Unmistakable

  Everyone knows her face.

  I had forgotten about that, too.

  I refuse to allow Holden to defend me. I can be tough. Even though I’m not wearing combat boots and black eyeliner, the Stella I built to protect myself from all of the pain isn’t completely gone.

  “That’s me.” My tone is as clear as Holden’s. Back off, bitch. “I don’t talk about my personal life with strangers, so it would probably work out better if you just went back to your table.”

  Undaunted, she bends her head to mine and inspects my face. “I heard that you went insane.”

  I say, coldly, “People say a lot of things.”

  After a few seconds, she does back off, although I think Holden’s murderous glare probably had a little something to do with it.

  It isn’t a victory, because after she leaves, the buzz begins to build all around us. I hear the chatter. I feel the unrepentant stares.

  “We should leave,” Holden says.

  It’s a kind offer, but I have to face this head-on. I’m not Stella Walton from Madison, Wisconsin. The fake name, the fake hair, the fake boots—it’s all cowardly. What’s worse, it’s a slap in the face to my parents, and most importantly, to my brother, who deserves better.

  I deserve better, too.

  “We came for music. Let’s listen to music.”

  He doesn’t argue, but he does get me another beer when I ask for it. Clear heads are overrated, and I deserve a reward for staring down one of my demons. I just need to tackle all of the others.

  Baby steps.

  The first act is a grizzled man who looks like he probably attended Woodstock. The original one. Randomly, he has a handlebar mustache which I totally love. The chords he’s thumbing with his guitar are even more bizarre, owing more of a debt to Joni Mitchell than Ozzy Osbourne.

  I raise my eyebrows. “What kind of music do people play here?”

  Holden doesn’t blink, and with a perfectly straight face, he says, “Country.”

  For a moment, I believe him. Then, the notes of the man’s lazy guitar start to pulse, transforming quickly into a thumping rock beat. Holden lets out a short laugh.

  “Rock, mostly,” he says, taking a swig of my beer. “Open mic is always a bit of a free for all, though. Disappointed?”

  I glance back towards the burly man, whose voice perfectly matches his appearance—deep and soulful and thick with the wisdom of living a lot of hard years.

  “He’s great,” I say, fully meaning it.

  Holden nods. “That’s why I love it here.”

  When the man finishes his song, there’s a rousing burst of applause before he leaves the stage.

  “So, when are you planning to get up there?” I mean it in jest, but then I realize that there’s probably a good chance that music is just another of Holden’s many hidden talents.

  He raises his eyebrows and hums a few bars of the man’s song. So, people can hum off-key. I thought that was an old wives’ tale.

  “Tone deaf,” he says.

  “It’s a miracle. I’ve finally found something that you’re bad at. I thought you were put on this earth to make the rest of us feel totally inept.”

  “Just you.” His taunt is accompanied by a non-flirtatious wink. Ugh.

  “What is it with you and the winking?”

  He grins. “Can’t help myself.”

  “Couldn’t you just have the voice of an angel and keep the winking to yourself?”

  “My charm is a burden that you’re forced to bear.”

  Our banter isn’t quite distracting enough to let me ignore the whispers that are clearly directed at me, and there’s no hope of wiping the scene on the patio from my memory, but it will have to do for now. I take another sip of beer and exchange a few more barbs with Holden.

  “Who do you think the next act will be?”

  “Definitely a girl.” His mouth twitches as he gives me a sideways look. “A blond-haired girl from the right side of the tracks with a secret life as a burlesque dancer.”

  “Give me some credit. If I had a secret life, it would be much more interesting than that. I’d be a runaway acrobat. Or a cage fighter.”

  “For that, I would definitely pay top dollar. You would have gotten an A-plus in your independent study,” he says, releasing a long laugh.

  I prepare a quick retort, but there’s a prickling at my neck that stills my tongue.

  The crowd rustles in anticipation for the next act, and I look towards the stage, irrationally hoping for that burlesque dancer.

