God, she feels like fire wrapped in silk. Like temptation in a dress too fancy for this kind of thing. She’s supposed to be the good girl—sweet, witty, untouched—and here she is letting me press her against a marble column like I’m the only gravity she knows.
When she finally pulls away, gasping, lips swollen from my kiss, her head tips back against the stone and she looks wrecked. Wrecked and glorious.
And all I can do is stare at her mouth like I’ve left something important behind.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just breathe her in like I’m trying to memorize the way she smells, the way she tastes, the way her body melts into mine.
That’s when I feel her pause. See her gaze drop to my collarbone—what little of it is showing.
I follow her gaze and realize what she sees: the ink. The edge of my storm cloud tattoo peeking from beneath my rumpled collar—a stylized swirl that curls into a musical note.
Her fingers twitch, like she wants to touch it. Trace it.
Curiosity flickers in her eyes, unspoken but clear.Who are you?
My pulse jumps—but before either of us can speak, I hear the sharp click of heels on marble.
We break apart just as an aide in a headset appears beside us like a stage direction I forgot was coming. “They’re ready for you,” she says briskly.
Of course they are.
My mystery woman goes still. Her eyes flicker with something I can’t name.
I turn back to her and catch her hand before she can retreat completely. I squeeze it once, firm. Final. “I have to go,” I say, voice low, the rasp of it betraying everything I’m not saying.
She just blinks at me—kiss-bruised, flushed, dazed—and I want to stay. Fuck the show. I want to stay and learn every secret hidden in those eyes.
But I can’t.
So I go.
A hush ripples across the ballroom, followed by the amplified baritone of the master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have averyspecial, unannounced performance for you tonight—please give an enthusiastic welcome to our surprise guests!”
Applause chases me to the wings. The lights blaze. My guitar waits.
And when I glance back, I catch a glimpse of my mystery woman slipping through the exit—without looking back.
***
It’s barely past six when I step onto the balcony and let dawn cut through the fog in my head. New York rarely does silence, but this hour is the closest it gets: muted taxis, a lone gull shrieking over the Hudson, the faint hydraulic sigh of garbage trucks on Eleventh. I plant my forearms on the glass balustrade, breathe in diesel, river salt, and the ghost of cognac still clinging to my shirt.
Under my breath I hum last night’s waltz—three slow bars that tasted like a stranger’s laughter and a kiss I can still feel on the corner of my mouth. Impossible. One masquerade ball, one stolen kiss behind a marble pillar, and suddenly the world is in high–definition. The woman’s voice—bright, amused, hiding nerves—loops in my skull like the riff I can’t nail in the studio.God, she was the hottest woman I’ve ever met—and we didn’t even have sex.
I close my eyes, picture the lace mask, the big curious eyes behind it, the way her lips parted right before our mouths met. My heartbeat climbs into the pocket of the melody, searching for that impossible blue of her dress.
The balcony door slides open on whisper-track rails. Vivienne Clark steps out—blazer sharper than frost, high-waisted trousers skimming stilettos that could double as weapons. She’s been my manager since we were both nineteen and gigging in Detroit dives: half big-sister, half CEO, the only person who can gut my ego and stitch it back again before sound-check.
“I figured I’d find you brooding,” she says, offering a paper cup. I smell high-octane espresso and the faint citrus conditioner she swears beats dry-shampoo on tour.
I take a grateful sip. “I was meditating.”
“On the curvature of last night’s coquest?” She lifts one raven-brow. “Don’t bother denying. Security saw you duck behind a statue with her.”
Security sees everything. It’s their job now that therehab yearhas been folded into the official narrative: bad-boy front man kicks the pills, gets his head straight, sells out Madison Square Garden twice. Sponsors eat that redemption arc with a silver spoon. They don’t ask whether I still sip a midnight single-malt—as long as the photos show club soda.
“What time’s the war council?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes.” She checks her watch. “And Max—make sure last night’sconquestkeeps her mouth shut. One tell-all about a one-night stand and our rollout goes up in flames.”
