Before Caleb can answer, Striker Voss approaches us, his silver adorned face looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen it. He always seems so playful in public, so energetic on stage. Now he looks exhausted, drained both mentally and physically. Kinda like a father who has just had to bail his teenage kid out of jail in the middle of the night.

“I got him to take a few swigs of water, but he still refuses to eat anything. Caleb, I hate to leave you with him, but I’ve gotta get home. The wife will already have my balls for this.”

“Yes, of course. Get home to your family, Striker. We can take it from here.” He extends a hand toward me and gives a weak smile. “This is Heidi. Hopefully she can talk him into getting into a cab and heading home.”

“Heidi,” Striker says, holding out a large hand for me to shake. He looks so different up close, even taller than I imagined. And although he’s inked and skewered to death, there’s a certain gentleness in his eyes. “Good to finally meet you. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Likewise,” I reply, taking his hand for a short second. “What exactly are the circumstances?”

Striker looks toward the darkened stage and exhales heavily before looking back to me. “Ransom,” is all he says, as if that’s all the explanation I’ll need. And truth be told, it kinda is.

He bids us both good night, waves to the barkeep, and follows his brothers into the night.

“Well, Blondie. You’re up,” Caleb says once we’re alone.

“Up against what?”

“Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta fix this shit before it gets any worse.”

Right on cue, Caleb fishes out his cell and barks a greeting into the receiver, stepping away for privacy. I roll my eyes. I didn’t even hear it ring. He probably just wants to escape like the rest of them.

On tentative legs, I make my way to the front of the bar. It’s dark and smoky, yet there’s a single spotlight focused on the stage. The room is tiny, but I couldn’t get a clear view from the entrance since it was blocked by a partition meant to ward off prying outside eyes. As I round the corner, I’m grateful for the visual obstruction. And sad that I can never unsee what sits before me.

Ransom Reed is slouched over a piano, the top of it littered with beer bottles and empty glasses. There’s an overflowing ashtray that looks to be filled with at least a full pack of butts, some of them still emitting wisps of toxic vapors. And that’s not even counting the stuff he can legally smoke.

My heart lurches at the sight of his disheveled clothing and mussed hair, so far from his usual fresh-sexed look. Now, he just looks sloppy, and a bit dingy. Still, he’s beautiful. Inebriated or not, I can’t fathom a world where he isn’t the most alluring man alive.

I’m only a few feet away from him when he finally looks up from the piano keys he’s been staring at. At first, his glossy-eyed gaze doesn’t register, but after a few blinks, he focuses on me. Twin flashes of pain and anger contort his features, before he quickly smoothes them into a lazy smile.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t my hardworking publicist. Always there to answer my calls and show up to my appearances. Just like the good girl that she is.” His tone is casual, but I don’t miss the venom in his words.

I force myself to close the distance between us until I’m standing before him at the piano. The rest of the place appears to be empty now, but I don’t want to risk any eavesdroppers.

“I’m sorry, Ransom. Something came up, and—”

“Something came up? Something more important than me and what I need?” He barks out a harsh laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course, it did. Let me guess, your husband came up. Didn’t he, Heidi? Oh, he was up for you, all right.”

“Stop it, Ransom,” I grit out, looking around to see if anyone heard him. “That’s enough.”

“Is it enough, Heidi? Have you had enough of me? Because, baby, I assure you, I have so much more to give you. And that is what you want, right? For me to give you . . .” He reaches down between his jean-clad thighs and grips himself, gently squeezing more than a handful. “. . . this. All this. Every last long, thick inch fucking you crazy until your eyes roll to the back of your head. That is what you want, right?”

“No!” I retort, my face hot with frenzied anger. “How dare you. How dare you fucking speak to me that way.”

“Speak to you that way?” He leans forward, clumsily placing his hands on the keys so that it creates a composition of chaos. I look down to see that they’re all scuffed up, the top layer of skin on his knuckles caked with dried blood. What the hell? “You like it. You begged for it. Don’t try to act like I sought you out. And now that you’ve gotten what you want, you just throw me away, is that it? Just use me like a fucking dildo and throw me back in your lingerie drawer with all your other dirty, little toys.”

This time, he doesn’t even try to mask the truth on his face. There’s pain there. Rejection. Remorse. Even through the haze of alcohol and God knows what else, Ransom is hurt. I hurt him. And I don’t even realize how.

I take a deep breath and steel what’s left of my nerves before sitting down next to him on the piano bench. He reeks of booze and stale cigarettes, and I resist the urge to turn my head away. An action like that would only further alienate him, and the objective right now is to get through to him. To make him feel like he is wanted and respected, even in his debilitated state.

“Ransom, I’m sorry. Whatever you think I did, I’m sorry. You’re right; I should have answered your call. I should have been there for you when you needed me. How about you let me take you home and we can talk more?”

“Why?” he sneers. “Will your husband be there? Does he want to watch that too?”

“No, Ransom. I promise, just you and me. Let’s get you out of here, get you cleaned up, and have a cup of coffee. Doesn’t that sound much better than sitting in a grimy bar in the middle of the night?”

He almost smiles, but shakes his head instead. “Not yet. I want to play a song for you first.”

“A song?” I take a beat to erase the annoyance in my voice when he gives me a pointed look. “Don’t you want to play it for me later? After you’ve gotten some sleep and let your hands heal?”

He looks down at his battered knuckles and frowns, as if he’s just realizing that they’re raw and reddened. “No,” he replies, shaking his head. “I want to play it for you now.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “But then home after that, ok?”

“Ok.” He flexes his bruised fingers before lithely placing them on the keys. Even intoxicated, his hands are incredibly graceful. With the first few notes, his eyes close and his head dips back to face the ceiling, surrendering himself to the music. Giving over to pure, raw emotion that can only be translated through song. He begins to sing, and soon I am just as wrapped up in the ballad, completely swaddled in the sound of his voice.

Your lips taste like lies

So sweet that they sting my eyes

I lift my face to the sky

Drown in the sorrow of angel cries

It’s amazing, every note, every inflection of his voice accompanied by the piano . . . pure, unadulterated magic. But it’s sad. Much too melancholy to accompany such a beautiful melody.

I let him finish his song as I sit in silence, contemplating the inspiration of those lyrics. Where does such sadness stem from? How can a man who appears to have it all—youth, beauty, fame, fortune—exude so much pain?

When he slides his fingers from the ivory keys, his whole body slumps over and half of his weight topples on top of me while the other lands on the piano. I yelp underneath the heft of his frame and struggle to get him upright. Luckily, Caleb emerges from some hidden room and helps to get Ransom off me.