  I should really have known better.

  I see his guitar first. His back is to me, but it doesn’t matter—I’ve known every inch of his skin. And even if I close my eyes, I can’t deny the fire in each and every one of my nerve endings.

  “Son of a bitch,” Holden mutters. “You have some kind of luck, Stella.”

  Bad luck. Divine intervention.

  Pretty much the same thing.

  Chapter 23

  I watch Luke’s movements for any sign that he might have spotted us. As the band behind him finishes their sound check, he picks mindlessly at a few chords. The murmurs of the crowd build to a frenzied pitch, which I suspect is more due to his looks than any particular display of talent.

  He’s oblivious to it all, even to the little cluster of girls near the stage who are doing everything they can to catch his attention. One of them rips her shirt in the attempt to draw his eyes to her breasts. Idiot.

  A simpering idiot who will probably wind up in his bed tonight.

  I look to Holden for help, but he just shakes his head and rocks backwards on his chair, the implication clear—he’s not coming to my rescue this time. We can stay or go, but I am the one who will be making that decision.

  I want to go. I need to stay. It’s not a fair fight.

  Maybe I did learn one thing from that magical, terrible night with Luke. Need beats want. Every single time.

  He slides the guitar over his shoulder and steps to the microphone. When the crowd goes quiet, everything else ceases to matter—Tori’s words, the blatant curiosity emanating from the people around us, the girls standing at the stage, the grizzled man with the voice of an angel, and even Holden, fade into the distance.

  “I’m only going to play one song tonight.”

  The edges of his voice are jagged, and that rawness releases a rush of emotion inside me and an unrelenting need to protect him from more hurt.

  Then again, I tried to do that once. I failed miserably.

  I love you, I said. Forget that ever happened, he said.

  “It’s about a girl.” He looks up from the guitar, a wry smile on his lips. As his eyes sweep over the audience, the smile disappears and is replaced by a look of withering intensity. “But then again, what isn’t?”

  His little introduction gets an appreciative response from the crowd. There are still some stray catcalls as the band starts to beat a relentless pace and he begins to strum.

  The song is too fast to be a coffeehouse croon and too slow to be a rock jam. The beat thickens, the hum of drums and piano thumping below a lingering guitar hook.

  His fingers move impossibly fast across the strings in an intricate combination of notes and chords. Whistles continue to echo across the room, but at the first wail of his aching, tormented voice, silence falls like a knife.

  “Liquid stars beneath my fingertips. A perilous concoction that I could not resist.”

  The raw gravel of his voice scratches over the words, elongating syllables and infusing each with a particular kind of pain that is both universal and his alone.

  Suddenly, I understand what he does with all of the emotions he seems to lock away—they’re all there, turning and twisting in his voice, creating a vibration that is deep and soulful and rough and broken all at the same time.

  Its beauty nearly knocks me to the ground.

  It’s not like I haven’t heard him play before. He and Jack started a band in ninth grade, and even thoug
h I teased the pair of them about traumatized eardrums, they were pretty decent. Like Holden, I’m basically tone deaf, but Jack had a pure voice, clean, crisp, and surprisingly pretty. They added a nameless drummer who had an elementary sense of rhythm and a bass player who managed not to screw up every single note, and they were in business.

  Of course, Luke was the real talent, using his beautiful fingers to coax harmony from discord. I always wondered why he didn’t take music more seriously, but when I tried to ask him about it, he just laughed off my questions, so I chalked it up as another one of the things that he was absurdly good at but had no passion for. Guitars for girls, he and Jack used to joke. Now I know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but that he cared too much. Passion rings through every chord, every breath, every word. Fear, not nonchalance, I realize.

  But I’ve never heard him sing, not even a few bars to help Jack learn one of the songs he had written. I assumed it was because he couldn’t, but I was wrong about that, too.

  “Your eyes have their silence, but I know the curves of your face. Everything that I knew fell out of place.”

