Page 3 of Fractured Rhythm

At least that’s what I told myself as I slipped through the small crowd, ignoring the voice that would forever call to me.

BASH

I’d only beenin town for a week before I began to feel cooped up in my apartment and took to wandering the streets of New York, hoping to get lost. I’d arrived in the city with a duffle and my favorite guitar, hoping the change of scenery would help me write again. The guys were looking for new material and our manager and the label were both up my ass. But all I wanted to do was get lost in a bottle, in a city far away from the disaster I’d left behind in LA.

The last two years—hell, the last seven—had been a whirlwind of everything I’d ever wanted. But my biggest nightmare was also twisted up in that storm. New York was supposed to be my escape. Instead, I was singing in some random bar, feeling much the same.

Jesus, I was a melancholy bastard.

When I arrived in the city, my first thought was if I’d see her—the one woman I should avoid. She’d filtered through my dreams more often than not, which made me an even bigger bastard than I already was. Everything that happened was my fault, and I wanted to face her, but what the hell could I possibly say? After all this time?

I glanced up from my guitar, and I lost the lyrics as my gaze met hers.

Cassie.

No fucking way.

Of all the bars I’d walked into.

Okay, that was a lie. I knew where she lived, not because I was a creepy stalker but because the label kept tabs on her. She was Jamie’s sister, after all—and I might’ve picked this random bar hoping she’d be here.

But, under the dim lights, was she really there or was I seeing things? I rushed through the song before returning my focus to the bar, where she was no longer standing.

Shit.

Applause cut through my thoughts, and I held the guitar tight to my body, my fingers itching to reach down and slam back the glass of whiskey at my feet. My booted foot slipped off the rung of the stool, landing next to my drink, and I nodded to the small crowd before leaning to grasp the edge of the glass.

“Thanks,” I muttered before knocking back the warm liquor. As it coursed through my body, I bit back a cough at the harsh quality of the whiskey. That’s what I got for asking for anything other than beer in a dive bar. But if I was going to run into Cassie, I needed the liquid courage. She was going to rake me over the coals, and she had every right.

“That was great, man,” the bar manager called out when I stepped off the stage. “You’re no amateur. You even look a little familiar.”

“Guess I have one of those faces,” I said, stepping away from the guy and slipping my guitar back into its case as quickly as possible.

No one should recognize me. With my ball cap pulled low, my brown hair dyed black, and my face cleared of my trademark scruff, I sometimes didn’t even recognize myself. I’d kept my voice gravelly on stage and played one of my favorite power ballads from the ’80s, back when songs had meaning. Not that I’d ever been the voice of the band. I’d typically sung background vocals, preferring to let Jax jump around the stage like a lunatic with a mic.

“Guess so,” the guy said, but I didn’t miss his narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, well, thanks for putting me on the list last minute. It was fun,” I said, walking away before the guy could say anything else.

I scanned the room, looking for her. Her spot at the bar was empty, so I made a quick circuit of the place before setting up at the end of the scarred slab of wood, nursing another whiskey and hoping she was just in the bathroom.

Forty minutes later,I pushed the empty glass away. It was my fourth whiskey—maybe my fifth—and Cassie still hadn’t reappeared. Hell, she probably hadn’t been in the bar to begin with. I must have imagined it.

Shitty whiskey could do that to you. It’s why I preferred the good stuff.

Now my choice was to continue drowning myself in crap whiskey here or head back to my apartment where I had bottles of my favorite. No question. I settled my tab and left the bar.

The still humid late-night air clung to me as I headed home. Why the hell had I settled on New York in the summer?

But then I walked past her building. And just like I’d done every time I walked down this street in the last seven days, I hesitated at the steps leading up to the front door, reminded myself not to be a creeper, and kept moving.

I wanted to walk up the six steps and ring her apartment bell. Would she let me in? Would she listen to anything I had to say? I regretted ignoring her at Jamie’s funeral as soon as I’d turned my back on her, but I couldn’t face her after what had happened. Not after what I’d done then and years before.

I needed to face her at some point. To try to apologize. Why else was I back in this city?

My life hadn’t been the same since I’d walked away. And that was on me. Everything was these days, and it was suffocating.

The first step to making things right was talking to Cassie.

I needed another drink before I could think about how to make that happen. I walked the short distance between her building and mine and headed for my apartment, nodding to the doorman before slipping into the elevator and heading to the top floor. And to a bottle of my favorite single malt whiskey.

I tossed my keys on the counter and propped my guitar against the wall before I rummaged around for the bottle and a glass. After giving myself a healthy pour, I tipped the tumbler back, the smooth liquid coating my throat, the burn warm and gentle, unlike the crap whiskey I’d been drinking at the bar.

I settled into the oversized chair in my living room, the leather as smooth as the liquor I was drinking. I rested my head against the back of the seat, staring up at the ceiling, my mind drifting back to thoughts of Cassie. To Jamie. To the fact that I should’ve been at my best friend’s house that night two years ago, instead of bailing at the last minute to hook up with some random chick whose name I hadn’t even bothered to get.

If I’d been there that night, maybe things would be different. Maybe my best friend would still be around.

Fuck, I was definitely a melancholy bastard tonight. I lifted my head, looking toward the kitchen counter, and the bottle of whiskey gleaming under the low lights. The only date I had tonight was with that bottle, and I had every intention of finishing her off.

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