“That’s it? Nothing more to say?”
Her self-righteousness is showing. Little does she know I’m done being judged for the man I used to be. The seat of the barstool swivels as I turn back in her direction and lock down her eyes with my own.
“In case you missed it, I was shit-faced that night. But let me take a stab at what happened: you were excited, and I was rude. You got offended, so I ruined your night. End of story. That about right?”
“Slightly.” She shrugs off my snarky response like she’s swatting off a bug.
“Slightly, huh? I can’t imagine why so little. From what I heard, I totally ruined everybody’s night. Was it a special occasion?”
“My birthday.”
“Did you go to the concert to celebrate?”
“I did.”
“Give me a minute to think.” I study her face, this time in earnest. I should remember a woman so beautiful, but nothing comes to me. “Sorry. I don’t remember you.”
The flinch she tries to hide is proof my words sting, and she strikes back. “Here’s a clue; that song I played tonight, Heal Me?”
“Yep. Nice cover. It didn’t resemble our version, but I liked it.”
“You liked it, huh?” Venom drips through her tone and feeds her scowl. “It’s my song.”
“Excuse me?” I blink, sincerely confused.
“It’s. My. Song.” She practically snarls the clipped words.
I’m baffled.
“Look, you aren’t the first woman who’s ever said, ‘Oh, my god! This is my song’. I’m happy you made a personal connection; it’s a great song. But my fucking up your birthday is no reason to be rude to my friend. Sorry you had a shitty night—but I’m glad you like the song.”
Her chin drops and her head tips to the side. Just like before, she peers up at me with malice in her eyes. She mutters an evil chuckle as her eyes take on a devilish glow, and a knowing grin slinks through her lips.
“Noooo. I’m glad you like it. The song is mine. I wrote it.”
This chick is crazy.
Perplexed, I look between her and Sam. He leans back against the bar with his arms folded across his chest. I have no idea what’s going on and he isn’t giving me any clues.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m the songwriter—though technically, it belongs to you and Boundless Hearts.” She musters a hint of resignation to accompany her eye roll.
“Interesting.” I shrug, pressing my lips together. “Good for you.”
She props a hand on her hip. “You guys recorded it but, the way I sang it tonight, is the way it was originally conceived.”
I surrender another shrug. “I get it. Your song. Our music. Money in both our pockets.”
I swallow a painful lump as memories rush at me. We made a lot of money with that song. Dash took care of the business side of the band. All of it. He was wicked smart and took care of me and the guys in every way. He not only wrote songs but acquired others. The contests were to engage fans. I trusted Dash with everything, including my life. Unfortunately, his didn’t have a happy ending.
Remembering Dash’s death hits me with a sucker punch and my mouth has gone dry. I gulp down the remaining contents of my drink. The effort to fight my hands from shaking suddenly seems Herculean. Jeri, like Sam, has been watching and listening. Noting my uneasiness, Jeri taps my hand and points to my glass. I nod, desperate for a refill.
“So, I guess that’s it.” The twitch in Savannah’s full, pink lips slams hard and I revert to the defensive prick I used to be.
“That song—your song—was the last song I recorded with my best friend before he died. You’re pissed I didn’t bow at your feet on your birthday. I get that, but big fucking deal. I didn’t know it was your birthday or many other things that night. I went to my room and took so much shit I nearly died.”
Her face goes pale. “I?—”