Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lucy
Stella crosses her arms, watching as I lower myself onto the couch with a heavy sigh. “Okay, what gives. You’ve been quiet and weird since we got home. That Kincaid didn’t cross any lines, did he? Was I wrong? Did he have some sort of creepy ulterior motive after all?”
I shake my head. “Nash was a perfect gentleman.”
As in, he watched the final piece of my life implode and offered the kind of help I need, not useless advice or judgment for judgment’s sake. I still don’t know what to do with that other than be grateful.
Stella pops a hand on her hip. “Well, something happened. I’d like to think after knowing you for most of my life and then six days of sharing this shoebox with you, I’m sufficiently familiar with your moods.” Stella tosses her keys into a bowl near the door. “This one? It’s off.”
“They gave my job to my alternate. I officially will not be touring with Sandro René.”
As Stella’s jaw drops, my phone vibrates. I scan the text and my stomach clenches.
Mom
Hey Lu! Dad and I were thinking maybe we could meet for coffee tomorrow before you head home. Holiday’s? You could come by the house if you’d rather, but I figured if we’re out, you have an easy excuse to leave. I know how your dad gets
When I thought I’d be waving a Sandro René contract like a flag of victory, I was excited to see my parents. Finally, proof that I’d made the right choice in pursuing this dream of mine. Maybe, instead of looking disappointed, Dad would look proud.
But now?
Now I’m injured, jobless, sleeping on my best friend’s couch, and dreading the look on my father’s face. The smug I told you so. The subtle withdrawal. The way he never says he’s ashamed of me but still manages to make me feel it in my bones.
I don’t want coffee. I want a hole in the ground.
Stella plops down beside me and takes my hand. “You lost the job? That’s…” She trails off, trying to find the right word for the mess I’m sitting in.
“A real kick in the shins?” I offer.
“A confetti cannon of disappointment,” she counters.
“A reality check with brass knuckles.”
“That’s the one,” she says with a soft laugh, leaning her head against my shoulder in solidarity. “That’s exactly what it is.”
My smile fades as the weight of it all presses back in, heavy and sharp.
“What happened?” Stella asks. “Why did they let you go? Did you finally tell your agent about your ankle?”
“Nope.” I sigh deeply, shaking my head. “I’m pretty sure my roommate did. She was my alternate. If I can’t perform, she gets the job.”
I stare blankly ahead, the pulse in my ears dull and relentless. My body feels like it’s too much and not enough at the same time. I blink, trying to force back the sting in my eyes. I will not cry.
“Lucy…” Stella’s voice is soft, almost reverent.
I let out a brittle laugh. “Every instinct said not to trust Trish, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Thought maybe kindness could fix her.”
Stella winces. “Maybe it did and you just don’t know it yet. Sometimes things like that need time to take root.”
I nod, swallowing hard, but the knot in my chest only tightens. I swipe at dry eyes. “I must be so stupid.”
“Stop.” Stella cups my face before I can look away. “You’re not stupid. You’re kind. You see the best in people. You’re insanely talented. You’ve worked your ass off. And yeah, this sucks… but it’s not the end.”
I let out a shaky breath, her hands warm on my skin. “Feels like it.”
She drops her hands but holds my gaze. “It’s not. This is a setback. A really shitty one. But you’ll get through it.”
“I hate this,” I whisper.
It’s a weak substitute for what I really want to say: I’m scared. I’m broke. I’m tired. I don’t know if I can keep doing this anymore. But the words won’t come.
And then I think of Nash.
Of how he saw the whole thing unravel. My job. My pride. My fake composure. And instead of pulling away or trying to fix it with platitudes, he just sat there.
Unmoving. Solid.
And then, instead of the judgment every cell in my body knew to expect, he offered the kind of help I really need.
Something solid to grab onto.
A lifeline.
A plan.
Gratitude washes over me. Nash’s steady presence was everything I needed in that situation. Maybe everything I’ve ever needed, ever.
How strange to find it in someone I’ve only just met.
“So,” Stella says eventually, nudging my arm with hers, “you want to sit here all night feeling like roadkill, or do you want to pretend we’re twenty-one again and everything’s still possible?”
I eye her warily. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Hear me out,” she says with a grin that just keeps growing. “You, me, and Gabby. One night out. We won’t go crazy, just one drink, maybe more for the two-legged and non-concussed, some music, some harmless flirting with cute guys we have no intention of seeing again. A little controlled chaos.”
I hesitate. My body aches, my ankle throbs, and I still feel like my insides have been scooped out with a dull spoon. But the idea of sitting here, wallowing in my failure, feels worse.
I exhale. “I am on crutches.”
“Which just means we’ll get extra attention,” she says brightly. “People love a damsel in distress.”
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love me for it.”
I huff, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t mind feeling like a normal person for a minute.”
She gasps dramatically. “Oh, yay! We’ll swaddle you in bubble wrap if we need to.”
“That doesn’t sound normal at all!” I laugh despite myself, and Stella grins like she’s just won an award.
The bar is packed, thick with heat and bodies and the steady thump of bass vibrating through the floor.
