As I belt out the final notes of the song, nearly collapsing from exhaustion, a heavy coat of sweat adheres my thick hair to the back of my neck like a fur blanket. I set my Gibson down and gather a ponytail behind my head, tipping it in acknowledgement to the fleeting praise. Our style of music isn't for everyone, but it still stings on nights like this when we have a lame turnout. We’d be better off playing for tips in the streets.

In reality I don’t give a damn where we play, as long as I have the chance to perform the kind of soul crushing music that drowns out the bullshit trauma from my past. When my head’s wrapped around dark lyrics and my fingers are busy plucking out chords, I’m able to pretend my life is decent and not the shit-show it’s become.

“Thanks for sticking around,” I mumble into the microphone. “Once again, we’re The Mad Haters. You know, like the Alice in Wonderland thing only with hate in our hearts. Tell your friends…find us on social media…whatever you’re into.”

The small crowd that primarily consisted of the local drunks has already dispersed by the time I step off the rickety little stage. Stew, the Haters’s newest addition, comes running after me like an eager little bunny rabbit. Although he literally kicks ass, having blown the other drummers away in tryouts, I never would’ve agreed to hire him if I’d known he was going to relentlessly crush on me.

“Belle, wait up!”

Cringing with the old nickname, I whirl around to face him. No one has called me that since…forever. No one has dared. “My name is Isabelle, “I snap. “Is-a-belle. Got it?”

The kid flinches. He’s cute in an I’ll-be-your-prom-date kind of way, but impossibly long and lanky. He reminds me of…I shake the thought from my head. I can’t go down that fucked-up road.

“Sorry,” he offers, his smile seemingly sincere enough. “I just wondered if you were going to stick around awhile so I could buy you a drink.”

“I work in this shit-hole,” I remind him, turning away. “That means I get my drinks for free. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Don’t take it personally, kid,” Chaz tells Stew behind me. “She’s repelled by the idea of dating anyone—even lead guitarists who are ridiculously good looking and charming as hell.”

Rolling my eyes, I start for the walnut bar lined with young frat boys and old drunkards. To be fair, Vinnie’s isn’t really a shit-hole, I just hate the fact that I spend a majority of my life serving drinks to people with better lives. Though it’s far from Lower Manhattan where hipster hangouts are more common, the exposed brick walls and chandeliers among the smell of spilled beer and popcorn remind me of something you’d see in East Village, only with the vibe of a whorehouse. Whenever the place is packed, you can count on patrons of any age looking to hook up. Nights like those you can count on the aroma of STDs and regret.

Pulling on my damp shirt, I scan the moderately busy crowd. I need booze. Not just to cool my head, but to forget and lessen the pain. The darkest memories of losing the only man I’ve loved never stay away for long when I’m sober, and they haunt me the most after I put my heart into a performance.

Chaz, my business partner of the last three years, slips into an open stool as I settle in behind the bar to line up shot glasses. He flashes me the kind of charming grin I once fell for when I was dumb enough to let my guard down for more than ten seconds. He wasn’t exaggerating when he described himself as ridiculously good-looking, which was another part of the reason I once caved and agreed to go back to his apartment. It was hard to make a rational decision once his shirt was off and he was blinding me with all those tight abs and intricate designs inked into his tanned skin.

It’s possible we could’ve had something meaningful if I had only bared myself to him. He’s not just a pretty face—he has real talent and cares about me. But there’s no chance in hell I’ll open myself up to anyone ever again. The complex scars marring my heart and face won’t allow it.

Vinnie, the bar’s namesake who originally only hired me because he thought he’d get laid, sidles up at my side to bump fists with Chaz. “Solid set tonight.”

“Are you referring to the new drummer’s fuck-up in the second song, or my flat riff toward the end of that epic finale?” I snarl. “Vinne, I think you might be tone deaf.”

Mumbling to himself about bitchy employees, my boss slinks away.

Chaz rubs his forehead, laughing merrily. His rumbling voice could easily have him mistaken as Jason Sudeikis. He vaguely shares the same physical attributes as the comedian when he goes without shaving for a few days and legitimately tries to be funny. His eyes dance with amusement when he asks, “When are you going to stop being a dick to the audience, and your band mates, and your boss, and virtually anyone who breathes air?”

