Chapter 2
two
Later That Night
The Mission surges with energy.
Electricity amps up the crowd with every passing minute.
There’s no way to keep up when Lake Lyon is headlining.
He won’t even step onstage for three more hours, yet the room is already packed. Right now Lake’s a rising star. His name is everywhere. Isis Management just signed him, which means he’ll break out internationally within the year.
Tonight is probably the last time he’ll play a venue of this size.
I’ve seen him around. The man’s hard to miss. Tall, stupidly gorgeous. His eyes are the lightest green against his cocoa skin, giving him a sexy, mysterious aura. He moves through the world as if he owns his place in it.
Part of me is in awe. The other part envious. He’s living my dream.
The sound of glasses knocking in sharp bursts snaps me back to reality. Ice cracks under my scoop. Orders are stacked three deep across the bar. Fans keep pressing in, shoulder to shoulder, filling every inch of space as if proximity might make the drinks flow faster.
Pour. Slide. Turn. Repeat.
My hands know this rhythm as well as they know a fretboard. Pike Place in the afternoons. Bartending at The Mission at night. Two stages. Two versions of me. One where I hone my skills busking for tips. The other where I stand close enough to something bigger.
I can almost touch it.
Almost.
“Hope.”
I glance up.
Zane Rocks, lead guitarist for Less Than Zero and son of legendary Limelight guitarist, Carter Fucking Pope, leans over the bar, gesturing for me to come over. Long, wild, dark curls frame his face. Energy rolling off him in constant motion.
People lose their minds standing this close to him anywhere else. Here, he owns the club and works harder than most of us. No distance. No ego. Seattle music royalty who still wipes down the bar if needed.
I finish pouring a beer before answering, “What’s up? Can I get you something?”
“Uh, yeah.” His grin flashes. “I need a favor.”
I set the glass down and quickly finish the transaction before stepping over. “Okay.”
“Lake’s opener is stuck at the Canadian border.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He drags a hand through his hair, curls snapping back into place. “Clearly, they’re not gonna make it.”
“Um,” I bite my lip, “what are you gonna do?”
His eyes lock on mine. “You up for a short set?”
Everything in me stalls.
“Seriously?” I finally manage.
Zane nods vigorously. “Yeah. We need someone to open and even though you never ask, I’m told you draw quite a crowd at the Market.”
Holy shit. I’ve never told a soul here about my busking.
I shake my head. “I dunno. Zane—”
“Okay. Fine. I’ve heard you.” He raps the bar top with his knuckles. “Fee and I were at the Market last week picking up fish for Gus. We saw how you worked the crowd. C’mon. You can do this.”
My grip tightens on the bar. I can’t believe my boss and his wife saw me. I’m not sure what to say.
“That’s the Market,” I stutter. “This is…” I stop, searching for a way to explain the difference without backing down.
“It’s the same thing.” He tilts his head. “Maybe a bit louder.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. This is a chance I never dared say out loud. I’m not ready.
Out there, if I mess up, people keep walking. Here, they stop. Listen. Remember.
If they hate me, I’ll be trashed all over the socials I’m trying so hard to build up.
“I didn’t bring my guitar,” I essentially whimper.
“No problem. I’ve got an acoustic with me.” Zane heads for the backstage door. “You can use mine.”
My “out” disappears in a nanosecond. I look at him, searching for doubt. Any sign of doubt.
There isn’t one.
This is real.
My heart thunders so hard it throws everything else off rhythm. If I say no, nothing changes. I go back to pouring drinks, back to almost and probably never getting the opportunity again.
If I say yes, my life could change forever.
“We’re slammed.” I gesture to the thirsty patrons waiting for me to get back to work. “Who’s covering the bar?”
His grin breaks wide. “We’ll handle it. I’ll jump back here if push comes to shove.”
Of course he will.
I exhale, long and slow. “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.” He moves fast. I follow.
The hallway behind the stage narrows, sound shifting from open chaos to something more focused. Crew moves around us, checking cables, adjusting levels. Lake’s team is tuning guitars and unpacking gear.
Zane unlocks his office door and flips open a guitar case. “Here.”
The pristine Breedlove sits inside, tobacco-burst finish catching the light. I reach for it without thinking. It feels different from mine. Lighter. Brighter. New.
Expensive.
“Take a few minutes.” He strokes the frets. “Get comfortable with her, she’s got great tone.”
Comfortable. Right.
On his way out, he pauses at the door. “Hope.”
I look up.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could do it.”
He leaves before I can respond.
Sinking into the plush couch, I settle the guitar against me and strum.
The first chord rings clean. I adjust, find the tension in the strings, and learn the way she wants to be played. By the time I’ve run through a few songs, my fingers move faster, more certain. Twenty minutes later, muscle memory has taken over, grounding me in something familiar.
I can do this.
I scribble out a set list, crossing out one song, adding another. No covers. Not tonight.
I’m so focused, a knock at the door startles the hell out of me.
“Five minutes,” Zane calls.
I freeze. Shit.
“Okay.”
There’s no going back now. I stand, sling the strap over my shoulder and meet him in the hallway. As we head toward the stage, the noise swells as we get closer.
He stops at the side of the stage. “You good?”
I nod, even though my pulse says otherwise.
“Don’t overthink it.” He cups my shoulder. “You’re a musician. Just play.”
He backs away.
I climb the three steps to the stage. The lights are bright enough to blur the edges of everything. Though it’s hard to see them from the glare, I can sense the crowd stretches out in front of me. Waiting.
There’s no fallback now. No safety. It’s just me, Zane’s guitar, and a chance to play for a new crowd.
I adjust the mic, take a breath, and place my fingers on the frets. My hands tremble a little, but I manage to strum the first few chords.
Chords of destiny.
The sound carries farther than I expect, filling the room in a way playing at the market never does. My voice follows, soft at first, then stronger as the notes settle into place.
By the second verse, something shifts. The nerves remain, but they sharpen and turn into focus. I lean into the music and the stories I know better than anything else. My perception of the room fades at the edges and is replaced by something clearer, more direct.
This is why I do this. Not the tips. Or the grind.
This.
Connection through music. The moment when everything lines up and lands exactly where it should.
When I finish my first song, there’s a beat of silence. Then the crowd erupts. Literally. The response overwhelms me enough to steal my breath.
Encouraged, I close my eyes and move into the next.
These are my songs. My stories. The music moves through me, steady and sure now, filling the room, weaving through the energy until I realize I belong here.
By the time I reach the last song, I’m addicted to this stage. I don’t want it to end, but as the final note fades I know my time in the spotlight is over.
The response from the audience crashes over me, louder than before. Cheers. Whistles. Voices calling out.
I can’t help but press my hand to my chest. Look up. Hope she’s up in heaven looking down on me.
She’s here. I know it.
“I’m Hope Kristiansen.” I smile despite the way my legs threaten to give out. “Thank you for listening.”
More cheers. Some answer back, louder, brighter. I stand there for another second, basking in accomplishing such a huge personal milestone. When I step offstage, heart still racing, something new takes shape inside me.
Back in Zane’s office, my hands won’t steady and my breath is fast, uneven, catching somewhere between disbelief and something sharper. Heat floods my entire body, climbs my throat, spills into a grin I can’t hold back.
No one ignored me. They stayed. Listened. Wanted more.
The realization resonates deeper than the applause. For the first time, I can’t talk myself out of what comes next.
I want this. All of it.
Not someday.
Now.