I shift my attention to the area behind the bar, searching for Cam. But he's not there either. Not that he could have confirmed that the man with red hair was Noah. Cam's ten years younger than me, and even though I showed Noah pictures of my brother and bragged repeatedly, the two never actually met.
Which leaves me standing like an idiot in the doorway, my forehead creased into a scowl.
"Considering you blew them away in there, you don't look very happy."
I glance to my left, where Tyree is standing at a table chatting up two guys in business suits who I assume are regulars. Immediately, my mood shifts, and I smile.
"Thank you so much for letting me go on before Seven Percent," I say, genuinely grateful. "I know Ares tossed the idea at you out of left field yesterday, and even though it was only me with a microphone and my guitar, I understand what a hassle last minute changes can be, so I--"
He holds up a hand to cut off my flow of words. "I was happy to do it. Hell, I'm glad you took us up on the opportunity."
My smile wavers a little, and I wonder how much Ares told him. We've been friends since college, when we both attended the University of Texas. I whizzed through in three years, mostly because I was bored with school and wanted to perform, and I left for Los Angeles while Ares stayed behind in Austin.
He introduced me to his LA-based cousin Celia, though, and she and I ended up forming Pink Chameleon with two other girls.
When I moved back to Austin, I looked him up, of course, and he was a solid rock in my personal post-Noah storm. He's one of the few people who knows that I'm on the edge of the springboard, my toes curling over as I steady myself, gathering my courage to leap off the high dive and back into my dream of a career in music.
More than that, he's one of only a handful who understands how much I've had to heal so I could claw my way up to that sky-high platform in the first place.
I hug myself. Seeing Noah could destroy all of that. Hell, just thinking about Noah could set me back.
But only if I let it.
I straighten my shoulders, remembering everything I've gone through. How much I've sacrificed and how hard I've worked. And you know what? Fuck Noah.
Fuck him and his maybe-here, maybe-not apparition. I can handle the man, and I can handle his ghost. And I'm sure as hell not going to run scared.
Not only that, but if he is here, I want to know why. And if he's intentionally playing peek-a-boo, I want to know why even more. Austin's my place now. My safe spot. It's where I'd run to escape the memory of him--of us.
It's the place that sheltered and healed me. That gave me the strength to build a wall around the pain. Then helped me to shut those sweet memories up behind it. The precious memories that ached deep inside, and gave the pain both fire and the steel-honed edge of a razor.
He can't be here. Because if he's here, I'm not sure that I can keep those walls from crumbling down.
For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving. I should just go home, go to sleep, and pretend like this night ended with the crowd's applause. After all, I still have a ton of preparation to do for tomorrow's crucial pitch meeting. Because the sad truth is, music may be my first love, but marketing pays the bills.
Besides, the odds are it wasn't him. Because why on earth would he even be here?
Then again, I don't know where else he should be. I've taken a lot of pains to avoid learning anything at all about Noah Carter over the years, and as far as my world is concerned, he doesn't exist.
Except maybe he does.
I know the odds are slim, but I also know that even if I went home, I wouldn't sleep. I'd obsess.
And so I draw a breath for courage and then walk the short distance to the bar. Tyree's behind it again, and I perch on the only unoccupied stool.
"Chardonnay?"
I shake my head. "Just a question. Did you happen to see a guy in here earlier. Tall. Amazing green eyes. Good looking, but it sneaks up on you." I bite back a smile, remembering the first time I'd seen Noah. He'd been working on a video game that I was scoring. I'd been told I needed to talk to him, and that he was in the last cubicle. I'd found him hunched over his keyboard, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, his hair sticking up in all directions.
He'd glanced up at me, and I'd barely noticed. Then he'd stood, his hand smoothing down his hair before he smiled--and it was as if a spotlight had suddenly been aimed at him. I took it all in. His muscled arms. His broad chest. The eleven-plus inches he surely had on me. A strong face with a wide mouth and honest eyes. And thick, unruly hair that suggested a carefree attitude in a man who turned out to have the kind of killer work ethic I admire. Who was, in fact, the owner of the company, even though he worked out of that cramped, crappy space.
His smile slayed me, wide and bright and filled with genuine humor. But it was his eyes that stole my heart. The connection that sparked in them the moment our gazes locked. The silent greeting of one soul to another when the only thing that needs to be said is, I know you.
Or, at least, I'd known him back then. I thought I had, anyway.
I give myself a mental shake, realizing I hadn't told Tyree the most pertinent detail. "And he has red hair. Copper-colored, really. I saw him standing in the doorway when I was on stage, and I think he's a guy I knew in Los Angeles." I try to sound casual. "Did you notice anyone like that?"
"Sure," Tyree says, as if my question had no weight at all. As if his answer doesn't have the ability to strike a physical blow. "You must be looking for Noah Carter."