Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

"What's your poison, Noah?" he asked after passing something fruity to one of two college girls sitting at the bar. Their blonde heads were bent close together, and Noah could almost make out words as they alternated whispers with stolen glances at the second bartender behind the rail, who seemed unaware of them as he expertly mixed the Manhattan that Noah had requested.

"Are you new?" Noah asked. "You look familiar, but I'm not sure why."

"I've been here a few months," he said, wiping his hands on a bar rag. "But I just started working a regular night shift yesterday. Before, I filled in at night or covered lunch. I'm Cam, by the way."

"Cam's a grad student at UT," Tyree explained as Noah frowned, still trying to place him. He studied the guy's face--young, but not naive, with intelligent blue-gray eyes, dark brown hair, and a single earring--and tried to remember where he'd seen it before.

He shook his head, still pulling a blank. "What are you studying?" Maybe that would jar his memory. Noah was certain he'd met the guy before, and his inability to place the kid was bothering him more than it should.

If Cam answered, though, Noah didn't hear it, because at that moment, there was a lull in the din filtering in from the front room, then a smattering of applause before a male voice announced that there was a pre-show surprise. A local performer he hoped they enjoyed.

Noah tuned it out. When he was younger, he'd loved live music. Now, it just brought back unwelcome memories.

He glanced at Tyree. "I didn't think you brought bands in on Wednesdays."

"Usually don't. This one's getting quite a local following, though, and they leave soon on a three-state tour. The lead singer asked if they could do a farewell performance." A wide grin lit his face. "Honestly, I think he mostly wanted his girlfriend to have the chance to try out her new song on a live audience. She's not part of the band, but she's got chops."

"She's not his--" Cam began, but Noah wasn't listening anymore. Because the voice from the front room had reached him, low and clear and hauntingly familiar.

It couldn't be. Could it?

He stood, then moved to the doorway that separated the two areas. He squeezed in between patrons knotted in tight groups, the words seeming to pull him closer even as the voice made him want to draw away.

". . . and when I'm feeling blue, I always circle back to you . . ."

He didn't hear anymore. How could he now that he was looking at her? Now that the wild roar of emotion and memory was filling his head?

Now that he was staring at the woman he'd loved.

The woman he'd destroyed.

And the woman whose voice was even now tearing his heart into pieces.

2

". . . I lose myself in sorrow, clinging to tomorrow.

I don't know how I will get through . . ."

The words soar out of me, my chest swelling as emotion fills my heart. And not just the emotion of the song, but the knowledge that I'm back.

This song--the first one I've performed in almost ten years--isn't just good, it works.

I can see it on the ardent faces in the audience. The bodies held tight with anticipation, as if the music is a tangible thing that they can cling to, letting it carry them away to another world.

I've nailed it. And the pride inside me is laced with relief as sweet and warm as fudge sauce on vanilla ice cream.

I'm back. I'm finally back.

My voice rises as the music and lyrics tell the story. Her triumph over the memory of him. The way she claims her victory by reclaiming her life.

She survived, tall and proud and ready to shut the door on the past and finally move on.

That's the song, anyway.

The reality goes deeper. The reality is that I survived.

And I lived to sing about it.