When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys 2)

I got to my feet and bowed to the smattering of applause until the soft strains of a guitar filtered through the music and cut through the talk of dozens of conversations.

Someone was playing the Coldplay song, “Yellow.”

Not just playing it. Slaying the shit out of it.

I craned over heads and saw a guy in jeans, T-shirt, and beanie strumming his guitar in the corner, his voice raspy and heavy with emotion. The immediate audience around him was rapt—a little oasis of calm, while I stood in the swirling maelstrom of the party and my own tempestuous thoughts.

The guy’s voice was deeper and rougher than Chris Martin’s and infused the song with a different depth, making it new—and sort of perfect—all over again.

And aside from that small group, everyone was missing it.

The bottle of Patrón, now empty, lay abandoned on the carpet. I ran for it, swept it up, and leapt onto the dining room table that overlooked the living room. My sleek boots slid across an acre of polished mahogany. I managed to keep my footing but the Patrón bottle smashed on the smooth wood surface, scattering glittering shards across the tabletop.

A massive party foul, but on the plus-side, it helped me get everyone’s attention.

“Everyone shut the fuck up!”

Stunned silence made its way through the dark living room, snuffing conversations. I hissed at the guy nearest the sound system to shut off whatever bullshit was currently playing so that we could listen to that guy in the corner singing his goddamn heart out.

The party went quiet enough to my satisfaction. People flooded in from the kitchen and backyard to listen. Chance emerged, red-faced and snorting, wanting to know what I’d done to his parents’ table, but I’d barely registered his presence. Lighters flicked on. The soft glow of phones illuminated the dark, recording something a little bit miraculous—a guy being completely vulnerable. He let it all out, pouring himself into the room for everyone to hear.

The song ended on a final soft note, and silence descended. For a few perfect seconds, the room held its breath.

I let mine out. “Holy. Shit.”

My words ignited applause and cheers that broke the peace. Shattered glass scratched the polished wood under my boots.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

But fixing everything I’d ever broken was impossible; I’d long ago given up trying. The peace of the song evaporated. I couldn’t hold on to it, so I let the mania take over. The only thing to do, my cracked, tequila-soaked mind suggested, was to keep going. Hurl myself into the crazy. Maybe I’d land safely. Maybe not. Might as well dance.

“Dude! What the fuck are you doing?”

Chance’s eyes bulged as I tap-danced on the shattered glass, daring fate to let me slip and fall. To cut myself to ribbons on the jagged shards and feel real pain instead of the howling agony that lived permanently in my heart.

“I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the raaaain…” I crooned.

Not bad. Like Fred Astaire if Fred Astaire was a seventeen-year-old guy drowning in booze and self-loathing.

“My parents are going to fucking kill me!” Chance raged. “Someone get over here and help me get this prick off the table.”

He made a swipe for me, but I danced out of reach, never losing a step until River Whitmore emerged from the kitchen. His beautiful face was composed, lips drawn down. Whatever vulnerability I’d seen in the closet had stayed there.

“Show’s over,” River said to me, his voice low and threatening. Masculine and hard and sexy as hell. “Get the fuck off.”

I went down on one knee, one hand over my heart, the other reaching for him. “What a glorious feeling. I’m happy again.”

But River wasn’t playing anymore. His luscious mouth curled in a sneer and he smacked my hand away before making a grab for me. A year spent running away from orderlies at the sanitarium had made me nimble—I evaded River’s grasp and leapt off the table into the void. Like a cat with nine lives (who’d spent a few already), I landed on my feet, vaulted the couch and jumped to the coffee table.

“Just singin’ and dancin’ in the raaaaain…” I finished the song with a flourish, knocking over beer cans and smashing more glass under my boots.

“You’re dead, fucker,” someone snarled behind me.

I whirled around

to see Frankie Dowd—his nose sporting a white bandage—had arrived. He was aiming a real goddamn police-issue Taser at a beautiful beast of a man in a black T-shirt with tattoos snaking up his arms. The musician in a beanie stood between them.

Frankie lunged. The huge tatted guy moved with a fighter’s agility and knocked the Taser out of Frankie’s grasp then gripped him by the shirt and drove him through the crowd. They went down in a heap on the carpet beside my impromptu stage.