Honestly, who the hell did things like that? Who just walked into someone else’s house? She’d checked that the front door was locked about three separate times since then, and she still felt… wrong about it.
She should have been more careful, she knew that. It wasn’t like she needed journos and groupies and crazy fans seeing her naked at random points during her day. She’d had enough bad press as it was. But still. Who just walked into someone else’s house?
The more she thought about it, the angrier she got about it.
So she tried to write through it. Sat down with her guitar, opened a fresh notebook, poured herself a generous whiskey. The usual ritual. But instead of lyrics, she'd produced exactly three lines:
Some people can't take a hint
Barging through doors like they're fucking mint
Get the hell out before I…
"Christ," she muttered, crossing it out so violently she tore the page. This was what she'd been reduced to. Angry doggerelabout her boundary-challenged neighbor. Maybe coming to the country had been a terrible idea. What was she supposed to write about down here? Neighbors who opened doors and bulls in the road?
She took a breath and tried again. This time, something about Alissa came out. Of course it did. Everything always circled back to Alissa.
The words fell from her mouth, but they just didn’t work.
They were… better. Still bitter as burnt coffee, but at least the thing had a rhythm. She played a few chords, trying to find a melody that fit. It sounded angry. Good. She was angry.
Angry at Alissa for marrying someone else.
Angry at herself for not seeing it coming.
Angry at her neighbor for existing in general and specifically for walking in on her naked.
She slammed the notebook shut and checked her phone. Half past seven. The pub would be open. This village had to have a saving grace, and she suspected it was going to be the pub.
THE VILLAGE PUB was exactly what Raven had expected. Dark wood, brass fixtures, a smell of old beer and furniture polish. A dartboard on one wall, a fireplace on another. The kind of place that probably hadn't changed in forty years. And empty so far tonight, other than the barman and an old woman wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like a stuffed badger.
Perfect. Anonymous. Quiet.
She ordered a beer and claimed a corner booth, pulling her hood up despite the warmth of the room.
"You look like curdled milk," said a friendly voice.
She looked up sharply. The man standing beside her table was in his fifties, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of easy smile that immediately made her suspicious. Too friendly. Everyone in this bloody village was too friendly.
"You look like your last haircut was four years ago."
"Don’t have to talk if you don’t want to," said the man, taking out a cloth and wiping up the stains on her table.
"I don’t."
"Got it," he said, sticking the cloth in the pocket of his apron. "Let me know when you need another beer." He moved to go back to the bar.
Raven frowned. She wasn’t used to being… left alone. No, wait, it wasn’t quite that. She wasn’t used to being… not recognized. It stung a little, despite the fact that she’d really rather disappear into the woodwork. She cleared her throat.
The man turned around, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Raven, yeah?"
"No," she said flatly. Now why would she say that? She’d just been cross that she hadn’t been recognized and now she was denying who she was.
He raised an eyebrow. "Right. My mistake. Must've been thinking of some other Grammy-winning rockstar hiding in a corner booth in Bankton."
"I'm not… " She stopped. What was the point? "How'd you know?"
"Used to be a journalist. In London." He extended a hand. "Arty Foster. I own this place."
