Gracyn’s gone. She fucking left me in the middle of the night, buck-ass naked and in her bed.

I waited more than an hour for her to come back from wherever she’d scampered off to, almost certain that she’d just gone out to grab us some breakfast. Took a shower and threw on my clothes from last night. Well, my board shorts because my favorite fucking shirt was gone, too.

No Gracyn.

No note.

No shirt.

Nothing.

The sun blazes down on my bare shoulders as I walk back to my shitty motel. It’s petty and stupid, but I’m too pissed off to put on a different T-shirt. It’s the principle.

My fist connects with Ian’s door with three solid thumps. The last thing I want to do is walk in on him getting ass when my chick had taken her fill and bailed on me. No fucking way I feel like dealing with his shit over this. I don’t want to hear it.

“Dude, you good?” I call as I hit the door again.

“S’open,” Nate yells. “Hey, didn’t think we’d see you today. She leaves tomorrow, right? That chick you’ve been hanging with all week,” he asks, looking away from the movie he’s watching, head propped up against the headboard of my bed—his bed.

“Fuck, man. Forgot we swapped rooms. I’ll—”

Ian looks up from his laptop and leans back, the colorful tats shifting as he folds his arms across his chest. “Jesus, what did she do? Steal your clothes and skip town?” The disgusted look on his face probably mirrors my own.

The door closes behind me as I cross the room and sit my ass down on the edge of the empty bed. I dig through Ian’s pack for a T-shirt. I pull on the first one I find, not caring if it’s clean, and flop back, staring at the water stains blooming across the ceiling by the bathroom. Hopefully, it’s the shower leaking in the room above us and not the shitter.

What the fuck happened? Why did she leave like that?

“Gavin? Seriously, man, what happened?” Nate’s sitting on the edge of his bed, features twisted in concern.

“I don’t know. I woke up, and she was gone.”

“Gone? Or out for a minute?”

“Gone. Left. Bags packed, including my fucking shirt. Just gone.” No matter how many times I go over it in my mind, it doesn’t congeal into anything that makes sense.

“Shit, man. That sucks balls,” Ian mumbles as he goes back to tapping at his keyboard. “What’re you gonna do? You text her yet?”

If only.

I run my hands through my hair, gathering it in my fists, and blow out a frustrated breath. “I don’t have her number.”

“Wait, what? You spent all fucking week with her. How do you not have her number?”

I roll my head to the side, so he can see just how fucking miserable I am. “I spent all fucking week with her. I didn’t really need it … until now.” Jesus, this is the worst. “What time are we playing tonight?”

“Ten, down on the beach. So … nothing? You got nothing? No way to find her?” Nate asks.

“Fuck. No, not really. Just a general idea of where she goes to school, and … no, I don’t even have a last name. I mean, I’m sure I could try to stalk the shit out of her, but she bolted, man.”

“Yeah … I guess she just wasn’t that into you, man. Fucked the rocker on spring break and went back to her Ivy League boyfriend.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Ian cringes, gritting his teeth and sucking a breath through them. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean …”

“Whatever.” I pull out my phone, hoping there’s a message, but this day is nothing but all kinds of disappointments. I pop my earbuds in and pull up my post-show playlist. I crank some old-school ’70s disco to clear my mind. And hopefully drift off to sleep.

“Where the fuck is he?” I demand, heat and frustration already pissing me off.

Ian and Nate shrug as they unload the van.

“Has he fucking done anything this week? Lifted a finger?” I know I’ve bailed quickly after our shows, but I haven’t blown off all the manual labor. It’s not like we have any help with this shit. That kind of thing is reserved for the bands who’ve made it.

We’re stacking amps and Ian’s drum cases on the dolly.

“Pretty sure he’s lifted a shit-ton of skirts and done a whole lot of poon,” Ian mumbles as he hands me my guitar case.

“Fuck, I think I’ve seen him with twins a couple of different times.” Nate leans his arms on top of the amp stack and rubs his hand through his hair.

The three of us move all the equipment to the stage, set it all up, and stand there, waiting. Kane’s not answering his texts, and he sure as shit is not answering any calls.

We go on in ten minutes. Ten minutes, and the motherfucker is nowhere to be found.

“Give me a whiskey and a draft—something decent though,” I call to the bartender from the service area.

