I shift my weight, watching her settle onto the main stool inside the roped-off area. There's another person beside her holding a harmonica, but she’s got all the attention—mine and every other dickhead in here.
Heat flares through my temples.
Slow down on the booze, Konnor.
Jax’s laughter and commentary fade to white noise, Erik says something about the person with the harmonica, and someone at the table behind me laughs. But me… my head tilts sideways, my shoulder pressing against a stranger as I lean for a better view of this girl.
Is that Erik’s sister?
She lifts a worn acoustic guitar onto her lap, the wood glowing amber under the stage lights. She places the plastic pick between her teeth, just the edge visible, her tongue playing with it.
My jeans suddenly feel two sizes too fucking small. Her fingers stretch across the fretboard, testing each string with a delicate pluck, her eyebrows drawing together. She turns a tuning peg with such precise attention that I forget to swallow the bourbon collecting in my mouth.
She is...perfect.
That’s a fucking weird thing to think, but… I have no other word. Her long, wavy blonde hair bounces behind her shoulders, with a few rogue strands dangling over her breasts?—
Shit.
How long have I been staring?
I tear my eyes away from her, glancing around to confirm that no one has caught me staring like a teenageboy who found his uncle’s porno—no one has seen me. Pemberton is talking to Jax. So I look at the girl again. I think she has brown eyes, but it’s hard to tell from here.
The guitar rests on her lap as if it belongs there, her bare thighs pressing together beneath it each time she shifts her weight. Her fingers hover over the strings, trembling almost imperceptibly—butInotice. The black dress with white polka dots rides up just enough to make my mouth go dry and my heart thump.
Fuck me, she is stunning.
Pemberton's hand lands on my shoulder, and I jolt back to the moment. Her lips press to my ear. "I want to leave.” She's noticed interest on my face, and this is her response— warm and measured. "This is boring.Ican be more fun."
I stare at the stage. "Nah, Pem. I wanna stay for this."
She goes silent for a beat and a half, then snaps, "For what, exactly?"
I keep it short. "The music."
She doesn't respond, but she stays, which is worse than if she'd left. I feel like a man caught wanting something Pemberton has never been able to give me. She stands beside me with her arms crossed over her chest, sneering at the stage.
The girl speaks into the microphone, and Erik hushes someone beside me. "Hi, my name is Blesk Bellamy. This song is called 'Hero Boy.’"
Blesk…
Blesk Bellamy.
I watch her fingers glide across the strings, and when she opens her mouth to sing, my chest feels too tight.
She sings, “You could be the truth; I could be the treason. I could be the storm; you could be the season. It's still dark at 3 p.m., dark for no good reason.
Let's do all the things we planned to do, remember what we wanted to. My hero boy.”
I open my mouth. Then shut it again.
As she sings, the light catches her teary eyes, and I find myself rubbing at my own before anyone can see.
Too soon, her fingertips strum the strings for the last time, the melody humming, her voice sailing, then silence.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
And it’s like the world needs to realign for me. I blink. Hard. And again. Even after the applause starts, that song keeps circling in my head, refusing to fade.
