Chapter 2
June
I t’s cold outside, but the sun is warm on my face as I round the corner at the top of the steps to the ‘L’ platform. The Blue Line is just rolling up to the station, so I pick up the pace. The doors slide open, and I jostle my way inside.
It’s packed today. Standing room only. I grab the upper bar for support as we surge forward, then fish for my phone in my bag to see what kind of chaos awaits me today.
The first text is from my friend Kacie. She’s this incredible rock drummer who used to play for The Heat.
I met her last year when they were playing all the clubs in town, but then some bad things happened between her and her bandmate, Micah.
She ended up quitting the band and moving back home, and since then she’s been in a real funk.
I’ve been trying like crazy to get her to come back to visit me.
I thought I finally had her number this week, though, because Kacie’s a huge fan of The Lost Souls. I called her up to see if I could talk her into coming out to see one of their shows with me, but no luck.
Apparently things have changed!
KACIE: June! I’m driving to Chicago. Micah talked me into coming out to help finish the album because his drummer took off. Am I a crazy person??? Probably. But I am so there for The Lost Souls show with you tomorrow night!
I’m so excited I could jump up and down if I weren’t standing shoulder to shoulder with a dozen strangers right now. I shoot her a text back to let her know she just made me the happiest girl in the whole wide world.
But then I scroll down to my next text, and just seeing that it’s from my boss takes me down about a thousand notches. Of course, it’s in keeping with his usual bosshole tone.
LARRY: June, these three shows are critical. Everything must go off without a hitch. Understood?
Ugh.
The audacity of this guy.
I’d put good money on him not even making an appearance this weekend. He knows better. With a colossal band like the Souls playing our midsized club, there are going to be a hundred issues to work through, but he can’t be bothered to lift so much as his little finger to help with any of it.
I poke out my reply with disgust: Understood . Then I give my phone the finger before hitting send.
God, I hate Larry.
I fantasize about rage quitting every time he so much as speaks to me, but the truth is I’m completely at his mercy.
He knows I’ll never quit because managing a rock club is essentially my dream job.
Sure, the pay is terrible—I probably made more per hour when I was bartending—but I love music more than anything.
Managing this club means I get to work directly with the bands and focus on making their shows the absolute best they can be.
It’s fun to see the bigger bands that are coming through on tours, but I like the smaller bands, too, when they’re opening for larger acts or even just starting out.
It’s challenging work, and there’s no shortage of excitement with all the things I have to manage on a daily basis. It keeps me on my toes, because if anything ever went seriously wrong for one of these shows and Larry fired me, I’d probably end up working in an office somewhere.
And then I’d have to beg someone to put me out of my misery.
But hopefully everything will go smoothly tonight. With the band’s tour manager coming in early, we should be able to sort through all the details before the bands even show up tonight.
Ugh. The bands.
My stomach is in knots. What’s it going to be like seeing Anthony again?
I’ll admit it’s weirdly exciting but also terrifying. It’s been six months since his last postcard.
I reach into my bag and pull it out of the little side pocket where I keep it tucked away.
It’s a breathtaking image of the Grand Canyon at sunset.
I looked up their tour schedule at the time, and they were playing this huge music festival in Las Vegas.
I’ve always wanted to attend something like that.
I flip the card over in my hands and run a finger over Anthony’s familiar cursive on the back.
This one is different from all the others: “Hey, Chicago, I’m in town next week on break, and I need to see you. Call me? -Anthony.” He wrote his phone number at the bottom even though he knows I’ve had it for years.
But I never texted, and I never called.
After that, the postcards just…stopped.
I felt terrible—ghosting him—but it was a relief, too, because it was finally over.
Or so I thought.
But then, a couple of months ago, I saw it: “The Lost Souls,” printed right there at the top of our club calendar in big, bold letters.
I’m pretty sure it’s their tour manager, Charlotte, who books the shows, so the fact that they’re coming back to our club probably has nothing to do with me.
Besides, Anthony’s a sharp guy. I’m sure he’s figured out by now that I’m not interested in trying to make this into some kind of a relationship.
Still, I’ve been on edge ever since, because something changed between us that night at my place. When he wrapped me up in his arms, I felt things I’d never experienced with anyone before.
Safe.
And warm.
And strong.
I remember feeling overwhelmed by this intense need to be physically close with him. But even after we had sex, the feeling was still there. I couldn’t pull myself away from the warmth of his body. He cuddled me up, and I fell asleep in his arms, my cheek nestled against his chest.
He had to get up early the next morning because their tour bus was leaving, and I pretended I was still asleep.
I didn’t want to make things any weirder than they already were.
I heard him moving around the room to get dressed, but then he was quiet for a long time.
He sat down on the edge of my bed and ran his hand lightly down my back, letting it rest there for a long time.
Eventually he leaned in to kiss me softly on my forehead, then he whispered goodbye.
So…not your typical hookup.
After that I couldn’t stop thinking about him: the deep sound of his laughter when we were curled up in bed together and I made some stupid joke.
Or the sweet things that he whispered in my ear that night.
But also the sexy things. Like the feel of his mouth on my breast or the way his low moans rumbled in my chest as he pressed his body up against mine.
But, most of all—more than anything else—I couldn’t stop thinking about the scorching hot expression on his face when he looked deep into my eyes and fucked me until I came so hard I cried.
That one, singular moment kept playing through my mind, and I couldn’t make it stop.
Clearly I’d made a mistake by sleeping with him. I knew better, but I let things get way out of hand. For me, fooling around with Anthony was playing with fire.
And now he’s back.
What if he tries to start things up again?
Do I have the willpower to shut it down if he turns his resolve-melting charms on me? It’s been nearly impossible to get him out of my mind ever since we fooled around, and another big dose of Anthony is about the last thing I need right now.
The train screeches to a halt, and I realize we’re already at my stop. I don’t know where my brain is today.
Thank God Anthony won’t be showing up until later tonight. I need to be able to focus on pulling this show together—I can’t handle that kind of distraction on top of everything else.
I hop off the train, edging my way through the crowd. But there’s one thing I can’t seem to put out of my thoughts.
Even as I reach the bottom of the steps and round the corner toward the club, it’s still there, just running through my mind, over and over.
What if it happens again?