Page 2 of Fractured Rhythm

Don’t go there, I warned, knowing I could drown in the “what-ifs” and “hows.”

I’d moved to New York City to escape the small town we’d grown up in. I wanted to move on. And I had.

At least, that’s what I’d told myself—repeatedly.

I never knew how badly it would cost me.

My eyes tracked back to Bash on stage. His body was hunched over the guitar as he sang about love and loss, capturing the feeling as only a true ’80s power ballad could. I wished his voice didn’t sing to every part of me. I refused to get lost in him again.

“Seriously, are you okay?” Holly asked, pulling me back to our conversation.

I turned away from Bash and took a heavy sip of my too-sugary cocktail. I was setting myself up for a headache tomorrow.

“Yeah. Just thinking about Jamie.” It wasn’t a total lie.

“Sorry, Cas. Come on. Let’s go flirt with the bartender and get you another drink. Maybe something that won’t put you in a sugar coma.”

Holly guided me toward the bar and ordered us new drinks. I nodded my thanks to the bartender and sipped my beer as Holly shamelessly flirted with the guy for a few minutes before turning back to face me.

“If you want to get out of here, just let me know,” she said, her gaze darting back to the bartender.

I couldn’t stop my laugh. “Yeah, you look ready to bail. Why did you pick this place, anyway?”

“It’s down the street from your building, so I figured why not,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t realize it was open mic night. That guy three songs ago was awful, but the one on stage now?” She paused and sighed. “Damn, he sounds like sex on a stick.”

I took in a deep breath, refusing to look back at Bash. “Don’t you have a bartender to flirt with?”

Holly tutted and I should’ve toned down the snap in my voice.

“Sorry. I totally sounded like a bitch.”

“It’s unfair that you won’t dish with your best friend about that hottie on stage. You either know him or want to get to know him,” she said.

“I have no interest in musicians, Hols.”

“Sure you don’t,” Holly said. Her lips turned up in a smirk before she focused back on the bartender.

With Holly otherwise occupied, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at the stage again. Did he really think no one would recognize him because he changed his hair and covered it with a baseball cap? I looked around the bar; it appeared his disguise was working. No one was capturing his performance on their phones or rushing the stage, gasping his name. Was it a blow to his ego to not be immediately recognized? To not have women falling at his feet? I could’ve sworn that was all he wanted when the band made it big seven years ago.

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting mine, and I coughed on the sip of beer I’d just taken. He paused in the lyrics as his eyes squinted through the dim light at me.

Shit.

“Hols, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home,” I said, nudging my friend. I needed to get out of there before the song ended.

“What? Where did that just come from?” she asked.

“Must be the sugary drink. Sometimes they hit me wrong,” I said and she quirked a brow at my lame excuse. I really needed to get out of there.

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. No. I’ll grab an Uber. I shouldn’t have ordered something that sweet,” I said, pulling up the app on my phone. “There was someone two minutes away. I’m fine. You stay and flirt with Mr. Hot Bartender.”

“You sure?” she asked, her eyes still narrow.

“Yep. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Oh, he’s almost here,” I said, turning away from Holly. I would be out the door before the song ended and in a car before Bash could figure out he’d seen me.

It was better that way. Safer.

---