I down the shot and half of the beer, wanting—needing—something to dull the sharp edge of annoyance. Shifting my weight, I roll my shoulders to try to alleviate the heavy tension pressing down on me.

After twenty minutes and three more pints, Kane slaps his hand down on my back and reaches around to take the beer right out of my hand. Draining it, he nods to the bartender and points four fingers to the tap and then the stage.

“We should probably get this shit going, right? Finish up and then get out of here. I’ve got a little farewell party planned for tonight. KnowwhatImean?” That last little question is delivered like the douchebag he claims not to be, all stacked up and dished out as one word and with a languorous slicking of his teeth. He slides his hand up to my shoulder, driving his thumb up the back of my neck. “You’re a little wound up, Gav. Need someone to help you blow off some steam real quick? That uptight chick you found not doin’ it for you?”

Kane’s touchy-feely shit doesn’t usually bug me. He’s comfortable with his sexuality, and that’s cool, totally fine, but I’ve had it. Today is not the day for him to fuck with me.

I take his hand from my neck and pivot, tempted to try some of Gracyn’s moves to put him down like the dog he is right now. Instead, I lean in close, fully aware of that hitch in his breath, the flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes gleam. Kane rocks forward on his toes, licking his lips, his thoughts about where this might possibly go written clearly across his features.

“You are not a rock star yet, motherfucker, and the way you’re going, you never will be. But I’ll be damned if you’re going to drag me down with you after all I’ve given up to be here, to give this thing a shot. You fucking show up on time, do your share, and get your shit together.”

Kane’s sharp inhale brings his chest in contact with mine, the heat radiating through his thin, ripped tee. He trembles slightly, and I take advantage of this rare show of vulnerability.

“And, if you can’t manage that, tell me now. I’m not putting up with this shit.”

I grab my fresh beer from the bar, shoving down the hypocrisy I just spewed, and climb up onstage. Guitar slung across my chest, I step up to the microphone and lift my beer to the crowd. “Destin! Are you ready?”

Ian slides in behind his kit and taps a slow beat.

“Are. You. Ready?”

Nate hops up and thumps his bass.

“Can I get a little love for Dreams of the UnBroken?”

The crowd is fired up, their roar deafening. Kane downs his beer and bounds onto the stage, grabbing the mic from me, and then the madness truly commences. Thankful for the distraction, I shove Gracyn out of my mind, close my eyes, and get lost in the set. The music cleansing my soul.

At the end of our show, as the guys leave the stage, I step up to the edge and scan the crowd. I know she’s not here. I know she’s gone, but I look anyway. Back in the far corner of the deck, I see one of her friends, one of the ones I met during an awkward blow-job interruptus at Gracyn’s condo.

“Kane?” I shout. “Take care of this for me.”

I just barely register his acknowledgment as I toss him my guitar and bolt through the throng of people. Tonight, we played the best show of the entire week, and fucking everyone wants to shake my damn hand. It takes far too long to make it to the corner where my hope lies. My only real chance to impress upon her friends that I need—need—to talk to Gracyn.

Finally, I break free and see the chick.

Lisa? Liza?

No, her best friend who’s in New York is Lis …

“Hey. Hey, wait,” I call, still struggling to find a name.

The chick turns and stills. I have nothing, no idea what her name is.

“Have you heard from Gracyn? Has she called yet?”

Christ, what is this girl’s name?

“Um … yeah … no. No, I haven’t.” She can’t seem to meet my eye as she pulls her lip between her teeth, gnawing on it. It’s obvious she’s full of shit.

“Listen, I don’t know …” I push the hair back out of my eyes and blow a breath out through pursed lips. “Just give her my number, please? Please …”

I lean over the bar and ask for a pen, scribbling my number on a cocktail napkin. The girl throws a pitying look at me, one that speaks volumes. She smiles tightly before walking away and depositing my digits in the trash can by the door.

I turn and hit up the bar. Fully intent on drinking this shit away, I slam a handful of tequila shots before switching back to beer. I’m committed to easing the sting of rejection. The burn of being cast off. Drowning the feelings that have crept their way into my heart over the five days I spent with her.

My current plan is to drink my way to numbness and sleep through the drive to wherever the fuck we play next.