I laugh. “No, don’t apologize. It’s not you—”

My eyes land on a group that just entered the booth area, a couple.

Heaviness hits my chest and I suck in a breath.

It’s him with a pretty girl. He’s got on jeans and a blue button-up shirt, and the sleeves are rolled up, his roped forearms taut and muscular. He looks hot, his hair styled back and gelled off his face as if he’s taken care with it.

She’s tall and slender with shoulder-length reddish brown hair that brushes against her pale shoulders in a yellow dress. She’s got her hand on his arm, and she’s laughing up at something he’s saying. She slides into a booth near us, just one aisle over, a bit closer to the stage.

He smiles down at her and then his eyes move up and find me.

His freezes and runs his gaze from me to Mike, his face expressionless. He takes in the table, lingering on the shot glasses, then on my date. His lips go flat.

His date takes his arm and pulls him down to the seat.

He keeps his gaze on me for a long time. I glare back.

“Shit, Charisma, who is that?” It’s Mike speaking, and I tear my eyes off of Blaze and look at him.

I clear my throat. “Blaze Townsend.”

His eyes flare. “That’s your ex, isn’t it? The most popular guy on campus?”

“Not technically an ex, and there are others more popular.” Not really.

“He’s seething. Something really serious happened between you and him, am I right?” He leans in closer. “You want to get out of here?”

I think about it. It would be the prudent thing, but when do I ever make the right decision? “No. Maybe I…need to see this.”

“You sure? I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”

“Trust me, he doesn’t care—or if he does, he’s never said so.”

He said I want you.

Mike thinks, his gaze bouncing from me to Blaze. “Some guys aren’t much for pretty words, but their eyes tell the story. His are…scary.”

Maybe.

The waitress shows up with our refills, and once it’s in my glass, I suck it down.

21

The Purple Iris is packed when we walk in and make our way to a booth.

“I love this place! Great idea,” she says, looking up at me with deep blue eyes.

Not my idea. “Yeah,” I say as we take in the open seats.

She squeezes my arm. “I heard the band tonight is great.”

“Yeah.”

She nods and bats her lashes. She’s Dillon’s cousin, and he’s been begging me to be nice to her and give her a chance. “You’re grade A prime beef and you’re moping around the dorm. It’s fucking embarrassing. You’re in the Combine. If you don’t have her, ride a new pony!” He might have used the phrase pussy-whipped.

I’ve been ignoring his nagging, but today after classes and my workout, his cousin showed up at the dorm and Dillon begged me to double up with him and his girl—and why the hell not?

She asked for space, I remind myself.

I opened myself up in class, and Charisma acted like it wasn’t a big deal, almost like I was a nuisance, and trust me, I’ve felt like that plenty of times in my life growing up. I don’t want to go there again.

Doesn’t she know I don’t say those kinds of things to any girl?

Still, I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t have come.

I spot a booth and we move through the crowd. Voices call my name and people wave. A couple of players invite us to sit at their big table in the front, but I tell them we’re hanging with Dillon and his girl when they show up.

My stomach jumps when I see Charisma at a booth. The girl next to me is talking nonstop, but I’m not hearing a word she’s saying.

She’s…she’s with someone. My hands clench and press against my legs as I take them in, the glasses on their table, the way he’s leaning in over her, his arm around her shoulder.

Yeah, it’s like that then. Space.

Yet, here I am with someone.

What right do I have?

But those are logical thoughts, and right now, logic is way out of reach, stupidity inching in. I want to go over there and pull her out of that booth. My hands curl— “…which side of the booth do you want?”

I look down at the redhead and blink. What’s her name? Melody…Melanie? I shake my head then nod when I realize that’s the wrong response.

“Uh, wherever, yeah, great.” Only when I slide in, my view is of her.

My hand goes in my pocket and I touch the note there.

The one I can’t bring myself to ask her about.

My date leans into me, and I look down at her. How the hell am I supposed to get through this date when I don’t even remember her name?

