The memory of Belle’s disgusted expression when she realized I was with Brooke continue to haunt me weeks later as I start belting out our biggest hit. It’s inevitable that the lyrics would stutter from my lips. Though it hasn’t happened for years, it’s becoming more fucking frequent since that night.

With my stomach at my feet, I throw all my focus into the words as I attempt repeating them, but they still come out all wrong. Jesus Christ! Why the hell does this have to happen? If I don’t find a way to stop it, my career will be over before it has a fucking chance to take off.

Clenching my teeth together, I nudge my guitar against the microphone stand until a loud squeal rips through the speakers. Better to stop on a technicality than admit what’s going on in my head.

“Where’s this feedback coming from?” I shout into the mic. “Where the fuck is Normie?”

The instruments behind me fade out, replaced with my band mates’ moans of protest. A few roadies scramble below the stage and a minute drags by before my tour manager yells out from behind the stage, “Calm your tits, Roman! We’re on it!”

Tension built up from the past week has almost become paralyzing. Not only am I stressed to the max for our first headlining tour, but I’ve gotten shit for sleep ever since the run-in with Belle.

At the time, I was sure my alcohol-induced brain was playing tricks on me. I mean, shit. It’s been five goddamned years! Five years of worrying if she’s okay, five years of trying to remember every last detail of her face and body outside of a small handful of pictures we took together as kids. There isn’t a day I don’t wonder what would’ve happened if I had stayed in Vegas and fought for her.

The weird part was that a second before I felt her eyes on me, I swear I sensed that she was near. Not her specifically, but something extraordinary.

It was such a fucking shock that I didn’t really get a decent look at her. Beyond noticing that she had grown into a drop-dead gorgeous woman with a ton of colorful ink and a hot little body, I couldn’t get past the pain I saw in those big brown eyes. It was worse than taking a million sucker-punches to the kidneys over the years.

Dark thoughts flickered through my mind as I held her gaze. I was sure I still wanted her the way my chest grew tight and my heart leapt into my throat. But why would she want anything to do with me? After I left her in Vegas, she never spoke to me again. Did I dare ask how she was doing? Did I want to know how she had survived the past five years?

Then it seemed the understanding that I was with Brooke sent her running before I could act on my thoughts. I managed to fly under Brooke’s radar for a good year this time around. Why the hell did I have to invite her to come meet up with me that night? Probably because you’re lonely as shit and looking to get your dick wet. Oh yeah—that.

Brooke wasn’t the first one night stand I’d come to regret. There were plenty of women after Isabelle. I’m in my prime for fuck’s sake, and the lead singer for an up-and-coming band. But even the ones that stuck around for more than a couple of weeks didn’t mean nearly a fraction of what she had. My bed may be warm, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to lessen the sting of losing the only one who stuck around in my darkest hours. She’s the only one who ever had a piece of my heart.

I reach for the flask of whiskey in my leather jacket and tip it back. Only a few drops trickle out. I chuck the tin into the rows of chairs being set out by the venue’s workers. These days alcohol barely does anything to quiet the torment I’ve brought onto myself. Whenever I think it’s safe and I’ve drowned the demons from my head, I’ll close my eyes and her face appears like some kind of voodoo trick.

Reggie, my bassist and closest friend, clears his throat. “Let’s take a break.”

The other two grunt in agreement, leaving me to scowl at what will soon be a sold-out arena, packed with fans screaming like they’re losing their minds and groupies eager to ride my legendary cock. Since we’ve opened for other headliners, I know the drill. Doesn’t mean I’m prepared for any of it. Doesn’t mean I want any other women the way I still want her.

Reggie claps his large hand over my shoulder. “You feelin’ all right, brother?”

“I need—” I scrub my hands over my tired face when I realize I was going to finish the sentence with her name. But what do I need? To know what happened after she left? To beg her to come back to me? “I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what’s up with me tonight.”

“You need to take a breather. You won’t be able to survive a three-hour show like this, nor can we afford to fuck up on opening night.”

“I’ll pull through.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt and sticks one in his mouth, looking at me with a thoughtful expression. “Don’t bust my balls for saying this, but maybe you should find that old girlfriend you ran into at my cousin’s bar. You said you didn’t stutter when she was around, right? Maybe you can convince her to come to the show tomorrow.”

With his suggestion, a crushing wave of desire slams into my gut. After all these years, I never once stopped desiring Belle. It’s embarrassing as shit to admit how often I rubbed one out while reminiscing over the past, remembering how it felt to be inside her. But the way she ran off that night at Vinnie’s? It’s pretty clear she wants nothing to do with me.

“I don’t know,” I begin, rubbing at my sore neck. I sure as shit would love to see her again. But why couldn’t it be under different circumstances? “Things didn’t end well between us. I can’t exactly knock on her doorstep, asking for favors.”

“Then use that rockstar charm of yours to somehow convince her. Seems you could use a little pick-me-up in general. You’ve been drinking pretty heavily since the night you ran into her. Maybe your head won’t be straight until you’ve worked out your feelings for this girl. It seems she still means something pretty big to you.”