Snorting, I pour tequila into each of the shot glasses before pushing one his way. “Maybe when the audience consists of more than the regulars who have nothing better to do because they’re already here, my boss stops trying to put the moves on me, and my band mates quit thinking they’re charming assholes when they say stupid shit about me being a dick.”

Chaz covers his heart with both hands. “Ouch. Babe. You’re so…tense these days. Maybe it would help if you tried something other than vocal exercises to get you warmed up before a show.”

When his eyebrows wiggle suggestively, it takes all I can do not to splash tequila in his face. Instead I wolf the shot down and reach for another. “Oh, Chaz. If I was foolish enough to give into your flirtatious banter a second time, what else would you do for a hobby?”

“You…every night for the rest of our lives.” For a moment he chuckles at his own tacky joke, then he leans forward and wraps his fingers around my wrist. “Think about it, Is. You’re so busy trying to make the band a success while busting your ass behind this bar and giving out free lessons that you don’t have time for anything else. We’re already together nearly every day—you could move into my apartment. I can make you truly happy, sweetheart. You know I can. We’ve made kick ass music together before, and I don’t mean just on stage. Just think of the beautiful little melodies we could create if you opened your heart to me.”

I release a nasally laugh. “Holy shit. I think that may have been the cheesiest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth. Don’t even think about asking me to write that into a song.”

His thick eyebrows lower. “I’m dead serious, Is. I don’t know what asshole broke your heart—”

“How did my fucking heart come into this conversation?” I snap, pulling my wrist from his warm grip. My hand trembles as I pour myself another shot. I can’t afford to lose Chaz as a friend simply because he believes we could be something more. Relationships with promises of love and devotion are bullshit. A facade to justify our existence on this earth. Besides, anything more than friendship would only get in the way of our band’s eventual success.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says, sighing. “I just—”

“Go home, Chaz. The blonde at the end of the bar has been eye-fucking you all night. I’m sure she’s up for making the kind of melody you’re looking for.”

“Yeah? How’re you getting home?” By the clipped tone of his question, I know he’s throwing in the towel—at least until the next time we meet up.

Without meeting his gaze, I wave my hand dismissively. “Uber.”

By the time I’ve slammed my third shot, Chaz has moved on to the blonde. A hulking man with dark eyes, a well-manicured beard, and a leather cut quickly settles into his place.

“Hello there, sweetheart,” he coos in a deep, gravelly tone. A lovely vibration spikes between my legs with the sound. “Wasn’t that you up on the stage singin’ just a minute ago? You have an awfully impressive…voice.”

He flashes me a crooked smirk, slowly raking his eyes over my tattooed arms and down to my exposed belly before wetting his lips. I openly sigh with relief, deciding the night won’t be a total waste after all. A hot biker with a hint of danger is exactly the kind of distraction I need. Although not my type, he’s attractive in a bad-boy kind of way and probably wouldn’t be opposed to doing it hard and rough. He’s perfect.

In trying to survive by whatever means necessary, I’ve learned it’s best not to get involved with anyone I could potentially care about. And the best way to ensure there won’t be connections formed is by going out of my way to avoid soft touches and whispered promises.

Falling in love was a mistake my younger self once made, but I’ve matured considerably in five years and become a shell of that snot-nosed punk.

I’ll never let it happen again.

* * *

The city that never sleeps seems pretty damn drowsy countless hours later as I’m taking the walk of shame back to my place in Washington Heights. Though the bustle of downtown where the suits are busy commuting to their corporate jobs in skyscrapers is miles away, my neighborhood’s usually filled with the athletic type and old ladies taking their yippy dogs out long enough to shit on the tiny strips of grass at the edge of the sidewalks. But it appears even the diehard hipsters have stayed inside to avoid the frigid temperatures.

In the four and a half years since I moved here, I’ve learned to shut out the hustle and bustle of the big city the same way I learned to ignore the madness of Vegas. For the first time in my life, I legitimately feel like I’m right where I belong—buried among a sea of anonymous faces. Coming here was as easy as slipping on a new pair of leather pants…a little uncomfortable at first until properly worn in. And there’s no doubting that I would’ve eventually ended up dead in some Vegas alley if I hadn’t come to New York.

