Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Dugout Sip.
The bar’s sign swings with a tired creak above the weathered shack. The lettering is flaking, the paint fading. Inside, the theme holds. A capsule from another era.
Tudor-style wood paneling climbs the walls, and meets ceiling beams stained in the same somber tone. The bar is nothing more than a slab of garish red, so loud in grimy half-light.
Even the linoleum floor, with its checkerboard pattern, screams asbestos and bad choices.
My feet twitch. Not to turn around, but to step deeper. Toward the far wall, near the stage, where record covers bloom like neon memories. A collage of old vinyl: Zep II. Exile on Main St. Rumours.
Fingernails press into my palms, giving me away. That itch.
I know it.
I want my camera.
Carson must mistake my stunned silence for reluctance, because he ducks until our eyes catch beneath the curve of my—his—cap. The same one that elicited the faintest of smiles from him when I came out wearing it.
“Trust me.”
My lip catches between my teeth as he steers me toward the back booths. The vinyl is sun-bleached and pocked with cigarette scars. I’m suddenly glad I wore jeans instead of cutoffs, and judging by the brush of his fingers at my back pocket, Carson is too.
“So… you brought me to a dive bar?” Midday sun still high, and a forty-five minute drive out? “This feels like something Reese would do.” Not strait-laced, intoxicant-averse Carson.
He doesn’t rise to it. Just settles into the booth, and stretches his arm along the backrest until the space between us thrums with near contact. For a while he stays like that.
And there goes that look again. Like he’s carrying the memory of my weakness. My stomach knots.
At last, he says, “It’s not really about the place. It’s the people.”
“People?” I glance around, but there isn’t really a crowd to study. Except, her. A grin curving high cheekbones, aiming straight for Carson.
She’s at our booth before I can blink.
“Carson.” His name drops with a familiarity I don’t wield. There’s a flick of kohl-lined eyes in my direction and I don’t miss the gleam in them.
Is this who he wanted me to see? He swore he didn’t have a girlfriend but maybe he’s holding out for someone… and with her I can certainly see the appeal.
Even more appealing? The backlit wall of liquor.
“How’s it been, Ria?”
“Wild. Good, though. Really good.” She tilts her head. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Busy.”
“Swimming?” His silence is answer enough, and she snorts. “God, you’re predictable. It’s summer, C! Lighten up a little.”
The moniker settles like lead in my stomach, and I have to fight back a frown. What’s wrong with me? So what if Carson has a thing for—
His palm ghosts over my crown, and my thoughts short-circuit. I didn’t even realise my leg was jittering beneath the table until that touch stilled me.
“I’m trying,” he replies. His hand curves more firmly as he continues, “Brielle, this is Ria. Ria, this is Brielle. She’s the one helping me lighten up.”
His tone carries a rasp that makes it drier than usual, but beneath is a warmth he doesn’t usually offer so openly.
I’m struck dumb by the introduction. Helping him lighten up? If anything, I’m the storm he keeps walking into.
“Hi, Ria.” I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look awkward. I don’t want to seem standoffish to a girl who’s done nothing to deserve it. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Her returning smile comes wider than mine and the way she takes in Carson’s hold tells me there’s no feelings from her end.
“Back at you, Brielle. Carson’s never brought anyone here.”
“Really?” My smile finds roots. “I’m honoured. Do you work here?”
“Something like that. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Gin and tonic, please.”
Carson looks over. I don’t care that it’s still daylight. I need something potent to cut through today’s mess.
“Coming right up. And you?” She quirks a brow at Carson. “Water? Or we’ve got those electrolyte drinks in the back?”
“Water’s fine. Thanks. You know how long they’ll be?”
They?
She glances toward a cloaked hallway. “Soon.”
“Cool. Appreciate it.”
When she leaves, I turn to ask, but he beats me to it. “You had any more nightmares?”
“I…” I shake my head. “No.”
Not since that night with him. Which is strange, because every lesson with Reese used to have some kind of panic knocking on my chest by three a.m.
But after the pool? Nothing. Sleep is restless, yes, but not haunted. I wake up breathing.
