Chapter Four
Ryan had no idea how long he stood there frozen on stage. He missed his cue. Hell, he missed just about everything as the woman at the front table scraped her chair across the floor and bolted out of there like the roof was collapsing.
Not that he blamed her. If he didn’t know how much he’d changed in the last five years, he’d run out on him, too.
There was no question it was Claire. Even from the stage, with the light shining in his eyes and spilling over the first few tables, he could tell. In the beginning, he used to scan the front rows to make sure she was there, needing to lock eyes with her before he could sing a single note. He’d gotten so used to it, he did it long after she’d left him, even when he was playing in Omaha, New Orleans… Places he’d never expect to find her.
Places like Gold Mountain, which he’d never even heard of until today.
He wanted to go after her. But what was he supposed to do, jump off the stage, cancel the whole show, explain to his band, the audience, his manager, his booking agent that some ex-girlfriend came to one of his shows and walked out?
So what. Could there be any bigger cliché?
Eventually, the band took the lead and dove in, and it was all muscle memory from there. They’d played this set so often they could do it in their sleep. He could sing like he meant it, even as his mind was reeling.
How the fuck had Claire—his Claire—wound up in some random town in the mountains? How long had she been here? And why? Why wasn’t she in Seattle? How was she supposed to be a lawyer in such a small place—the lawyer she’d always wanted to be, until he stupidly convinced her to follow him to New York?
A thought hit him so hard, his voice stumbled. What if she moved up here for a man?
She could have the two-point-two kids she’d dreamed of, a nice backyard, all that wholesome fresh air. And some clean, well-heeled guy with a steady job and nice benefits and a hairdresser who kept him trimmed up like clockwork every two weeks. Someone who could take her out to dinner and buy an expensive bottle of the good stuff and actually taste it without turning into a raging asshole no one in their right mind would want to be around. Someone the total opposite of him.
Somehow, he got through the show. The audience erupted in applause. Ryan took his bow and came back for the encore, trying to act like he gave a damn. Wasn’t this what he wanted—riotous cheers, everyone on their feet, all those hands clapping for him? Look at the proof that he was somebody—not a drunk, not a deadbeat, not his father’s son.
But there was a sudden emptiness in him, a hollow pit in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore.
Afterward, the guys were celebrating backstage, excited at the success of the tour. Excited to be heading back to Seattle and then home. But Square One was just a group of guys their managers had brought together for an album—it never really felt like his band. He liked them just fine, and they were good musicians, but he didn’t want to explain who he’d seen, or why he’d been so stunned when the lights came on. As soon as he got his chance, he slipped away.
He didn’t usually hang out after a show—especially not at a bar. But tonight he went back, hoping for something. Anything. One of the friends she’d been sitting with. Maybe even Claire herself, coming back to catch him.
But it had been so dark, and he’d only had eyes for her. He didn’t know who else to look for. And could he really go around asking if anyone knew her name? The bartender, a short woman with dark hair and a sparkling stud in her nose, was pouring a drink for a woman with bright purple hair and waved him over. But he held up a hand, declining. He’d cracked a bottle of seltzer backstage, and he carried it with him as he walked out into the night.
He scanned the parking lot and the dark, winding road. No sign of Claire. No idea what to do.
She’d obviously been surprised to see him. She wasn’t looking to hang around and hug it out.
But he’d come so far. He’d worked so hard. How could he finally lay eyes on her, only to have that be it?
Four years, two months, and twenty-six days sober and he’d managed to do an entire U.S. tour in bars, in clubs, in venues where booze was always flowing, without having a drop. He looked down again at his tattoo, the two parallel bands around his forearm. He didn’t know what he’d say to her, or what he was even looking for after all these years. But he’d made it this far. Before he went home, he needed more than a fleeting glimpse of her from the stage.
He pulled out his phone. This time, he knew what to Google. Claire Collins + Gold Mountain. He clicked the first link that came up and couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.
So she wasn’t a lawyer.
But she still had the same warm blue eyes and what he knew would be the softest hair he’d ever touched. He’d never expected to feel it again, but he couldn’t stop the memory from coming. Without taking time to think or change his mind, he used one of those hotel apps to book a room for the night. It was outrageously expensive, but he didn’t care. Alex could drop him there in the van, and then the guys would be on their way to Seattle. Ryan could change his ticket and book another flight out later in the day. It wouldn’t even delay him that much.
He just needed a few minutes, a chance to see her one more time.
Then he’d be back on his way to Chicago, his meeting with Eddie and Little White Lie, and all the success that was waiting for him.