  I lose myself in envy. He does feel, he does love.

  He just doesn’t love me.

  “Chasing infinity, your skin melts into mine. Destiny collided and broke apart.”

  He’s lost in the music, his fingers and voice and flesh intertwined with the guitar. The fireworks explode in my chest, breaking my heart into countless pieces. There will come a time when I’m not able to put it back together, when I lose myself in wanting him. I may already be there.

  “You said love and meant desire. I can’t, I don’t, I won’t believe. I would only break your heart. You might be heaven, but I’m hell for you.”

  His voice fractures apart on the last word, and I know that he’s left something unsaid. He covers it quickly with swift, electric fingers that slide over the guitar as the music builds to a crescendo.

  “Lies on my lips that you cannot see.”

  His gaze burns me from the inside out. I slink down into my chair, hoping by some miracle, he hasn’t actually seen me, even though he’s clearly staring me down.

  He could be drunk or high or blinded by the stage lights.

  The burning intensifies. I raise my chin, and all of the doubt is erased. He sees me. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it now.

  “I told you it wasn’t real. Of all the things I’ve done…”

  His voice doesn’t waver. It’s hoarse, and hungry, but it doesn’t crack. Time stretches between us, and while he continues to sing, I can’t listen or focus or force myself to hear, not until the music starts to fade away and his voice once again breaks apart.

  “This is not a love story.”

  His helpless eyes stay locked on mine, even as the crowd begins to cheer. He’s not going to look away.

  It’s a little murder, but I break the connection.

  “I have to get out of here,” I say, desperate to be anywhere but here.

  “He wrote you a song,” Holden replies, his voice gentle. “Maybe we should stay for a few more minutes.”

  “We do not know that he wrote me a song.”

  “Yes, I think we do, Stella.”

  I shake my head and try to clear it. “I need to get out of here for a little while,” I mutter. “I just need some air.”

  I rise from the chair and grip the edge of the table with shaky fingers. Holden stands up, but I motion for him to sit back down.

  “I need to be alone.”

  His jaw is set in a stubborn line. “It’s not safe for you to be outside alone in this neighborhood.”

  “Holden, I need a few minutes. I’ll stay close to the door so that Eric can keep an eye on me, and I’ll come right back in. I promise.”

  Finally, he nods, but I see that he isn’t happy about it. I’m on my feet and out the door before he can think of a winning argument.

  When I finally break into the clean air, I gasp out a few breaths when the truth strikes me—the whole, complete, and undeniable truth.

  Luke did write me a song. He just never meant for me to hear it.

  Chapter 24

  I have endless options, but it comes down to two. Stay or leave. Face the fear or run away from it.

  Never has the enormity of choice seemed so impossible.

  If I’m strong enough, I can find Luke somewhere in the crowd and I can force him to tell me the truth—about the song, and his lies, and that night. I can ask him why ours can’t be a love story.

  Something tells me that I won’t like his answer.

  Or, I can cower in fear and leave here without confrontation. I can leave this all behind me and I can watch the years go by. Maybe the pain of loving him will lessen. Maybe I’ll find a way to forget.

  When the music begins to thump again, a strangled cry escapes my throat. I don’t want to hear some stranger singing some silly song. All I want is to hear Luke’s rough, beautiful voice in all of its contradictions and indecisions.

  Blindly, I move to the side of the building, hoping that the noise will be blunted by the wind. I lean against the brick wall and bury my head in my hands.

  “Stella Granger.”

  The sound of the voice is a knife to my gut. Instinctively, I reach for my stomach, and I feel the edges of the ridged scar under my fingertips.

  I know that voice. I’ve heard it in nightmares and daymares, in crowded rooms and empty ones, but it’s never been as clear as this.

  “Conniving, stupid little bitch.”

  I search the parking lot frantically for the source of the voice, but all I see is shadows dancing across the wall. My feet move. This time, I’ll use that burst of speed. I start to fly back towards the club, back towards the door, back towards safety.

