Going out tonight sounds like a personal form of hell. I’m exhausted, disillusioned, and dangerously close to being unemployed. But what else am I going to do? Go home andstare at my ceiling until I drift off in a sea of anxiety? It’s not like anyone’s waiting for me. No partner. No kids. Not even a pet to pretend someone cares I made it through the day.
I think about Fluffy and sigh before grabbing my bag.
“Fine. But if we end up in jail, I’m blaming you.”
Tish grins. “That’s the spirit.”
Forty minutes later, we’re posted up at a trendy bar in downtown LA—the kind with moody lighting, overpriced cocktails, and a DJ who thinks volume equals talent.
As much as I hate to admit it, I’m actually having fun. Tish has that effect on people. She’s loud in the best way, the kind of person who makes even terrible nights feel like adventures. We’re already on our second drink. Mine is something with too much lime and not enough vodka, but it’s cold and fizzy and I don’t complain.
Inspiration still hasn’t struck, but for the first time all week, I’m not spiraling. I’m not thinking about Kurt. Or Frederick. Or the fact that my career is dangling by a thread.
Right now, there’s just music, laughter, and the occasional cheer from the people watching a game on one of the TVs.
I glance at Tish, who’s telling some elaborate story to the bartender and gesturing like she’s directing traffic.
A muted TV behind the bar catches my eye as I swirl the melting ice in my glass. It’s tuned to a local news station, recapping current events like it’s checking boxes. Last night’s plane crash in Las Vegas—five dead. A devastating headline, but the newsreader’s plastic smile doesn’t falter.
The screen shifts to a sports segment. Some hockey team I’ve never heard of, doing something that apparently matters to someone. I’m just about to tune it out and turn back to Tish when a photo flashes across the screen.
The man on screen looks like trouble in denim. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dirt or grease or maybe both smeared across the fabric like he’d been working something out with his hands and hadn’t stopped to clean up before someone took the photo. His jaw is sharp enough to make my chest hurt. And that mustache? Completely unnecessary. Cruel, almost. Because it makes him even sexier.
He's not smiling. Not even a little. Just staring past the camera like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Like maybe he's done things he’s not proud of, or maybe heisproud and that’s the problem.
I can’t hear most of what the anchor is saying over the bar noise, but the scrolling headline along the bottom catches my attention:Country Star Sam Stone Misses Concert.
I blink, eyes still locked on the screen.
Tish notices the shift in my posture. “What’s up?” she asks, half-shouting over the music.
I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy reading the line again and again, like if I stare hard enough, the rest of the story will write itself.
Tish touches my arm, snapping me out of whatever idea I was spiraling into.
“Hey.” Her brow lifts. “You good?”
I nod slowly, still watching the screen as the segment shifts to something else entirely. The weather, maybe. It doesn’t matter.
“I think I have an idea for a story.”
Her eyes widen with glee. “Ohshit! You know what that means?”
Before I can respond, she’s already waving down the bartender like we just landed a book deal.
“We need shots,” she declares. “Top shelf. This is a celebration.”
I laugh under my breath, still a little stunned, still piecing it together.
Sam Stone. Vanishing act. Missed concerts.
It might be nothing. But it might be something. And if it’sanything—I’m going to be the one to find out.
I spend the weekend in full detective mode.
Coffee. Laptop. Repeat.
I inhale everything I can find about Sam Stone. Articles, fan pages, concert recaps, even the random Reddit threads with titles likeIs Sam Stone okay???I fall into every rabbit hole I can find and burrow deeper than I probably should.
