Page 23 of The Bridges I've Burned

It’d been a spontaneous request, asking her to leave with me.

She’d made her intentions clear.

Hell, she’d even laid down a fucking rule book.

No personal questions. No names.

It was ridiculous. And kind of hot.

I’d thought I’d be okay with the idea of not getting to know her. After all, most of my encounters with the female variety as of late didn’t go beyond a night or two, and there generally wasn’t much talking involved. With the type of work I did, relationships were never really on my radar.

My life was music. There wasn’t a lot of time for anything else.

When I’d walked into that bar, I hadn’t expected much more than a mediocre burger and a bit of hearing damage. She was a damn good surprise, and I was happy for the distraction.

I enjoyed teasing her. I really enjoyed flirting with her. She was easy to talk to and was a hell of a lot better than eating alone in my car. But when she told me that story about her brother, I suddenly didn’t want the evening to end. I found myself wanting to ask her a dozen other questions.

Where did you grow up?

Why are you in Ocracoke?

What’s your name?

So, I asked her to leave with me.

And like she’d been doing all night, she surprised the hell out of me by saying yes.

I got up to pay our bill, a cheesy-ass grin plastered across my face as I imagined the look of pure shock on Hendrix’s face when I told him I’d picked up a woman at a karaoke bar of all places.

Without even exchanging names.

But then I remembered her somber face when she’d spoken about her brother, and I felt oddly protective of her.

Maybe I would keep this one to myself…

It didn’t take long to pay the tab, and as I turned back toward the table, I came to an abrupt stop.

It was empty.

I looked around, my eyes going from one side of the restaurant to the other.

I swallowed hard as I took in the face of every single person.

She was gone.

Maybe she’d gone to the restroom.

I headed back to the table to wait, and that was when I saw it. Written on the back of an old receipt was a single word that had twisted my heart in an unfamiliar way.

Sorry.

I looked out at the ocean, the morning sun steadily rising over the horizon. I wasn’t sure why I was taking her rejection so hard.

Maybe it was just that—the rejection. It wasn’t something I was used to. Doing what I did for a living, it wasn’t hard to find a warm and willing bed. Even when I was a hired gun in a band, I was still part of a band, and where there were musicians, there were women.

Maybe it was simply because I still didn’t know her name. That tiny detail bothered me more than it should.

Whatever it was, I’d left that karaoke bar feeling number than the moment I’d walked in, and I strongly considered just saying fuck it to this whole thing.

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