Scotty follows my lead, crooning about summer and trucks, beer and good times, and the girls who are pouring in off the street scream our names.

Scotty lives for this shit. He always has. For the high of the girls and the crowd, the ones who for a few hours make him forget that we’re two months behind on rent. That everything outside the circle of bright lights is a world of shit and heartache.

Because here, it’s not. Here we’re fucking untouchable as they sway to our music and the beat I’m keeping with my drum sticks.

He loves this. And I get it. Not because I care about the girls—I do, in an abstract sort of way. I love it because for a few minutes every night, between covering the bullshit on the radio, we roll out a song that no one has heard before. Sometimes, they love it. Sometimes, I come out from behind the drums, and croon to the room, a song that bares my fucking soul, and even  with the lights so bright they’re blinding, I can see her in her little booth, hair pulled up and messy, eyes half-lidded as she listens.

It’s the closest I’ve come to talking to her. Because I know better.

A girl like her isn’t meant for me. She’s poise and pearls, peaches and cream skin and private smiles.

I’m covered in ink and scars and trying to forget my own fucked up past, and so far below a girl like her that it’s stupid to even consider it.

I do though. Every fucking time I see that tiny smile when I sing.

She doesn’t know I write for her. But I do. It’s the only way I’ve allowed myself to talk to her. At night, when Scotty and I stumble home drunk and high off the performance, when one of the barflies doesn’t end up in bed between us and—sometimes—on the nights when one does.

Scotty changes the rhythm and I shift, matching him as he slides into a ballad, crooning to the crowd. A group of sorority girls in uniform outfits of tiny shorts, hooker heels, and tops that flash smooth curves are on the dance floor, writhing and singing along, and I wonder which Scotty will tap to come home with us.

She isn’t coming in. It’ll be the first Thursday night in almost three months that she hasn’t been here and it bugs me. I want her here.

I miss a beat, stumbling on the rift, and Scotty sends me a sharp glance, kicking in with a solo to cover me. I shake my head once, and he shifts his attention back to the crowd as we give in to the music.

It’s the third song of the second set, when I’ve shoved her out of my mind almost completely, that the door swings open and she stalks in.

She’s out of place in a blue sundress and white sweater, an oversized bag at her side, her long red hair swirling around her face in a halo of angry curls.

She’s fucking gorgeous and the sudden release of tension is almost dizzying.

And right then, I decide. Fuck all the reasons it’s a bad idea. I’m tired of giving a shit about that. She can shoot me down if she wants—but first I’m going to give myself a shot.

***

“You’re girl was late,” Scotty rasps as we land on two stools at the bar. It’s late and the crowd of sorority girls has thinned to almost nothing, although a pair is nursing Cosmos and watching us speculatively.

Surprisingly, Scott’s ignored them completely.

“Need anything, boys?” Manda asks as she sways past, giving Scotty a flirty smile. He grins at her, letting his gaze sweep over her.

My best friend is a fucking slut. But with Manda, it’s all flirting and no action. She’d take him up on it—she’s made that very clear. But Scott doesn’t fuck where he works, and Barrie’s has been too good for us to risk screwing it up for a quick fuck.

Which is good, because I’d have to kick his ass if he touched her. She might be a little too friendly and a little desperate, but she’s a cute kid and I like her.

"Bourbon, Manda," he says, and she glances at me questioningly. I nod and she pours the drinks. Scotty glances at me. "What are you waiting on?"

I shrug and grit my teeth. Scotty twists and gives her a look over his shoulder. "Fine. Stay here and keep Manda company. I'm going to introduce myself to your siren."

I jerk him back by the collar of his shirt before he can take more than two steps and throw him back against the bar. "Back the fuck off, Scott," I growl.

He grins, a challenge and a taunt in that expression. "Then make your move, Rike."

I snatch the bourbon from Manda and take a deep breath before walking to her table.

And wait.

For a long. Fucking. Time.

It takes almost a full minute for her to look up, almost long enough for my courage to fail. I'm ready to retreat when she blinks and looks up at me, her blue eyes widening a little as they find mine. She looks startled and sleepy, and as gorgeous as she looked at a distance is nothing compared to how fucking flawless she is this close.

There are freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and dusted over her nose.

I swallow a groan as she licks her lips and gives me a tentative smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, and then go blank.

Because in none of my fantasies did I ever consider we’d actually ever get to this point. And the smirks and smooth lines won’t work—not on her. They haven’t worked for any guy that’s approached her for the past three months.

“What do you call a group of unorganized cats?” I ask and her eyes cloud, confused. She gives me a pretty frown and I grin. “A cat-astrophe.”

For a second, all either of us do is stare, and then she giggles. “That is literally the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

I grin, “So you want me to leave?”

Laughter dances in her eyes. “Have a seat, Jokes.”

My heart shoves up into my throat at the casual nickname and invitation but I keep my cool smile in place as I slide into the booth across from her. She pecks at the computer a few more times, and then twists it aside and reaches for her drink—a whiskey neat.

She normally drinks vodka cranberry, and I’ve fantasized about kissing that taste from her lips. My dick twitches and she watches me over the rim of her glass, lazy interest in her dark eyes.

“Y’all sounded good tonight,” she offers.

My lips tick up into a grin. “As opposed to most nights?”

A flush crawls up her cheeks. “No! You always sound good. I’m just—“

I laugh and lean back in the booth. Her adorable embarrassment is too easy to provoke. “I’m kidding, Red. Relax.”

“So how did you get involved in this? The band?”

“Scotty needed backup and it was fun. Something to keep me out of trouble. Neither of us are very good at doing shit without the other,” I say, skirting away from just how true that is and how fucking co-dependent we can be.

“That’s cute,” she says, grinning.

“Yeah?”

“Guys don’t usually do the whole BFF bullshit—not like girls. It’s kinda cute to see a couple of dudes who are good friends.”

There’s a little part of me that wants to point out that we aren’t BFFs. That we were forced together out of necessity and kept together to survive. But I don’t. That’s a little heavy for now, and I don’t particularly want her thinking about my best friend at the moment anyway.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask, leaning forward and tapping the open laptop. “Most girls like you find a library to study in.”

Her eyes narrow a little, and I get the feeling I’m wandering into dangerous territory. “Girls like me?”

Her tone is tight and full of warning, but I ignore it, offering her a lazy grin. “Pretty. Smart. Too damn good to be in this shithole.”

Her lips twitch and I lean forward, into her space a little, and whisper, “You’ve been here for months, Red. Distracting and out of place. So tell me. Why the hell do you keep coming back?”

Her eyes are wide and her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts and if I lean forward another few inches, I could taste the lips I’ve spent months fixating on.