“That’s good.” His shoulders ease. “I’ve been thinking. What if you tried syncing your breathing with music? Inhaling and exhaling to the rhythm of a song. It might help. Since, you know, you’re so attuned to music.”
“That’s a…” good idea. Something swoops low in my stomach and I nod. “Yeah. I’ll give it a try.” Just then, feedback sounds from speakers. My head lifts, catching movement on stage.
Shadows stir. One figure adjusts a mic stand. Another settles behind a drum kit. The third shifts into place on the left.
Excitement sparks, and I tip my head up, grinning. “You brought me to see a live band?”
His face is a blank canvas. “You love them.” Said so simply, but it knocks the air right out of me. I don’t know where to put the weight of it, so when Ria reappears with my drink, I snatch it like a lifeline.
The cool press of it calms me, carrying the promise of escape from feelings I can’t carry. Before I can take a sip though, it threads through the speakers. Faint but unmistakable. I freeze. The opening bars drift over, raising goosebumps.
Wait. Is that…
The downbeat hits.
It is.
I turn, eyes wide, pulse tripping. “Tell me I’m not losing it and that’s Arc One on that stage right. There.”
Carson’s tongue swipes a smile. “That’d make me a liar.”
My stomach drops, flips, then spins again as the first notes of a song I know by heart come clear. I press trembling hands to my cheeks, mouthing I love them.
His fingers slide down my hair, each stroke melting him until all I see is tenderness. “I know.”
The raspy baritone of Camden Lane—the band’s frontman—comes through, guitar and drums rising like a tide beneath it. It’s too much. “Carson.”
His eyes ensnare mine. “Yeah, baby?”
“I think I’m going to cry again.” The crack in my voice is small, but his hand stalls all the same.
It isn’t because I looped this song endlessly my first night in Grove. It isn’t that.
It’s because this, right here, right now, is the most loved I’ve felt since Bryce died. And my fingers shake harder as the realisation claws its way up. The realisation that I’m… projecting.
The sting of watching him with Ria. The slip of temptation on my front deck. All of it fuses into one brutal truth.
I’m falling.
For him.
Lightning fast.
With no safety net to catch me.
The lyrics seep into me, needling the fragile tear this new feeling’s left behind. When Carson leans forward, sleeves tugging over taut muscle, my lungs stutter to a stop.
“Please don’t cry, Brielle.” His brows pull together. “I thought this would make you happy.”
“It is.” My bottom lip trembles. Hold it together, Brielle. “I’m just… overwhelmed.” I push for safer ground. “How do you know the band?”
“I’ve known Camden for years.” A pause, then his thumb gliding along my inner wrist. “Are you sure you’re okay, Bri?”
My eyelids threaten to fall, but I fight it and nod.
Eventually his gaze drifts to the stage, warmth thinning into distance. If I wasn’t listening so closely, I might have missed the confession.
“Camden is Janson’s brother.”
Oh. I’m tempted to pry, but I know that’s all he’ll give.
“Why do they play here?” At a hole-in-the-wall dive bar, with a small crowd. “They’re big-time.”
“Because this is where it started. The owner let them rehearse downstairs, gave them this stage when no one else would.” He twists his neck, stretching the cords there. “Their break was a viral video, you know that?”
I shake my head. I didn’t.
“Yeah, one video lit the whole scene up. Labels were knocking a day later. It was filmed here, by a local.” His mouth pulls into a little smile.
“Dugout’s always been their home base. Everyone here knew them before the fame.
They come here to practice, not perform.
I messaged Camden the other day to see if they were around. ”
The gears in my mind turn.
“You messaged him the other day…”
He’s grinning now. “When I saw their songs plastered all over your playlist.”
Dammit. The bassline in my chest locks step with the one pulsing from the speakers. I turn back to the stage, too keyed up to risk speaking. Quiet hangs between us for a while.
Carson’s right. This isn’t a show, it’s rehearsal. The band circles half-finished songs, stopping mid-chorus, and rewinding to hone a note or tighten a harmony. With every riff and reset, the tension in me loosens. Carson’s fingers drum against the booth in perfect sync.
At some point, the black lock-screen of his phone flares with a message. He doesn’t check it, just leaves it face-up beside my drink. My untouched drink. I don’t ask myself why that is.
