Page 7 of One Last Encore

Ingrid squinted at Freddie, suspicious.

"Are we in trouble?" she whispered.

Freddie meowed. Ingrid groaned. That was a definite yes.

CHAPTER 3

INGRID. JULY, FIVE YEARS AGO

Ingrid lifted her vodka soda from the bar, the glass making a faint ripping sound as it fought to be freed from the sticky, grimy surface. She grimaced. Of course. The bar was so disgusting it practically had suction power, like a booze-hungry leech attaching itself to her drink.

It was the first Tuesday in July, and here she was, trapped in this hellhole five blocks from Juilliard. Eden definitely owed her. Big time. Like, name-her-firstborn-after-Ingrid kind of owing. The only reason Ingrid was even in this dilapidated dive bar was to support her best friend at the annual Battle of the Bands.

And yet, she wasn’t sure if she’d make it out alive. She might need a tetanus shot or, at the very least, a hazmat team to wipe off whatever was stuck to her heels.

She shifted her weight, cringing as the bottom of her heel made a faintschlurrrpwhen it peeled away from the floor. Fantastic. The floor was like the bar–an unholy combination of spilled drinks, questionable substances, and shattered dreams.

She mentally vowed to burn these shoes when she got home.

The overwhelming urge to turn on her heel and bolt straight to civilization was almost too much to resist. But no. She was here for Eden.Eden, Eden, Eden.That’s what she kept telling herself, over and over, like a mantra to stave off the panic.

Because Eden wasn’t just a friend. She was family. When Eden’s mom passed and her relationship with her insufferable father spiraled into chaos, she moved in with Ingrid’s family at sixteen. Since then, they'd been inseparable.

And honestly? If Ingrid could survive sharing a bathroom with a grief-stricken, punk-rock-obsessed teenager, she could survive this disgusting, beer-sticky hellscape. Probably.

Now, both twenty-one, Ingrid and Eden had spent the last three years together at Juilliard. Ingrid in the dance program, Eden in vocal studies.

Ingrid’s choice to attend Juilliard had been a bit unconventional for a ballerina. Most went straight into a company right out of high school, or even earlier if they were really ambitious or gluttons for punishment. But Ingrid wanted a somewhat normal college experience or at least as normal as it got when you spent most of your waking hours in a leotard, sweating through rehearsals.

Plus, she liked exploring other dance styles, choreographing her own pieces, and having actual creative freedom. Ballet companies didn’t always love that. Juilliard did. Her mother, predictably, did not.

Not that it mattered. Ingrid could have cured cancer, and her mother still would have sighed dramatically and asked if she really had to wearthatlab coat.

She cradled her drink, tracing the condensation on the glass as she scanned the dimly lit bar for Eden. Her eyes flicked over the usual suspects: a man in leather chaps, a group of wide-eyed tourists who looked like they’d wandered in by mistake and were now questioning everything, and–Oh.

Her gaze landed on a tall, lean figure a few seats away. The kind of guy who probably did wake up looking that good but also definitely used at least two hair products to achieve it. Tousled light-brown hair, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose like he’d been punched in the face at some point but somehow come out hotter because of it.

His blue eyes locked onto hers, sharp and assessing, and a weird, unwelcome tightening formed in her chest.

A dark-haired girl had her fingers on his chest, clearly vying for his attention. But did he look at her? Nope. He was still looking at Ingrid. And then, the bastard winked.Unbelievable.

Ingrid rolled her eyes and flicked her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder in the universal sign fornot interested, please go away forever.His lips curled into a smirk.

"Indy!"

Ingrid turned just in time to see Eden striding over, all oversized Metallica tee, combat boots that looked capable of violence, and smudged eyeliner perfection. They were style opposites. Ingrid thrived on structure, heels, and designer polish. Eden looked like she’d fallen face-first into a thrift shop and emerged cooler than everyone else alive.

"Hey! Did the bouncer help with the gear?" Ingrid asked. Normally, she played roadie, pretending she knew the difference between a guitar amp and a speaker. But tonight, by some miracle, Eden had sweet-talked a bouncer into doing the heavy lifting. Thank God. Ingrid was not about to haul amps in stilettos unless someone wanted a live demonstration of a femur snapping.

"Yep! Turns out he had a soft spot for people with the upper body strength of a cooked noodle," Eden said, dramatically letting her arms dangle like limp spaghetti.

"Cheers to that, my linguini-limbed queen," Ingrid said, raising her drink in salute.

Eden flexed, revealing a tiny, trembling bicep. "Fear me. I am power."

"Absolutely terrifying. Your arms strike fear into the hearts of men everywhere," Ingrid smirked.

"Damn right they do."

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