Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

I'm performing only this one song tonight, but when it ends, I'm utterly drained. I've thrown everything I have into it--emotion, memory, regrets, ambitions--and as the audience clusters around me, I'm almost afraid I won't be able to stand when I slide off this stool.

But their applause restores me, just the way it used to. I feel my strength returning, and I plant my feet on the stage, then casually hand my guitar to Ares when he strides over, his hand extended, so that I can take a bow. Which I do, relishing the moment.

"What do you say, folks?" Ares asks. "Is this girl back or is she back?"

A general cheer rises from the crowd, and I laugh, delighted. I've never shied from an audience, and now I smile at the faces near me, silently thanking them all for giving me a chance. After all, they'd come tonight to hear Ares and his band, Seven Percent, before they leave Austin to head out on tour. My performance could have been an annoyance.

"Kiki King, ladies and gentlemen," Ares goes on, as I continue to scope out the crowd. "In case you didn't know it, she was one of the founding members of Pink Chameleon, and wrote their biggest hit, Turnstile."

He doesn't mention that Turnstile was the last song I both wrote and recorded, and I'm grateful for his oversight. Anyone in the audience who's familiar with Pink Chameleon probably knows that I left the band and dropped out of the music scene while Turnstile was still climbing the charts, even if they don't know why.

The rest of them only know what they just heard. And since I'm starting over, that's more than enough.

I take another bow at Ares' urging and then look out at the crowd again. They're still clapping, and I'm still basking. And as I look past the nearby faces, I see my little brother Cameron standing in the doorway that leads to the smaller bar in the back.

He's clapping wildly, and I roll my eyes when he thrusts two fingers into his mouth and releases a wolf whistle that carries over the din all the way to where I'm standing on the stage. My smile spreads wide, then I laugh out loud when his boss, Tyree, steps up behind him and glares down until Cam notices, shoots me an apologetic glance, then hurries back to serve drinks or chat up patrons or whatever other bar-related duty he's been shirking.

Tyree lingers, and though he tries hard to look fierce, I see the pride in his eyes as he nods at me, and my overfull heart swells a little bit more.

I'd found Cam so easily in the back of the room that I hadn't noticed any of the other patrons standing near him. But now, as I'm about to take a sideways step toward Ares, I catch a glimpse of red hair in a shade so familiar it makes my heart ache.

It can't be him. He's just on my mind, that's all. The man I once loved. The son-of-a-bitch who'd inspired tonight's song.

But no way is he really here, and I'm still repeating that mantra when he lifts his chin, I see his eyes, and the world starts to fall out from under me.

No.

No, it's my imagination. The song. The music. My mind playing tricks on me.

It's not him. It can't be. Why would he be here? In Austin? In this bar? On this night?

Panic flutters inside me, hot and wild. I've just gotten my shit together. Just started writing again, singing again. I have a plan, a whole map for the rest of my life, and I don't want to see Noah Carter at all.

And the sky is pink, rainclouds are full of wine, and ice cream has negative calories.

I start to search the crowd, looking for another glimpse of that familiar burnished copper. But then Ares calls to me, and I realize that Seven Percent is ready to start their set. Reluctantly, I wave a final goodbye to the crowd, then hug Ares before hurrying off the stage. I know I should linger and listen to them--either that or just get the hell out of The Fix--but like a good little masochist, I push away from the stage and deeper into the bar, straight toward where I saw Noah. Or, I'm hoping, the Noah-like apparition.

I'm ground level now, and I can't see much of anything. I'm five-seven only when I'm in heels, and today I'm wearing canvas flats, which means my view consists primarily of a sea of male chests.

I nip through the crowd, shifting and turning as I work

my way backward. It's slow going. Not only do more than a few people pause to tell me they enjoyed my performance, but I'm also stymied by the fact that most folks are moving toward the stage at the front of the bar, which means that I'm fighting against the current.

I tell myself I should go home. My mind is playing tricks, and I need to get out of here. Except I can't seem to make my feet cooperate, and they lead me inexorably forward. I'm not sure what I expect to find when I finally push through the crowd--a tall man with red hair and nothing else familiar about him? Or the man I'd once loved with all my heart and soul?

More important, I'm not sure what I want to find.

The question, however, is moot. By the time I get to the doorframe that marks the entrance to the quieter back bar, Noah's nowhere to be seen.

If it even was Noah. Which, of course, it wasn't.

I squeeze past two frat boys whose broad shoulders seem to fill the doorway, then peer around the room, my pulse pounding so noisily I can barely hear the strains of Seven Percent's first song behind me.

He isn't here.

Neither Noah, nor anyone who looks like him.

Had my imagination been playing tricks? Or had we passed in the crowd, him going one way and me the other?