A New Hope - Robyn Carr Page 0,30

singer, though he had some great country numbers and his biggest sale of original songs had actually been to a country artist. But he was too vain to cover up that silky, thick, honey-colored hair. He wore it just a little long, but he always said he wasn’t the hippy-dippy type—no ponytail. He’d chosen blue eyes from the optometrist. Startling blue eyes that were, without the contacts, ordinary hazel. He was damn fine-looking, she could admit with complete objectivity.

He began to sing one of his old selections, a Harry Nilsson award-winner with a lot of fancy guitar work. It was a whole two seconds before the crowd recognized it and burst into applause. In his casual way, he didn’t even look up; he concentrated on the music. Or at least appeared to.

There was a time when her love for him was so overwhelming it felt like a great balloon had been expanded in her chest and left her aching when it was ripped out. Then there was the profound sadness of not having enough of him; it hurt so much. That was followed by the crushing pain of being rejected, retreating to the safety of her mother’s house to give birth alone. Then briefly, the euphoria of holding a part of him in her arms. She had accepted that she couldn’t have him in her life, but she’d found a certain peace. He had been the love of her life, she’d never get over him or find another but she didn’t have any more sacrifice in her. She had to find a way to move on. With her son.

Then, not long after little Josh died, the hurt and anger rose up in her. Not so much at Mick but at herself because look at what her romantic delusion had cost her! Years of her life gone trying to find ways to finally deserve his love and devotion. And then a baby ripped from her life and no father to grieve him.

She shook her head. What a profound waste. She sat in the darkened club, hands folded in her lap, and listened to his sweet, melancholy voice, heard the women cry out in adulation and, no doubt, powerful desire. And she just shook her head. Poor fools, she thought. He’s not real, can’t you see that? He’ll never give anyone anything. He’ll suck the life out of anyone who dares love him.

And she felt nothing.

* * *

Matt purposely stayed in the back of the crowd entering Roy’s. Of course he’d been there before—he’d grown up in the area, and this was a popular hangout; Natalie had loved it. He only wanted a glimpse of this Mick, this mediocre guy who could screw up so many lives and then just trot into the sunset strumming his guitar. Who was this dude? The Rhinestone Cowboy? So it was his plan to stand in the back, maybe just inside the door. He might have a drink, listen to two or three songs, take a look at how much people appreciated his modest talent, then get the hell out of there.

If only life could cooperate with him for once. He stood at the end of the bar, ordered a Cutty on ice and before the house lights dimmed, he saw Natalie with two of her girlfriends at one of the tables near the front. So it might be only one drink. At least she was far away. And then, because he supposed he deserved to be punished for something, there was Lucy in the theater seating down front. There were so many females down there he wasn’t sure if she was with anyone.

Well, they were both so far away and the house lights went down, so he was safe. But he wasn’t going to stay long. It was too risky.

But then he saw Ginger. She sat at a table alone, her hands primly folded in her lap, watching Mick walk onto the stage. She was wearing that dress, that sexy dress. He frowned considering this—how a dress with a high, mandarin collar could be so damn sexy. Her sleek and soft blond hair moved gracefully as she shook her head while watching Mick. Just a little thigh and knee were visible, her calf shapely in her ordinary heels. There she sat with a half glass of wine, pretty much covered up, not dolled up in spike heels with ankle straps, no boobage on display, and he just wanted to grab her into his arms on