Then he pats me on the shoulder before shuffling away, leaving me alone with my fucked up thoughts.

As I’m climbing off the stage, I almost literally bump into our manager. His brows are so low that his eyes almost disappear. I honestly can’t stomach the guy and never would’ve agreed to hire him if it weren’t for his impressive resume of managing some of the biggest bands in the business. “You need to get your shit together, Roman.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

I stumble away, seriously considering Reggie’s idea. Although I could never purposely use Belle after everything we went through, a small part of me knows his idea might be the only solution to end my stuttering. And maybe it’s time I give her the apology she deserves.

* * *

Nothing has ever been handed to me, nothing has ever come easy. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am today. I clawed my way through asshole critics and shitty managers to become a success. Broken Euphoria is the product of my relentless determination to make a career of the thing I love most in this world—making music. After the first two bands tanked, I burned through dozens of guitarists and drummers until I came across the perfect combination of talent and dedication.

My asshole of a father may have drug me through hell and back, doing everything in his power to separate me from the girl I loved, but I still managed to come out on top and make a name for myself.

So yeah, luck was never something I believed in until I find myself returning to the bar run by Reggie’s second cousin, having discovered the night of the party that Belle works there too, and hear the one voice I’d know anywhere.

My Belle.

The sound enchants me like a siren’s spell as I quietly make my way past the late afternoon crowd. I’m unable to fucking breathe when I find her on the small stage tucked away in the back, standing among a moderately talented drummer and guitarist. Beautiful lips pressed to the microphone, eyes closed, she croons to an empty dance floor as her slender hands accentuate the lyrics. My rock-hard dick strains inside my jeans with the sight of all her beautiful curves in tight leather pants, peaked nipples poking out against her cropped top. She’s even more remarkable than her seventeen-year-old version, when I already thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world.

The tempo of the song accelerates, and all at once she’s shrieking lyrics from her diaphragm like her life depends on it. She sings of heartache and broken promises in a voice that’s harsh, unapologetic. The raven-haired beauty standing in front of me carries herself in a way that would’ve made the once shy Isabelle I knew proud as fuck.

Wincing with the angry tone fueling the spiteful words, I look beyond her to watch the skinny kid expertly welding the sticks, and catch the band’s name on his drum kit. The Mad Haters. The name seems appropriately paired with the way Belle’s nostrils are flared and her icy stare burns a hole right through me. There isn’t a single glimpse of longing or regret to be seen in her expression.

Suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin, I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight from one foot to the other as I attempt to clear the thick ball of fear forming in my throat. What the fuck was I thinking coming here? How can I possibly ask her for a favor? Even though she’s the one who left without any explanation, she still has every right to be angry after seeing me with Brooke.

As the melody winds down and her voice once again becomes soft, my eyes shift over to the tatt’d dude on guitar at her side. The way he watches her with total admiration has me grinding my teeth. Are they together? Bile fills my throat when I imagine him touching her, kissing her smooth skin. But wouldn’t it be okay, as long as she’s happy? Isn’t that what I want for her? A rush of rage fills my veins as I work out an answer. Hell no. I still think of her as mine. What I want is for her to be with me.

Before the song’s completely over, she’s stomping toward me, eyes hard as diamonds, mouth set in a tight line. I’ve never seen her so pissed. If my brain wasn’t connected to my dick, I’d split before she chews me a new one. But she’s so goddamned gorgeous and I’m too fucking turned on to move a muscle. I try swallowing several times before giving up. I’m a fly caught in a spider’s web, about to be devoured. Only instead of trying to break free, I welcome whatever pain her wrath delivers. I’ll welcome anything with open arms that will make me feel something real again. I’d even let her beat the shit out of me if it helped her move on.

“That was…” I start in a hoarse voice, but the rest of my thoughts disappear the second she’s close enough to touch. My cock’s ready to burst through my jeans when her taunting scent fills my lungs, even though I’m beginning to worry she’s literally prepared to throttle me.

She’s smaller than I remember—nearly half my width—but I suppose I’ve just gotten that much bigger since high school. Fucking hell. My arms burn with the need to cling to her body like when we were kids making love under the stars and I promised I’d love her forever.

“What are you doing here?” she spits out, crossing her arms under her tits. The way she stands with her shoulders curled forward, I wonder if she’s trying to comfort herself.

“My band’s putting on a show…tomorrow night…at Madison Sq—”

“I mean what the fuck are you doing in my bar? Interrupting my band’s precious rehearsal time?”

Unable to admit the truth, I ask, “What are you doing in New York?”

We’re rudely interrupted by her guitarist who steps up behind her, wrapping his fingers around her bicep. “You alright, babe?” Then he tosses me a glare laced with warning. “Who the hell are you?”

I bristle with the word “babe,” feeling instinctively protective of Belle. He’s a reasonably big dude, dark hair shaved down the way I wore mine at the academy, determination fueling his anger. I’m still a good inch or two taller, and his inked arms are a third the size of mine, so I could easily take the fucker. It’d even be worth the hell I’d have to pay with Normie if I got my face messed up before the show.

