with drunk college kids and tourists looking for an “authentic experience.” She had whined about it for weeks until Caitlyn finally threw in the towel, which was exactly what Alyssa knew she would do, if only to shut her up. Alyssa had squealed and thrown her arms around Cait’s neck when she agreed, and seeing her friend happy almost made up for the prospect of one of her precious nights off being spent dodging frat boys sloshing tequila over her sneakers.
What could she say? When it came to her friends, she was a sucker. That’s what her mother said when she’d come home from school having traded her brand-new silver pencil case for Melissa Brandino’s beat-up old red one after Melissa convinced her that silver matched her polished Mary Janes better than Cait’s beat-up Keds. “Oh, Caity,” her mother had said, shaking her head and sighing. “You’re too nice sometimes.”
In fairness, it had been a long time since someone had described her as too nice.
So they went to Cedar Street, and sure enough, within ten minutes someone had spilled tequila on her brand-new Nikes and she’d watched a girl projectile-vomit onto the door of the bathroom stall. “Remind me why we’re here again?” she’d said to Alyssa, but Alyssa was too busy showing off her Birthday Girl badge to a bunch of tech bros to notice. Cait slinked off to the bar and ordered herself a double Maker’s, neat, and tipped it down her throat in one burning gulp. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. That was when she spotted Jake striding across the courtyard, every pair of female eyes in a twenty-foot radius trailing after him. Hers, too.
She knew about him already. A guy who came into the bar was a music journalist for the Digg, and he’d been singing Jake’s praises over one too many Sierras the other night, saying he was the next big thing. She was curious, so when she finished her shift, she went home and looked him up on Spotify. Country music wasn’t exactly her jam, despite—or maybe because of—growing up deep in the heart of Texas, but even she could admit he had something special. His voice was a low growl over the delicate guitar riffs, deep and compelling and sexy as all hell.
She’d checked on Alyssa, who now had her tongue shoved firmly down the throat of one of the tech bros, before ducking out of the bar and following Jake a few blocks to the Pearl on Fourth Street. She wasn’t sure why she was doing it—she didn’t make a habit out of following strange men—but something about seeing him like that had made it feel a little like fate, as corny as that sounded to her.
She stayed in the back as he took the stage and went through his sound check. Given the level of drunkenness she’d witnessed at Cedar Street, she figured it was well past midnight, but when she checked the time on her phone, it was just a little past ten o’clock. She signaled the bartender for a beer and settled her back against the bar as he strummed the opening chords.
The Pearl was relatively empty—it was a Monday night, after all—but the place started filling up quickly, drawn by the sound of his voice. She was drawn, too, and soon found herself in front of the stage, swaying her hips to the music and watching sweat roll down his face from the lights.
They locked eyes, and she saw a little smirk flash across his lips. Cocky. She liked that. She kept dancing, feeling his eyes roaming across her body, seeing the desire start to flare. She swerved her hips and ran her fingers through her hair. You’re mine, she thought, and the power thrilled her.
He finished the set and climbed down off the stage and the inevitable happened: the sweaty make-out session in the back and the fumbling cab ride to his apartment, which was still very much the place of a struggling musician and not one about to make the big time.
The sex started out routine enough—she was on top for a while, and then he flipped her over onto her back. It was good, though there was something about the way he focused on a spot just slightly above her head rather than looking her in the eye that made her think she could be anyone, really, and he wouldn’t care. She didn’t care, either, particularly—this was sex, not a betrothal—but she wouldn’t