Page 7 of Broken Strings

But the first time I played? Don't remember that shit. Don't remember learning to play. Don't remember the lifetime of fuck ups it took to get where I am today, either.

Shit. I guess they did steal the music from me, too. They left me with the skills, just not the memories. The doctors said that's usually how it works—people with amnesia remember the skills they acquired, just not the memories that go along with said skills.

I know how to drive, but don't remember when the fuck I learned. I know how to tie my shoes, speak, write, do all that bullshit, but couldn't tell you a goddamn thing about my childhood.

I'm Priest, the man born again from the sins of his past…whatever those sins were. But when I step out onto the stage to the roar of the crowd, I take a moment to look around, searching through the crowd just like always, looking for my past.

I don't expect to find it—never fucking do. But the moment my eyes land on the fiery redhead standing stock still in the front row, the world stops spinning.

The blood roars in my ears, my heart beating a frenzy against my ribs as I stare at her, shaking as her name tumbles from the broken recesses of my mind in a painful crack of sound.

"Mina."

Memphis grabs my arm, his brows furrowed. "Priest, man, you okay?"

I barely hear him over the thundering pulse in my head. It feels like the goddamn thing is splintering apart. I shake himoff without answering, stumbling toward the edge of the stage, toward her.

I have to get to her, to see her, to touch her, to prove to myself that she's real and not just another figment of my fucked-up mind.

She is real, right?

Her mouth moves, forming the shape of a word. "No."

She isn't answering me. She's staring right at me, stricken. She sees me. Christ, she recognizes me too.

She's…

Knowledge slams into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, stealing my breath and threatening to buckle my knees.

Oh, God. She's my fucking wife.

Memories flood my mind in a dizzying rush—her smile, her laugh, the feel of her skin against mine, the scent of her shampoo, the taste of her kiss. I remember the curve of her hips in my hands, the breathy moans spilling from her lips as I moved inside her, the way she always looked at me like I was her whole world…

And I was.

Christ, I'm her husband.

She's my wife.

I stagger to the edge of the stage, my guitar hanging forgotten at my side. The crowd screams and cheers, but I'm oblivious to everything except the woman standing there, staring up at me with huge, shocked green eyes brimming with tears. Her face is pale, her full lips parted and trembling.

"Mina," I rasp again, my voice cracking. "Baby…"

Her hand flies to her mouth, and she shakes her head slowly, disbelief and raw, agonizing hope warring across her beautiful face. I drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. The vibrant red of her hair, the smattering of freckles across hernose, the familiar curves of the body I've dreamed about for six long years.

She's not the same as she is in my memories—she's older, the fire in her eyes replaced with sorrow. Her body is softer, rounder…sweeter.

But she's mine, goddammit.My wife.

My heart clenches, every shattered piece of it straining toward her. She's here.Real. The woman who's haunted my dreams, the one I could never let go of…is my fucking wife.

I jump down off the stage, shoving my way through the throng. Security tries to halt me, but I shoulder them out of the way. I have to get to her. Have to hold her. Nothing else in the goddamn world matters except getting my arms around my wife again.

"Mina." I stumble to a stop in front of her, my entire body shaking. She's even more perfect up close. Those eyes are so goddamn familiar.

I want to howl in fury—in pain. Six years, she was right there, hovering in my mind. And I couldn't remember.

How could I forget? How the fuck could I ever forget her?

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