“You about ready to come back to work? Wade isn’t half as good as you are at handling the acts.”
“I guess that depends.” Carly’s eyes sweep the band, pausing a shade too long on Aiden. “Y’all were supposed to find a replacement for me by now.”
“Why would we do that?” Linc chuckles. “You’re far better looking than any of the contenders Francesca’s recommended.”
Aiden shoves his arm.
“Andmore importantly,” I say, narrowing my eyes at them. “She’s done a fantastic job managing everything. I doubt we’d be able to find anyone alive who could do it better.”
Carly beams. “Thanks, honey.”
“Take it this means you’re not back to work tomorrow?” Issac crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her.
“Guess not, boss.”
He sighs.
“I’d say I’m sorry, Issac, but I’m not.” My shoulders lift. “She’s pretty much indispensable.”
“Why do you think I tried so damn hard to keep her working here?” he grunts, reaching for four short tumblers and pouring a few fingers of whiskey into each. He slides one to each of the guys, then passes one my way.
I blink down at it. “I don’t drink.”
“Hell,” he mutters, grabbing another glass and swapping it out for a snifter of plain cranberry juice. He drains my portion of whiskey in a single gulp, then glares at all of us, standing there holding our glasses in confusion.
“Go on then.”
“What’s this for?” Aiden asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
“Everyone gets a shot on the house, when they sign their first record deal. Y’all are two years late in collecting on it, but the rules still apply.”
Linc grins and lifts his tumbler. “To The Nightingale — the first place we ever played that had fully-functioning toilets and a crowd that actually gave a shit about music.”
To the first place I ever felt safe, I add privately, raising my glass to clink against Linc and Aiden’s. When Ryder’s remains on the bar untouched, Issac shoots him a curious look.
“You too good for Jack, now?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Way I remember it, you never met a whiskey you didn’t like.”
Ryder’s low laugh sends a ripple through me; it’s been so long since I last heard it. “Sober going on a year now. But I’ll happily take a seltzer, if you’ve got one.”
“Good for you.” As he fixes Ryder a glass, Issac’s eyes flicker to me. For whatever reason, he gives a short nod of approval. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better, son.”
Carly’s hand darts over Ryder’s shoulder to snatch the extra whiskey off the bar. “I’ll take this!”
With a clink of glass, we all drink. Over the rim of my juice, my eyes meet Ryder’s. For the first time since we left Las Vegas, he doesn’t look away immediately. His gaze is steady… and saturated with memories. I suck in a sharp breath.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am: that this bar is where it all started. Wherewestarted.
A conversation in an alley. A flare of eye contact across a crowd. A sad song after last call. A night of pain and passion in the dusty room upstairs.
The first chapters of our story were written inside these walls, I think, as he tears his gaze from mine, his expression empty once more.And, it would seem, the epilogue, too.
I look down at my hands before I can do something stupid, like start crying. For weeks, I’ve been a pillar of composure in his presence, clinging to scraps of shredded self-preservation like my very life depends on it. Besides a few glaring exceptions — the tear I let escape in Dallas, while we sang the final notes of Faded; the time he caught me writing in my notebook in the middle of the night, anguished words pouring from my pen-tip while tears poured from my eyes — I’ve been totally in control.
Don’t fall apart now, Felicity.
You’re so close.
Six more weeks.