty space in the crowd, near the back, just as the lights go down. Intermission, the headlining band, takes the stage and immediately breaks into their first song, an insanely upbeat tune that gets me bouncing.

For as boring as most people assume I am, I’ve never been to a concert where the music didn’t completely envelop my body and brain. With music, I lose all control. The world opens up. I feel out of body—the exact opposite of the reserved professional people know me as. I never feel as free as I do when I’m listening to live music and letting the beat take over.

I forgot how much I missed it. How much I need it to feel like myself. Playing an instrument has never been my forte—but man, do I enjoy listening. I’ve been so focused—and stressed out—by my studies and my career over the last few years, I forgot about the simplest things that bring me peace.

There’s something about music that takes me out of my medical and academic mind. Or maybe it complements it? To get completely zoned in, I have a playlist of my favorite songs on when I’m in the operating room. Having familiar music playing in the background helps me keep my concentration.

Had. I had a playlist for surgery.

When Intermission launches into a cover of Last Nite by The Strokes, it zaps away the dismal thoughts, and brings me to my toes. Austin nods enthusiastically and grabs my hand, encouraging me to jump and bounce and spin and twist. He joins in and we dance and laugh together.

When the song ends and we finish clapping, Austin turns to me. “Damn, girl! You rock out.”

I run my fingers through my hair to push away the strands sticking to my sweaty forehead. “It always feels good to dance it out, right?”

“I agree.” Austin leans closer, grabs my hand and holds it at our sides. The contact makes me shiver. “You’re nothing like you seemed at first.”

“What does that mean?”

“I thought you’d be more reserved.”

Reserved—another word for boring. Sometimes I wish I could be an extroverted, charismatic person that everyone wants to be around, but then I think: nope. I don’t want to be that way because I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I can only handle being in those situations for so long before I need solitude.

“I open up when I’m comfortable around people or in a situation. Dancing at a concert never bothered me. It’s a release.”

“So that means you feel comfortable around me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I feel comfortable with you, too.”

We spend the rest of the set holding hands and dancing together. Austin’s smile and energy are infectious. I feel it from my head to my toes and swirling around in my stomach. When Intermission’s set ends, we’re elbowed and pushed by the stampede of people trying to leave the venue or get back to the merchandise tables. But we remain, our feet cemented to the floor.

“I gotta head back to the merch table,” he says with a tone of reluctance.

“Oh, yeah! I get it. It was fun to watch the show with you. Thanks for dancing with me.”

“You’ve got a beautiful vibe, Liz. Your energy is mesmerizing.” He releases my hand and slides it onto my hip. He looks me in the eye and bites his bottom lip. Pure lust exudes from his pores. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming in the best way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn. “Not here. Not in public.”

“Can I look at you like this in private?” He raises one eyebrow on his sexy face. “Later tonight?”

That nagging voice of reason tells me that making plans to hang out later is a ridiculous idea. I’m on the schedule for at least three procedures tomorrow, and that’s not including anything else that might come up if I’m needed. I can’t show up tired and spacey from a late night out.

“I’d love that,” I say, ignoring my better judgment. Then again, my so-called better judgment has yet to steer me to anything remotely fun. Continuing the evening with Austin is worth a little bit of lethargy tomorrow.

“Awesome. I’m stoked!” he says with a huge grin. Then he motions to the merchandise table with a nod. “I really need to get over there. I’ll find you in a bit, okay?”

“Yeah. Perfect.”

As he walks away, he stops, turns around and winks at me. A zap of excitement rushes through my body like someone just shocked me with static electricity. I honestly can’t remember being excited over a guy before.

While Austin’s working, I hit the bathroom and find my sisters to say goodbye. Since we all came straight to the venue from work, we drove separately. No reason for either of them to know I’m hanging out with Austin tonight. Though, maybe I should at least tell Emily so someone knows where I am.

Emily and a few of her friends are hanging around to talk to the guys, in Drowned World, when they’re finished, too, so I have people to wait with. The conversation swirls around me about people I don’t know and places I’ve never been, but I’m barely listening because I’m watching Austin. His smile is genuine and he greets each person. A few times, I see his eyes get wide and I wonder what the person may have said, but he keeps smiling through it all. Never rolls his eyes or glances around as if bored or annoyed. He graciously accepts each and every interaction. It’s not the kind of behavior I expected from a guy in a band at all. But we all have our assumptions—and they aren’t always right.

After about an hour, the line has finally cleared. Austin catches my eye and holds up his index finger, while mouthing, “One minute.”

I nod and watch him jog toward the back and behind the stage where the guys must have their stuff. It’s another fifteen minutes by the time I feel his hand on my back and hear him say, “Ready to get out of here?” His voice is low, but commanding.

When I spin around, he’s got his arm extended toward me, palm up.

A knot of excitement ties inside my stomach. “Yes.” I slide my palm into his and follow close as he leads me toward the back of the room. There’s no one to say goodbye to since my sisters left a few minutes ago, when we thought the band had said all their goodbyes. At least Emily knows who I’m with.

All I can think about is how it would feel to have Austin’s lips on mine. Actually, all I can think about is laying naked next to him. The thought alone causes a barrage of mental insecurities to pop up. I haven’t had a boyfriend in years—and I haven’t had sex in that length of time either.

Suddenly, my mind races with the common insecurities a spontaneous hookup brings. What kind of underwear do I have on? Are my legs shaved? Thankfully, I wore a sexy black-lace bra-and-panty combo tonight and the laser hair removal I had done in my early twenties takes care of any shaving concerns.

I’m the epitome of an inexperienced dork, when a hot guy is about to take me home, and all I can think about is hair removal and underwear choices.

All I should be thinking about is Austin and what being with him represents.

Freedom. A night of no-strings-attached sex. A night that makes me forget that the career I worked so hard for is over before it even began. A night with someone who can make me forget who I thought I was and who I’ll never be.