“Go ahead,” I said, my voice low. “Touch me again. Please.”
“Slow down there, Gibs.” Hung’s arm shot out in front of my chest. “Not tonight. We have a set to finish.”
I held the dickhead’s gaze, my eyes cold, face expressionless. Do it, asshole. Hit me. I loved it when the other guy took the first swing.
He looked me up and down and took a step back. “Whatever.”
I didn’t take my eyes off him until he’d disappeared into the crowd.
“Why you gotta do that, Gibs? We’re here to play, not brawl with the locals.”
I held out my wet shirt. “I didn’t start shit. He spilled water on me.”
Hung raised an eyebrow. “It’ll dry. Let’s go.”
I finished my water and joined Hung and Corbin back on stage. Took my seat on the stool, slung my guitar strap over my shoulder, and adjusted the microphone.
Without any preamble, we started in on our next song. “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” It was always a crowd-pleaser. In seconds, the dance floor was packed.
I didn’t bother looking for the jackass who’d almost picked a fight with the wrong guy. He wasn’t important. Instead, I lost myself in the song. In the feel of my fingers strumming the strings. The harmony of our instruments. The rhythm. The way it felt to belt out the lyrics. The energy of the crowd.
The audience didn’t just take. On a good night, they gave back just as much as they got. Our music made their bodies move, touched their hearts. And in turn, they filled the air with electricity. With a powerful energy. Big crowd or small, the energy was there.
It fed my soul in a way not much else did.
We rolled right into another song, keeping the energy alive. It seeped into my skin, ran through my veins. This was my high. Right here, on a little stage in a rinky-dink bar in some podunk town. I loved this shit. I didn’t admit that very often, but I did.
The crowd danced, cheered, and sang along. With that song done, we paused, just long enough to murmur to each other about what to play next.
“Play the one from the video,” someone called.
I glanced up. Who’d said that? I’d only played that song the one time, at the Lookout, and only because I’d lost a bet with Jameson. I’d never planned on playing it again in public. Playing covers of songs everyone loved was easy. They knew them, knew the words, enjoyed them along with us. But my song? One I’d written?
More people chimed in, calling for me to play the song. I looked over at Corbin, but he just shrugged. Hung nodded.
I grunted and let out a breath. Fine.
The crowd hushed as soon as my fingers hit the strings. And there it was again—their energy. It pinged off my skin, like shocks of static electricity. I sang the first few lines and the power grew. It surrounded me, like heat from a fire on a cold night.
The lyrics poured out, my voice deep and low. I lost myself in the melody, as if nothing else in the room existed but me, my guitar, and that supernatural energy the crowd gave back to me.
Applause erupted as I strummed the last chord. I opened my eyes—hadn’t quite realized I’d closed them—and stood. Gave the crowd a nod, like I always did. My heart beat a little too fast and I wanted to get out of the spotlight. Singing that song again left me with a full feeling in my chest. I needed some more water.
I started to lift the guitar strap from my shoulder when my eyes landed on a woman in the crowd.
Her hair caught my attention. It was long and blond, but in the dim light I could make out streaks of color—maybe purple and blue, it was hard to tell. She had tattoos on both arms. Dark t-shirt. Jeans. She was busy with something on her phone.
I was about to look away when she glanced up, meeting my eyes. A striking sense of familiarity swept through me, like I should know her from somewhere. She had a scar on her cheek, running down through her upper lip. That wasn’t the sort of thing you’d forget. But I’d never met a woman with a scar like that, so why did it feel like I’d seen her before?
Once in a while I locked eyes with a girl in the crowd. Sometimes that ended