"Fuck," I hissed, darting a look towards August.

"I talk too fucking much," she moaned and started rushing after her friend.

But that twinge of regret I'd been feeling since the moment I laid eyes on her again made me step in her path. "Can I go?" I asked her. "I'm the reason she lost her job in the first place."

"You do know she hates your guts, right?" August pointed out.

"You don't pull your punches, do you love?" Jules muttered.

"Yeah," I said. "I get that. That's what I'm trying to fix."

I turned to follow CeCe, unsure as to why it mattered so much to me that she not be angry at me anymore. Her father's position, whoever and whatever he was, meant little to nothing as far as I was concerned. If I wanted to pull strings to revitalize my career, I only had a few calls to make, a few favors to call in. I didn't need her family connections, whatever they were, so it had nothing to do with that and everything to do with....

What? How brown her eyes were? How good she looked in her faded T-shirt?

I shook my head and rushed out into the main part of the bar, glancing around at the small clumps of stragglers who still hung around after the show. A few surprised heads turned my way, but the days of getting swarmed by Wrecked fans seemed to be over, because everyone kept their distance, allowing me a clear view of CeCe's shining brown hair swinging over in the corner in some roped off section. She seemed to be ducking around collecting her things, which meant I only had a moment to head her off before she...

"Hi!" I practically shouted as I moved directly into her path.

She glared up at me. God, she really was such a tiny thing now that I was standing right in front of her like this. She barely made it up to my chin.

But she had the stone-faced glare of a woman twice her size. "I'm tired," she informed me icily. "I'd like to go home now."

"Let me buy you that drink?" I begged. This was more effort than I'd put into a chick in a long time, and she looked almost as surprised as I felt. "I really do owe you one after costing you your job."

"It's fine," she huffed. "August was right. I needed to get out of there anyway." She tried to sidestep me but I stepped back into her way, and she glared up at me again. "Look, it's fine. Roger barely paid me enough to keep the lights on. I'm making like double that now..."

"Working for your dad?" I ventured.

She took a step back. "You know who I am?"

I shook my head and grinned. "Not a bloody clue other than your name, love."

She lifted her chin. "You remember my name?"

"Celia Gilbert," I parroted back instantly. That name had been banging around in my head for the past two weeks.

"It's not actually Gilbert."

"What?"

"My last name?" She gathered her hair up into her fist, lifting it off her neck before letting it fall back down like a waterfall around her shoulders. The movement was so captivating that I almost missed what she said next. "It's not Gilbert. That's my grandmother's last name. That's how Roger knew me."

"What are you, in the bloody CIA?"

A small grin curled the corner of her mouth. "Do they even have the CIA in Britain?"

It was my turn to grin. "MI6 then. Should I call you Bond? Celia Bond?"

"Silver, actually."

I paused for a moment. From the look on her face, I could tell that this revelation was one she didn't make lightly and I knew not to react the way I wanted to. Which was to yell "holy fucking shit are you serious?"

Instead I said. "So you're from the famous Silver music family?"

"Youngest daughter of," she sighed. "My dad is..."

"I know who your dad is," I told her. "We've actually met a couple times. Nice bloke."

"He's cool," she said in a small voice. "A little hyper-involved if you ask me."

"Seems like the kind of guy who'd be hyper-involved in everything though, yeah?"

Her other lip curled upward and now she was smiling for real. "Yeah," she said. "He's pretty intense."

I've done a lot of drinking and partying in my day, but I've somehow managed not to kill off the few remaining brain cells that told me she was pretty sick of talking about her dad. So I just nodded. "Cool," I said. "What do you drink?"

"You're a persistent one, aren't you?"

"Musicians," I teased. "We're not too bright."

"Don't I know it," she deadpanned. "Fine, if you're buying."

"Isn't the label rep supposed to be paying for the talent?"

She turned and leveled me with her gaze. "Who said you had any talent?"

I laughed out loud. "Christ, let me get a drink into you, take some that edge off." We stood in front of the bar and I signaled for the massive bartender who did a full on double take when he saw me. "Whatever the lady is having," I told him.

"Johnnie Walker," she said, and then wrinkled her nose at me. "Blue this time."

I let out a low whistle. "The wee lass likes her Scottish whiskies?"

