Page 48 of Synced to Us

But the song wasn’t written for me, just like Wyn isn’t meant for me. When the patrons in the bar hold up their phones, or sway with their partners, or nudge their friends and whisper about the gorgeous, giant man on stage, I think, he was meant for them.

“I’ll be right back.” I stand through the melancholy that seems to have wrapped itself around my bones. “Ladies’ room.”

Lucy responds with a brief nod. She’s too busy watching the stage like everyone else. Her arm is hooked through Brad’s, who remains standing, rigid and unmoved as he stares down his brother.

Jealousy, I muse as I wander down a makeshift aisle to the bathrooms, is such a mean motherfucker.

There’s a slight wait for a stall and I bide my time answering emails and double-checking my calendar schedule for next week. One high-maintenance client has left me thirty voicemails, and my assistant has frantically tried to get in contact with me since Friday evening.

But a message amid her jumble of texts catches my eye first.

Dennis: Better put a leash on that “fiancé” of yours, babe. I just had a long talk with Elena. Remember her? Front Desk Floss, we like to call her, ‘cause she cleans the boys so well. She’s currently bragging that Wyn Riley gave her his number and that she’ll be the first to get him to blow his wad since his band’s blown up. Cute, right?

Then, a few minutes later:

Dennis: Fiancé, my ass. You’re such a filthy liar.

I’d turned my phone on silent when we first entered Wyn’s home out of politeness—then never turned it back on. Very unlike me, and now I’m paying the price. My stomach plummets, but I’m already thinking of ways I can fix this. It’s just a rumor, Dennis has nothing but Elena’s word…and maybe Wyn’s real number…

Cursing, I start pounding my thumbs against the screen, composing a reply.

Five minutes and three deleted sentences later, it’s obvious texting won’t be enough. I’d rather not put anything in writing, unlike this idiot, so I have to make some calls. I step out of line and find the nearest exit.

With Wyn’s next song trilling in my ears—is it Wyn’s song? It’s a guitar now, not the keyboard—I push open the exit bar on the door with my hip and step into the night. There isn’t much space between the river and the back of the bar, nor is there a lot of paving. Small rocks and grainy sand crunch underneath my shoes. I stop short of the lapping water, the sound calming, the air clear and cool.

Jenna, my assistant, is first. Dennis is an annoyance, one I’ll have to deal with shortly, but my clients need to be soothed. I pull up her contact—

“I know what you are.”

I spin toward the voice. I have to peer through the packing crates stacked high against Dockside’s brick wall to make out the shadowy figure.

I lower my phone. “Brad?”

“Damn straight.” He steps into the low, golden light of an overhead lamps. “I thought I’d never get you alone.”

A primordial energy slithers under my skin. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in quite some time, usually reserved for those vulnerable moments when I was on a job. My old job.

One, to my guess, Brad’s uncovered.

I lift my chin. “How?”

“Got a fun phone call at the bar. Calls himself Dennis. Know him?”

I clench my jaw. These motherfuckers, with nothing better to do. It’s like these assholes can sniff each other out.

Brad stalks over, tripping slightly over the rocky terrain, but covers up his drunken slips by sneering. “It’s been so difficult staring across the table at such a whore.”

His callousness, viciousness, doesn’t surprise me. “Wow. How long have you been holding that in, Brad?”

Brad strides closer. Water laps against my heels, rising over the leather and pooling in my shoes.

“I can’t believe Wyn would be so stupid as to bring you here. Do you know what this could’ve done to our mother? Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t give a shit about anyone without hundred dollar bills as their lowest currency.”

“Of course you’d come to that assumption.” I step forward. “You don’t know anything about me except for your own prejudices, asshole.”

“How much did Winnie give you?”

“Nothing,” I hiss.

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