Second Chance Lane (Brockenridge #2) - Nicola Marsh Page 0,92

to study the stage.

Though small, the stage could hold a four-piece band, five at a squeeze. It was elevated by a few inches, made from the same pocked mahogany boards as the rest of the floor. The roadhouse may look a little worn in places but everything gleamed and he could imagine it housing several hundred when packed.

‘Do bands perform here often?’

‘There’s a blues night monthly, and since Ruby took over we have regular theme nights too. Eighties, Elvis, rock ‘n’ roll, that kind of thing.’ Tash approached him and he tried not to ogle. There was nothing remotely seductive in her outfit—faded denim jeans, tan suede ankle boots and grey tank top—but her body rocked it, making her sexy as hell.

‘Here you go.’ She thrust a glass at him, filled over halfway.

‘I take it you don’t man the bar,’ he said, raising his glass in a salute. ‘Because if you call this a double, this place would be out of business damn quick.’

She smiled. ‘I thought you needed it.’

‘I do.’ He downed half the bourbon in one gulp, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from his nerves.

‘Better?’

‘Not really but, hey, I’ll try anything at this point.’

He didn’t mean it to sound like a come-on but maybe she felt the simmering attraction between them as much as he did, for she took a step closer and laid a hand on his chest.

‘You can do this. And if you can’t, it’s okay.’ She brushed a soft kiss on his cheek and damned if he didn’t feel like crying.

He’d never been emotional. He’d learned that the hard way in his first foster home; tears equated with weakness and that got you picked on. He’d honed his impassivity over the years, preferring to bottle up his reactions than give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him hurt. Not entirely healthy, considering the way every goddamn emotion he’d ever had bubbled out in a toxic torrent after the concert accident, and the online psych had helped him see that.

It didn’t mean he could change his ways all at once and letting Tash see his vulnerability would only undermine his stance to keep things friendly between them. Letting her too close, opening up to her, could produce a wave of emotion he may not recover from. Getting back on stage would be traumatic enough.

‘You can stay,’ he said gruffly, tossing back the rest of the bourbon. ‘But if I ask you to leave, you need to do it quick, okay?’ The last thing he wanted was for her to see him break down.

‘Sure.’ She touched his cheek, the barest graze of a fingertip across the stubble, but it sent a stab of longing through him. ‘Take your time.’

Rather than sitting at the front table nearest the stage, she walked across the room and perched on a stool near the kitchen, as if expecting him to ask her to leave. But if he couldn’t do this in front of an audience of one, with a woman he’d once loved, he had no hope of braving a larger crowd.

Kody picked up the guitar case and laid it on a table. A fine sheen of sweat broke out over his forehead and his fingers trembled slightly as he unzipped it. He took a few deep breaths, swiping the sweat away with the back of his hand. That’s another thing the psychologist had suggested, to check out a few meditation and mindfulness techniques. Kody had thought it was a bunch of hooey at first but every now and then, usually when he woke from a nightmare of clawing at faceless monsters, he’d slow his breathing, forcing it deep into his belly, taking time to readjust.

The distant howl of a wild dog punctuated the silence as he slipped the guitar from the case and caressed the wood from the headstock to the bridge. It was a ritual he did before every concert, even if he wouldn’t be playing any acoustic numbers. And while Yanni’s guitar was a superb example of fine craftsmanship, he couldn’t help but wish he had his.

Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he took a step towards the stage. And stopped, as panic swamped him, strong and potent, leaving him gasping for air, drowning.

The psych said he didn’t have PTSD but that gave him small comfort as he stared at that rectangular platform as though it would devour him whole if he stepped onto it.

Frozen, he risked a glance over his shoulder. Tash hadn’t moved; she