She gave a smug grin and thanked the bartender. She sipped with obvious relish, closing her eyes and rolling it around in her mouth in a way that made me feel almost jealous. Of a drink.

"Next time let me order for you," I told her. "There's loads better whiskies out there than this one."

"Oh I know," she said, sipping demurely. "My father has a cellar full of Macallans."

I raised an eyebrow. "The 1926?"

She lifted her chin. "He and I actually drank one together for my twenty-first birthday."

"Holy shite girl, how was it? Tell me everything."

Her eyes grew softer. "It tasted like...like history. Like old things and traditions."

I blinked at her. "Hell," I said. "Maybe I ought to have you write the lyrics for Wrecked from now on. That was poetry."

She smiled prettily, taking another deep sip of her Scotch, but then her eyes grew laser sharp. "But you can't be Wrecked anymore," she reminded me. "Not the way things are now."

"Aye, I know," I grimaced.

"And you can't be Twat Yacht either."

"Why the fuck not?" I laughed. "It's a perfectly wonderful name."

She rolled her eyes. "Not if you want a career."

"You're probably right about that. Shame, really."

"What are your plans with that?" she asked, sipping her Scotch and watching me closely. "Speaking of your career."

I drummed my fingers on the bar. "Truth be told? No fucking clue. Maybe we'll play more here and there. Get our sea legs."

"But you need a new lead singer," she blurted. Then her eyes went wide and she clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh shit, sorry, I didn't mean..."

"To tell the truth?" I laughed. "No, don't worry, I agree with you." I noticed her drink was getting low and signaled the bartender again. "Another round for the smart lady right here with the working eardrums."

The bartender looked confused but poured her another round anyway. "Cheers," she said, raising her glass. "Wait, what do they say in Scotland?"

"Dunno," I confessed. "My mum is Scottish, but my parents moved us to Newcastle when I was ten years old. So I got the brogue but none of the culture. The Geordies I ran with around Newcastle either say cheers or just get right to drinking without the fanfare."

"Then let's do that," she said, lifting her glass to her lips. I watched her mouth close against the rim, her pink lips puckering ever so slightly, then the shadow across her lithe neck as she swallowed. Even in the low light of the back of the bar, she was so fucking pretty she took my breath away. She fell silent, her eyes far away, and for some reason her silence didn't bother me. Usually I'd be pacing, filling the silence with manic stories to make her laugh, but for some reason it seems okay to just be with CeCe.

I was just working up the nerve to ask her more about her life when she set her drink down with loud thwack. "Ah shit," she suddenly moaned, leaning forward. I held out my hands to catch her on reflex and my fingers brushed electrically across her arm.

"You okay?" I asked, vaguely worried.

"I'm fine," she sighed. "I'm just getting drunker than I realized."

Disappointment flooded my chest, but I shook it off. "Then let's go find your friend," I told her, gently lifting her to her feet and trying not to enjoy the way she sort of sagged against me. "What was her name again? May?"

CeCe laughed. "Poor August. She gets those jokes constantly." She looked up at me with an impish gleam in her eyes. "Mostly from me."

"Atta girl," I said, guiding her across the nearly empty floor. I was aiming towards the back and the green rooms, but I had to confess that I was walking much more slowly and with much more care than CeCe probably needed. I was enjoying the feel of her in my arms way too much to rush this. "That's a good lass, you're fine. Just over here now."

I nodded to the security guard and then reluctantly pushed open the door, only to be greeted by the sounds of shouting on the other side.

"Oh shit, that's August," CeCe mumbled as we rounded the corner. The sounds of a loud and angry argument quieted when we appeared.

August's tear-filled eyes landed on me, and then onto the slumped and staggering CeCe. "Is she drunk?" she demanded.

"Just a wee bit," I confessed, shooting a glance at the bewildered looking guitarist from the opening band, whose name I had already forgotten, who had been the focus of August's piercing rage.

"Then let's go," she snarled, stomping over to collect her petite friend. I reluctantly let go of CeCe's arm, my fingers sliding across her smooth skin. "Thank you," August said to me. "And fuck you," she shouted over her shoulder in one parting blow to the greasy looking guitarist. Then she slammed open the backstage door, dragging CeCe out of my life, leaving me standing there wondering if I'd ever see her again.