Still, there are days I’m terrified that my past will catch up to me. I’ve done everything I can think of to try to forget the boy with star-lit eyes. Some things were almost painful enough to cancel out the anguish of losing the first love of my life, but there was nothing I could do to erase the beautiful memories we had made all those summers. Too often sleep is consumed by nightmares of the day he left me in that dreadful Vegas apartment, and everything that followed. Too often the deep-seated feelings resurface and I’ll fall apart all over again. It’s the reason I basically cut my aunt from my life.

I also managed to keep Roman out of my life after he left Vegas until around a year ago when I stumbled across an article online about Broken Euphoria, an up-and-coming rock band that had dropped its first single. Nothing about the picture of four men with faces barely illuminated among dark shadows caught my attention. When I gave the song a listen, however, there was no mistaking his voice or the meaningful words that were written for me—or rather my teenage version.

After my discovery, I proceeded to get black-out-drunk before I allowed any feelings to creep in. I went out of my way to avoid any more news of Broken Euphoria. I tried to tell myself the handsome man I had seen was someone else, someone I no longer knew. It hurt too much to embrace the truth.

I’m absent-mindedly rubbing at the scar on my face as I stumble into our apartment. Melanie’s already in the little kitchen eating her usual boiled egg and avocado with yogurt. As always, my old friend looks like a damn sorority girl in tight yoga pants that show off her shapely ass and a high ponytail. Half the time I expect her to break out into a cheer or find her bent over a yoga mat.

As adults, our personalities couldn’t be any more opposite if we tried, and we have so little in common outside of music. But those last few summers at Camp Oscines bound us as the sisters we never had. We became the kind of real friends that stick around no matter what.

She takes one glance at the cropped tank top beneath my leather jacket and rolls her eyes. “You keep forgetting you’re not in Vegas anymore. One of these days you’re going to freeze to death.”

Ignoring her comment, I open the refrigerator door and stare at the pathetically sparse options on the wire racks. Oh yeah. It’s my turn to buy groceries.

“Aren’t you going to be late for class?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Um…it’s Saturday, Is. Exactly how much did you drink last night?”

“Not nearly enough,” I grumble, slamming the door. My head pangs with the sound. Ranger liked his whiskey just as much as he liked his sex wild. It feels as if I downed an entire gallon.

Melanie sets her fork down, frowning. “Sorry I didn’t make it in time to catch the show. I had to work late and Midtown was a total zoo. Did you guys have a good turnout?” Her tight expression fills with so many unsaid questions and blatant concern that I know exactly what she’s thinking. She worries because she’s the only one who knows why I’m so broken.

“The place was packed,” I lie. “The guys and I closed the bar down with a bunch of new fans.”

“Awesome.” Her shoulders relax as a subtle smile tugs at her lips. “Your big break is coming, girl. I just know it.”

Nodding, because I don’t know what else to say, I start for the stairway. She would never judge me if I told her that I picked up some random guy, but that’s not what she wants to hear. She wants to know that someone was there to hold my hand in her absence. She wants to pretend that I’m on the road to recovery and hear that I’ve somehow healed like one of those lizards that grows a new tail when the old one’s been cut off.

But time has proven that a heart is incapable of mending itself, and the pain of losing someone who once held it in their hands will never fade.

* * *

Several hours later, I report for my shift at Vinnie’s. The place is busting at the seams with patrons, some already sloppy drunk. I sip just enough tequila from a coffee mug behind the bar to stay pleasant and stop myself from strangling customers. As I’m shooting the shit with a group of college kids that I served even though I knew their IDs were bogus, Vinnie approaches with the look he gets when he’s about to ask a favor.

“I need you to help cover the VIP room,” he says, throwing a knowing frown at the underage kids. “Cary and Brittany have their hands full with the crowd back there, so you better throw on your sexiest smile and pretend you actually like people.”

“On it, sir.” I smartly salute him, but when he turns around I hold up both middle fingers to his backside, making the college kids beside me giggle.