Drawing my shoulders back, I take a step closer to the guy. “I’m an old friend of Belle’s.”

“Bullshit,” he snarls, lifting his chin. “If you’re really her friend, then you’d know she doesn’t like to be called that.”

Since when? I glance Belle’s way to find her grimacing. When she catches my questioning gaze, she quickly recovers with a tight smile as she spreads her fingers over the guy’s chest. “It’s fine, Chaz. Grab Stew and set us up with some shots. This will only take a second.”

Chaz brushes his lips against her cheek in a way that’s possessive and too intimate. “Holler if you need me, sweetheart.”

Once the fucker seems satisfied that he made his message clear, he throws me a smug smirk and saunters away. I’m temporarily blinded by the urge to take off after the asshole and pound him to the ground for putting his lips on my girl. She was always mine, even back when we were too stupid to admit the truth and during all the years she rejected me.

When she flips her dark hair over her bare shoulder, my balls draw tight. It’s weird as shit to see her exposed skin, knowing I’ve had my mouth on every inch of her body but don’t have the right to touch her that way anymore.

“Seriously, Roman. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I-I wanted to explain,” I start, only mildly irritated with my stutter. “The other night…when you saw me with Brooke—”

“I don’t give a shit who you’re fucking.” With a shake of her head, she laughs. It’s a cold, cruel sound that sends shivers racing down my spine. “You don’t owe me any explanations. In fact, I don’t need to know a damn thing about the man you’ve become. I’m nothing like the girl you knew from camp. We’re two completely different people. Strangers.”

“That may be true, but I wouldn’t have become the man I am without you.”

Her dark eyes narrow into little slits. “Yeah, because if you hadn’t slept with that broken girl, then you wouldn’t have come up with the lyrics that made you famous, right?”

Guess I don’t have to ask if she’s heard our songs. When I first wrote them, I never saw her as broken. She was my pillar of strength when my father tried to beat me down. She was the reason I kept going when I was desperate for everything to end. She was my entire world. What has made her so bitter? I’d give up my fucking contract with the label and every goddamned thing I’ve worked for to erase whatever damage was done to my girl.

Any hope that she would take me back disappears with the anger in her unrelenting expression.

“I’m sorry, Belle. I—”

“You what?” She closes the distance between us, laughing cruelly. “God, Roman! It’s been five fucking years! Do you get how long that is? Move on already!”

I shuffle backward and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before shoving my hands in my pockets. It was clearly a mistake to come here.

“I just stopped by to make sure you’re all right,” I mutter.

“As you can see, I’m fucking awesome.” She gestures back at the stage and laughs sincerely, a bit of the anger slipping away. “I mean, I won’t be playing at Madison Square any time soon, but—”

“You totally could one day,” I insist. “You sounded amazing just now. It’s a matter of finding the right manager. Your voice…can’t say I ever expected you’d be singing hardcore metal, but you fucking rocked that melody.” When she doesn’t snap at me and her expression becomes wistful, I decide to run with it. “Do you write your own music?”

Her cheeks flush with pink, and I see a flash of my girl as she ducks her chin. “Uh…yeah. I mean, Chaz comes up with the melody, and I write the lyrics.”

“Can I at least buy you a drink?” I blurt.

Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, she glances over at the bar where her band members wait. Her prick guitarist catches us looking his way and throws her a flirty wink. A blinding wave of jealousy slams into me, coming out as a quiet growl.

“I don’t think Chaz would be good with it,” she decides.

“Are you two together?” I don’t have the right to ask, but I need to know.

Rolling her eyes, she shrugs. “Not in the way he wants. We started the band together a few years ago.”

Eyes lit with uncertainty, she stops to study my face. I hold my breath, hoping the conversation will continue its sudden laid-back pace and she won’t ask me to leave again.

For the first time since she stepped off the stage, I allow myself to wonder what would happen if I asked her to give me another shot. It’s shit for timing considering the tour starts in less than twenty-four hours and I’ll be on the road for six months. Would she even consider taking me back? Could she learn to love me again?

“I don’t want to say goodbye yet.” I don’t give a shit that I sound pathetically desperate when I add, “Please, Belle.”

Her head drops back and she makes a little frustrated noise. “I must need my fucking head fixed for agreeing to this,” she mutters. When her eyes dart back to her band mates, I suddenly worry this Chaz guy has anger issues. Is she afraid of him?

“You need his permission to talk to me?” I snap.

She holds her chin high. “Hell no. I just don’t want to get into it with him. He’s…protective. Go wait for me at the place a block down on the right called Stoners. I’ll come meet you in fifteen minutes or so.” Then her eyes roll to the lofted ceiling. “One drink, Roman. That’s it. I’m not interested in picking at old wounds that healed years ago.”

Nodding, I bite back the smile trying to stretch across my lips. Maybe coming here wasn’t a mistake after all.