The air is a cocktail of perfume and liquor, with a dash of cheap cologne courtesy of the guy who just shoulder-checked me on his way to the bar.
I wobble but catch myself, crutches planted like I’m digging in for battle.
Stella watches from a high-top near the wall, halfway to standing to come to my rescue on my way back from the bathroom, but I wave her off.
Controlled chaos, she said.
Understatement of the year.
I make my way to our table, and a waitress does a doubletake when she sees me hobble up. “Out on the town, huh? Brave.”
“Desperate,” I say with a tired smile. She laughs and takes our order—Long Islands for the girls, an amaretto on ice for me. I’ll sip. Slowly. Just enough to feel like a person again.
I exhale as I settle onto the stool Gabby dragged out for me, my ankle screaming in quiet protest. The bass thumps beneath us. Voices rise. Laughter echoes. It’s the kind of noise that makes me forget, if only for a second, that my life’s on pause.
A guy in a leather jacket wanders over, his grin lazy and a little too slick. “You break the floor, or did it break you?” he asks, nodding at my crutches.
I raise my brows. “Let’s just say gravity’s undefeated.”
He laughs and leans in, eyes dropping to my legs in a way that makes me suddenly wish I’d worn jeans instead of shorts. “What I’m hearing is, you’re a fighter. I like that. Can I buy you your next drink?”
I open my mouth—somewhere between amused and annoyed—when someone cuts in.
“She’s covered.”
That voice.
Masculine. Confident. A perpetual air of annoyance.
I twist toward it, pulse skipping, and there he is—Nash. Black tee. Jeans. Tousled hair. Intense eyes. That impossible mix of tension and ease, like he belongs anywhere and nowhere at once.
His eyes flick to the guy, who shrugs and walks away without a fight.
“Tell me that’s soda,” Nash says, storm-gray eyes holding mine hostage.
Ahh… there’s the judgment I expected this afternoon.
Annoyed, I lift my glass with a lazy smile. “But we’ve been through too much to lie to your face.”
Nash smirks, stepping closer, but there’s a line in his brow I don’t miss. “You’re still six days post-concussion, on crutches, and surrounded by drunk people.” His eyes shift to the guy he chased off, leaning on another woman’s table with the same slick smile he used on me. “And assholes.”
“You worried about me, Doc?” I mean it as a joke, but my stomach twists in recognition that yeah, Nash Kincaid seems worried about me. “It’s only amaretto on ice. I’m sipping. Slowly. Just enough to make me feel like a real person for a minute.”
Nash’s gaze lingers on mine, more curious than critical. “You feeling okay?” he asks. “Headaches? Nausea? Any pain or increased swelling after today’s session?”
I shake my head. “I feel surprisingly good. I mean, not good good. Considering. But, after today’s news… after the last week really… I needed a night where I don’t feel like the universe is chewing me up and spitting me out.”
I brace for another lecture. Instead, he nods slowly. “I get that.”
That simple phrase lodges somewhere in my chest. Not a compliment. Not pity. Just truth.
And gratitude washes over me once again.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“If you start feeling dizzy or disoriented, nauseated, anything out of the ordinary at all, you call me. I’ll be here in a heartbeat.” Nash’s voice lowers. “I know you hate feeling helpless. You’re not. You’ve got help.”
His eyes flick back to the crowd, like he’s looking for something, or maybe trying to figure out if he should stay. Meanwhile I’m wrestling with big thoughts and big feelings.
Here I am, my life teetering out of control, and I feel safe for the first time in a long time.
Who woulda thought it’d feel so good to be taken care of?
“So,” I say, not ready to say goodbye but not sure how to move forward, “what’s got you out tonight? This doesn’t exactly feel like your kinda place.”
Nash shrugs and leans in slightly. “I’m here because… well it doesn’t matter why I’m here. I saw you and I wanted to make sure you’re okay. And also to tell you I’m preparing a little musical education for our next rehab session.”
That gets a real laugh out of me. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” he says, deadpan. “You’ll thank me. You’ll see.”
His gaze lingers on mine for a second too long—steady, unreadable—then shifts to Stella and Gabby, both of whom are watching him carefully.
He straightens. “Ladies,” he says with a nod. “Take care of her.”
“We always do,” Stella replies, cool but not unkind.
Nash backs off, disappearing into the crowd. I follow him with my eyes longer than I should. Something about the way he walks—purposeful, sharp—sticks in my brain.
I take another sip, pulse still misfiring. “I think I see what you were talking about with the smoldering.”
“Kincaids,” Stella mutters. “They walk around like they own the place.”
“I don’t know,” Gabby says, softer. “It’s kind of nice. Being looked after.”
“Looked after?” Stella lifts an eyebrow. “More like managed.”
“Perspective’s a funny thing. Grayson used to do that, before…” Gabby gives a sad shrug to sum up the way her high school sweetheart shattered her heart when he chose his career over her.
I don’t say anything. I just keep sipping my drink, pretending I’m not watching the crowd for a second glimpse of a man I’m absolutely not thinking about.
Not even a little.
Okay…
Maybe just a little.