  I’m too slow. Out of nowhere, his fingers catch a handful of hair, and his rough, thick hands wrench my head backwards.

  I let out a single, solitary scream that pierces the air. It isn’t like before, I tell myself. Someone will find me. We aren’t alone.

  The beat of the music thumps on, and I correct myself—Holden will come looking for me, but by then, it might be too late.

  I throw my body against the man and jab his shin with a swift kick. I know he will retaliate and I prepare myself for the slicing pain when he snaps my arm or my neck, but nothing comes. I kick again, with more force this time.

  I don’t know if it’s adrenaline or the fact that there’s only a fractional chance that I’ll make it out of this alive, but I’m not afraid of the repercussions. I want to hurt him.

  “Keep kicking, baby. I like it when you do that.”

  His words, and the glint of steel at my throat, silence the movements of my limbs. He spins me around, twisting the point of the knife against my skin as he shifts his body. I feel the tiny drop of wetness fall onto my jacket and try not to remember that he’s spilled far more of my blood.

  Although the rest of his face is hidden beneath a mask, his familiar, glittering eyes are just as cold as I remember.

  “I couldn’t believe my stroke of good fortune when I got the call. The princess finally left her castle and entered a grimy lair. That means I get the chance to finish what I started. Believe me, I’m going to enjoy it. This time, it’s not for the money. I can do every last little dirty thing that I want to do to you.”

  The first shiver of fear runs up my spine.

  He glides the knife up and down my jaw. “No more screaming, princess. Not until we get out of here. Then, you’ll scream.”

  If nothing else, I’m not going to let that happen. I will not be afraid of him and I will not scream.

  I see the rough outline of a large rock lying in the dirt below my feet, and as he starts to drag me away, I slide down against his body and yank the rough edges into my palm. I ignore the shock of pain when he snatches my head back up.

  He’s momentarily distracted by something in the distance. I wrench one of my arms free, knowing that I can’t miss my chance. Not this
time. I smash the rock into the side of his face, again and again, feeling a victorious tremor at each yelp of pain.

  He loses his balance, and I hit him again, not caring that the rock is cutting into my skin, only knowing that I need to give myself enough time to run for help. I raise my weapon over and over, until he’s writhing on the ground, seemingly lost to the world.

  With the dust and haze of revenge blurring my vision, I run for the entrance of the club, but before I can get there, a pair of powerful arms encircle my waist.

  He’s caught me.

  It’s the same as before.

  I brace myself for the pain.

  Instead, Luke stares down at me with a thunderous expression, at least until his frantic questions come in wild bursts and gasps.

  “Is this blood? What happened? Are you hurt? Stella, talk to me.”

  I raise desperate eyes to his. “It’s him. He came.”

  Understanding starts to dawn immediately, even though I can’t get any more words out. Of course Luke knows who “he” is.

  His face flashes with menace when he sees the man, who’s still writhing on the ground. He shoves me to the side and bolts across the parking lot. I cry out to warn him about the knife, but he doesn’t hear, not in time.

  The steel rises against Luke, cutting through his arm, but he bats it away with one swipe of his hand. He’s on top of my attacker in a second, straddling his chest and pounding his face into the dirt, his fists rising again and again until there’s nothing but a mass of tangled blood and skin on the ground beneath his feet.

  “Stop,” I scream, running towards them. “Luke, stop. Stop it!”

  He’s blind with anger. I stop screaming, because I know he won’t hear it, not when he’s like this. It’s more than that—I stop screaming, because there’s a part of me that wants Luke to smash the man’s skull into the ground. I want to see the life leave those glittering black eyes. He watched my brother die. An eye for an eye.

  But I can’t let Luke carry that weight on his shoulders. I should run for help, I should call the police, but every instinct I have wants to save Luke from more pain, so I slide my hands over his taut muscles before he can lower another blow.