Marching toward the back, I grumble under my breath as I push my boobs up higher inside the lacy red camisole borrowed from Mel’s closet. Vinnie doesn’t enforce any certain dress codes other than asking that we look appealing. A skimpy top with a pair of black leather pants are my usual go-to. And although waiting on rich assholes in the VIP room is never my idea of a good time, at least tips are always better when I’m showing a little skin.

Occasionally the bar’s reputation will draw curious celebrities or obnoxious reality stars who are desperate for attention. On those nights, I’m usually ready to claw my eyes out long before closing time. Since I haven’t seen anyone enter the VIP room at any point in the night, it can only mean one thing: someone relatively famous has graced us with their presence and entered through the back door where they wouldn’t be spotted. Fucking great.

I brace myself as I push on the double doors, hoping for a miracle. Maybe Jay and Bey decided to mix things up a little and slum it for a night.

Animated conversations and bright laughter drowning out hardcore rock music become amplified when I push my way into the room. The scene I walk into resembles an 80s rock video. Several bras hang from the chandeliers, couples make out on the couches, women in tight dresses and leopard print seem to be everywhere. It’s total chaos. Truth be told, if I weren’t working, I’d join in.

I instantly spot Cary and Brittany moving through the crowd, each of their faces tense with forced smiles. Soon Cary comes storming at me with a half-filled tray and a deep scowl. “Thank shit you’re here. These are, like, your people. Why do rockstars always have to behave like toddlers?”

“You’re just jealous because they know how to let loose and have a good time.” Snatching a shot glass from her tray that’s filled with dark liquid, I slam it down before she can half-heartedly protest like she sometimes does when we’re pulling a shift together. “Who’s here, anyway?”

“I have no idea what their name is. You know I don’t listen to that kind of noise. Someone said they’re getting ready to kick off their first tour. One of the guys is a friend of Vinnie’s cousin or some shit like that.” Pursing her lips, she glances over her shoulder before leaning into me. “Wait until you get a load of one of the guys…I think he might be the lead singer. He’s fucking hot. We’re talking like Charlie-Hunnam-with-longer-hair kind of hot.”

My insides liquefy with the mere idea of meeting someone that attractive. After binge watching Sons of Anarchy nearly a dozen times, I developed a little obsession with the leading man. I scan the wild crowd once again, trying to locate said hottie.

Then Cary nudges me with her hip and motions to the far corner of the room. “There he is! Over there, with the blonde chick!”

I follow her gaze to where a well-built man stands in a black leather moto jacket and tight jeans, one of his large hands spread on the wall behind the woman as they share a passionate kiss. He’s noticeably tall, making the woman look child-like. Sandy blond hair hangs down to his chin, obscuring the features of his face. I spend a moment appreciating the way his torn bluejeans cup his perfect ass, and how the black leather jacket clings to his thick arms.

Without even caring if the guy has a decent face or one that’s meant for radio, I’m ready to throw the woman off him and drag him back to my place for what would likely be an unforgettable night. Guys with a body like that always seem to know how to have a stellar time. It’s like they’re gifted the skills needed to make a girl feel good.

As the guy pulls away from her, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear, my entire body numbs with shock. My heart sputters to a standstill as five years of repressed feelings slam into my chest with suffocating force, threatening to buckle my knees. I desperately try to suck in a breath, but nothing comes.

Time hasn’t changed the unmistakable curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the soft pout of his beautiful lips, or the deep roll of his voice when he laughs. And when he smiles…oh my god, that fucking smile. I’d know it anywhere. It has played a starring role in my dreams for the past five years.

All at once his starlit green eyes are on me, and the grin on his kissable lips dies.

I know without any shred of uncertainty that it’s him.

My Roman.

This man was once the boy I gave my body to when he promised to love me forever.

Even from across the room I’m able to see his face ashen. We’re both as frozen as statues, eyes locked, neither of us certain what to do. My heart forces blood through my body at a dizzying speed, whooshing through my ears.

Run to him! my fractured soul cries. Let him know that he’s still yours after all this time!

As I’m debating my next move, the blonde he just made out with presses against him and slides her hands beneath his t-shirt while whispering something into his ear. When her bright blue eyes shift over to me, a sudden surge of vomit fills my throat.

I stagger backwards, shaking my head and wishing I could disappear into another universe.

Roman and Brooke are together.

Bursting from the room, I run all the way home.