The club is alive with energy, buzzing with the anticipation of a sold-out crowd.The sound techs are running cables, the lighting guys are testing strobes, and Mark, the stage manager, is barking orders like he’s leading an army.
And I should be in it—feeling the electricity in my veins, the familiar rush of performing.
But all I can think about is this morning.
That moment.
That fucking moment.
Her wrist under my fingers, pulse fluttering just once before her mom interrupted.The way her lips parted, like she was about to say something—but didn’t.The way something unspoken cracked between us, and for the first time, I had no idea what she was thinking.
Hell, I forgot whatIwas thinking.
For a split second, if I didn’t know Anna was Anna, I would have sworn there was something else in her eyes.Something I shouldn’t even entertain.
But no.
That’s not possible.
Anna would rather slide down a banister of razor blades into a pool of alcohol than admit to even tolerating my existence—let alone being attracted to me.
Still.
I keep replaying it.The feel of her skin.The way she didn’t pull away.The way my brain short-circuited because suddenly, all I wanted to do was push that button again.
And now, standing in the middle of soundcheck for my fucking opening show at Nocté, I can’t get my head straight.She’s all I could think about all damn day and it’s bleeding into my night.
Mark snaps his fingers in front of my face.“Hey, rockstar.You planning to check in with the rest of us anytime soon?”
I blink.The mic is in my hand, the band is waiting for me to run through the set, and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here like an idiot.
I scrub a hand down my face.“Yeah, yeah.Just—late night.”
Mark narrows his eyes and huffs.“That’s not what this is.”
I let out a staccato laugh.“What?You got mind-reading powers?”
Mark folds his arms, unimpressed.“Please.I’ve seen performers run on nothing but Red Bull and bad decisions.I’ve seen them drunk, hungover, jet-lagged, and fresh off a breakup.But you?”He gives me a slow once-over.“You’re in la-la land, Price.Where the hell did you go?”
I roll my shoulders back, grip the mic tighter.“I’m right here.”
Mark snorts.“Sure you are.You’ve just been staring into the void like it owes you money.”
I glance toward Myles over at the bar, half expecting her to jump in, but she just arches a brow, looking equally entertained and unimpressed.Great.Now I have a damn audience.
“I’m fine.”It’s a lie, and we all know it.
Mark sighs through his nose, muttering something aboutmusicians and their melodramatic bullshitbefore waving to the band.“Alright, let’s run it again.Try not to sound like you’re thinking about your grocery list this time.”
I flip him off before adjusting my stance, nodding at the guys to start from the top.
The first notes hum through the club, deep and familiar.I roll into the song, the chords flowing through my hands like muscle memory.The mic is hot, the sound balanced.
And yet…
It feels off.
I go through the motions, hitting every note, every beat, every moment I’ve practiced a thousand times before.But there’s no fire behind it.It’s flat, and I hate that I know exactly why.