Maybe so.
Oh, what the hell.
I step off of my stool.
Oliver meets me on the edge of the stage. He extends his hand and helps me up as he shoots me a mischievous grin.
I grab his mic out of his hand and say into it, “This is called manipulation, Mr. Black.”
He reaches for a second mic and hooks it up. “I prefer to call it good-natured trickery, sugar.”
I laugh as he starts strumming the guitar. My legs are shaking from the adrenaline rush of being on a stage again, and I still can’t face the crowd, so I keep my gaze glued to Oliver’s hand as he strums the guitar strings.
“You know this one still, right Win?” He repeats the chords and looks over at me.
I recognize the tune right away. It’s an old country song, one Oliver and I used to sing together way back in high school.
“Yes, I still know it.” I grip the mic like it’s a lifeline. “Ready when you are.”
He starts into the first verse, and I use the beautiful sound of his voice to ground me. Oliver is so talented, so gifted. He could have easily left New Orleans to perform elsewhere, but he prefers to be at home in the Big Easy.
And maybe I do, too, I realize as I join in with him on the chorus. I spent my entire childhood trying to get out of New Orleans. But once I got away, life wasn’t all bliss and rainbows like I imagined it would be. And I don’t mean just the last six months.
New York City can be a lonely place. Broadway is ultra-competitive, and you never really know who you can trust. I formed friendships, but a lot of times, we were ultimately competing for the same roles. I felt like I was constantly running, constantly chasing my dreams across the hard New York pavement and through the gloomy, smelly subways. Frequently, I came up short.
Living in New Orleans again, I’m starting to wonder if maybe my life was already good before I left. Yes, I needed to stretch my wings and learn to fly. But learning to love where I grew up is important too, and now that I have my wings, maybe I really can have it all.
As we finish the chorus and I dive into the second verse solo, I risk a glance out at the crowd. They’re cheering and singing right along with me. I shift my gaze across the room until I lock eyes with a certain green-eyed man who’s the reason I’m in this bar tonight, who’s had my back from the very beginning. Hunter winks at me, and I sing the rest of the verse—all about someone who’s your first, last, and only—directly to him.
And when we get home later that night, he definitely makes good on his earlier promise—he hasa lotin store for me in bed. After three orgasms, we fall asleep in each other’s arms. Yes, I’m definitely falling hard for Hunter Storm. So hard that when I receive unexpected news from New York City, I truly don’t know what to do.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
Hunter
A week passes with no word from the police. We’ve got a short road trip coming up, and at Winter’s advice, I force myself to put thoughts of dad’s murderer into the back of my mind. She wanted me to have a successful trip, and she was right when she said my dad would want the same thing.
Little did we know that as soon as our team reaches our first destination, not thinking about the events of my father’s death would be pretty much impossible.
“The detective called.” Liam leans against the Denver Alphas’ visiting team lockers and speaks in a low tone. “I just took the call out in the hall.”
I freeze in the middle of putting on my shoulder pads. “And?”
“The asshole confessed.” He accentuates the three words slowly and with an extra southern twang to them.
I drop my pads to the tiled floor. “Shit.”
We take seats on the wooden bench in front of the lockers. No one else is around us.
“His name’s Sal O’Brien.” Liam speaks so quietly I have to bend my head to hear him. “He said it was a robbery gone wrong. He didn’t plan to shoot Dad. He just wanted to scare him and grab everything in the cash register.”
No.
I don’t want to hear the rest.
But I have to.
I look into my brother’s hard eyes. “But—”