We order a round of drinks as the band picks up, a ragtag but talented group of students from Waylon who mostly do old rock cover songs.

M is on her second beer when Dillon and his girl, a brunette, join us. I don’t know her name either, but I’m glad for the distraction.

“How’s it going?” he asks me when the girls pull out their phones to take selfies.

“What’s her name? Your cousin?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, man. That’s my family and you don’t even know her name?” He studies my face, and whatever he sees makes him frown. “Dude, it’s Mary—easiest name in the world.”

“Does it end with an “I”, like M-E-R-R-I? Because I’m starting to see a trend lately.”

He smirks. “Nah. Just regular Mary.”

I nod.

His eyes skate over the room, linger for a moment in one spot, then come back to me. “Now I know the problem. Your ex is here.”

“Not my ex.”

“Okay, your former hookup who’s also in our class, also known as the ‘hot piece who turned me down sophomore year’.”

“Fuck you.”

He takes a sip of his beer. “See. That explains the mood.”

“I’m fine,” I snap.

He studies me. “Tonight, you’re not gonna think about her or anything. You’re gonna drink some beer and have fun. You feel me?”

The band takes a quick break, and Dillon gets up to go talk to them. They look at me a few times until I finally raise my beer and toast them.

Dillon waves for me to join, and I finish up the beer and head that way—anything to move around and get her out of my line of sight.

“You wanna sing tonight?” Dillon asks. “The band is asking.”

“Nope, not feeling it.” I have a few times over the years, mostly when I’ve had too much to drink and someone prods me until I give in and do it.

Mary has joined us. “Oh, please, Blaze! Dillon is always talking about how great you are.”

I shrug. “I’m not that good. I just know how to carry a tune.”

Dillon shakes his head. “Liar.”

The band guy speaks. “You know any eighties songs?”

My eyes go over to Charisma. “A few.”

“What instrument do you prefer? I’ve got a little bit of everything. Piano, guitar, drums…” he asks.

She’s not watching me, instead looking at her date, their heads bent low. I watch him touch her hand— “I can play them all, but I’d rather just sing. What song you want? I know the words to a shit ton.” Thanks, ADHD.

We run through some options, talking over Skid Row, Guns N’ Roses, and Poison, but nothing strikes me.

Then it hits me, and I suggest a song that’s been burning inside me for three damn days. Images of her play out in my head, that short skirt, her heels.

“Can you sing it like he can?” Carson, the lead singer, asks with excitement. He’s a tall, skinny guy wearing a Metallica shirt.

I bark out a laugh. “I’m rusty, and it might sound shitty, but…”

He grins. “Doesn’t matter. It’s the whole package they’ll see.”

Whatever. I just want to sing those words to her, get them off my chest.

Dillon rolls his eyes. “Dude, your voice is butter. You’ll nail it.”

I look back at Charisma, and part of me—okay, all of me—wants her to be watching me, wants her to want me so bad she can’t stop looking.

Mary hands me another beer, and I take a long sip.

Fuck it.

I don’t need her.

All I need is this…the crowd going nuts when I take that stage. They care. They don’t need space.

“All right. Let’s do this.”

Dillon dances a little jig, and Mary claps her hands then throws her arms around my neck for a hug.

The band wraps up their break and takes the stage. I follow them.

22

“Your not-ex is on stage.”

I start at his statement, having been deep in thought, and turn to watch as Blaze walks across the wooden floor then hangs a little ways back from the lead singer. Cheers and applause go up, and several people call out his name from the football table near the front.

One of the guys from the band grabs the mic. “All right, guys, we’ve got a special treat for you tonight. He needs no introduction, but please welcome Blaze Townsend, one of the football players who just brought us home a national championship!”

More whoops and applause.

“Sing it, Blaze,” comes from the girl he’s with.

I swallow down another sip of wine. I’m not sure I can sit through this. I’ve heard him sing; it made me cry.

He stalks up to the mic, raises his hand, and waves Miss America style. The crowd goes nuts.

“Ah, thanks y’all. That was a fine welcome. You’re a good group.”