It’s not long before the set pauses.
A tall figure steps off the stage, moving easy through the room. Camden Lane. Sharp jaw, emerald eyes striking from a distance, but even more so up close.
I’m a little star-struck when he slides in beside Carson, clapping his hand like they’re old friends. “How’s it going, man?” That’s a voice I’ve cried to, and now he’s right across the table from me.
“Good. Session’s going smooth today, huh?”
Camden chuckles. “Johnny’s on strict orders to behave.” Johnny Kane, the drummer. Camden’s chin tips my way in greeting. “Camden Lane.”
“I know,” I blurt. “I’m a big fan.” My voice hitches at the end, and in my periphery I catch Carson’s slow turn. I ground myself in the intensity of his stare. “Brielle Jameson.”
“You’re a fan?” Camden leans back. “How’d it sound out there? We slipped in a couple unreleased tracks tonight.”
“Really good,” I gush, cranking fan-girl mode straight to ten.
“Maybe I’m biased; I’ve loved everything you’ve put out.
Your last album’s been on repeat. He can back me up.
” I nod to Carson, who’s watching my rambling with the slight down tilt of his mouth.
“And that second-to-last track? The third rendition was perfection.”
“Bryant’s been pushing that one hard.” Their guitarist. “Appreciate the love.” His brows lift sideways. “So this why you finally showed up, Eli? To bring your girl here?”
Before he can reply, I jump in. “We’re just friends.” It’s mostly to remind myself, because hearing him refer to me as Carson’s… I like it. I like it too much.
“Ah, my bad.”
He slants Carson a curious look, but Carson misses it, fixed on me so deliberately careful that a tick jumps in his jaw. I try asking with my eyes, but when he finally speaks, it’s not for me.
“I wanted to come a few weeks ago. You weren’t in Grove.”
“We’ve been back a while. Guess you been busy, huh?”
“You could say that,” he grunts.
A shout rises from the bar. Camden lifts a hand. “Gimme a minute!” Then it drops, brushing his mouth that’s pursed into something unreadable. “I gotta ask, man.”
Carson stiffens. “I’ve seen him,” he clips, reading the unspoken question. “Twice.”
Camden nods once, slaps the table, and stands. “Alright. Thanks, man. We’ll talk soon.” He flashes me a smile, but the edges are tight. “Nice meeting you, Brielle. Drop by anytime. We practice here whenever we’re in Grove.”
“She’ll come with me.” It comes with a bite.
There’s that smirk again from Camden and a nod before he heads over to Ria. I don’t fully understand what just happened, and whatever excitement evoked is lost under the chaos of my thoughts.
They were talking about Janson, weren’t they?
When I turn, Carson’s already watching me.
“He’s nice,” I say. “I’ve heard so many horror stories about meeting someone you admire only to find out they’re assholes.”
“He’s got a girlfriend.” Am I imagining how thin it comes?
“Ria?” I prod, hesitant. Hoping he’ll say yes.
“No. She’s Emerson’s. Why?”
“Just wondering.” If you like her.
At least she’s taken. The second I think it, guilt hits. Don’t be that girl, Brielle.
A vein in Carson’s neck pulses. “They’ve been together for four years.”
“Ria and Emerson?”
“Camden and his girl.”
“That’s… nice.”
“He loves her.” The statement carries a warning and the hurt that blooms in my chest is immediate. Does he really think that little of me? Sometimes it feels like he does—and half the time, it feels like he’s right.
I push to my feet. “I need to… go to the bathroom.” The excuse is flimsy and I know he sees right through it because all at once his features soften.
His fingers twitch. “Brielle…”
I’m walking away before he can reach for me. The bathroom is small, but it’s surprisingly clean. I lean over the sink, hands pressing to the cool porcelain, and watch the fluorescent light ripple across the faucet. My heart refuses to settle. Carson’s words echo again and again.
He loves her.
Like I needed the warning.
A woman steps out of a cubicle, washing her hands. Just before she leaves, she pauses. “That’s cute.”
What? She’s gone before I can ask. I pat the spot she was looking at, my back pocket, then stall as my fingers brush something crisp.
Slowly, I pull it out. Stare, frozen.
A flower.