Page 91 of Backlash

For the last week, Sterling has been keeping a low profile. There have been no gifts or flowers delivered to my door. He hasn’t visited my office on a whim. He hasn’t even called.

And somehow that makes everything worse.

“Then I will be your bodyguard,” Poppy promises.

“Fine.” There’s no point arguing now that we’re halfway there, and she’s right. It’s not like we get to see Kai perform in a local bar all the time. Usually, he’s selling out the Staples Center.

“And tomorrow,” she says, “you’re going home to get your clothes.”

“What’s wrong with this?” I ask. I happen to think my yellow floral maxi dress is comfortable and pretty. “It’s not like we’re going somewhere fancy.”

“Um, think about this for a second. Kai Miles is performing in Nashville at a place with no cover charge.”

She’s right. The Barrelhouse will be packed, and if I know anything about Kai’s popularity, people will crowd around on the street outside just to get a free listen. Local news will be there, and I’ll definitely talk with Kai. A picture of me in this dress will probably end up on the cover of tomorrow’s newspaper.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me in this dress?” I say it teasingly, but the truth is, even with everything at Windfall, I don’t have a quarter of what Poppy does in my wardrobe. She’s probably secretly mortified.

“What? No,” she stammers, “Well, it’s a little plain is all. You definitely don’t want to be the most-clothed person at a club, you know? Especially one that’s going to be 80 degrees inside.”

“I am plain, Poppy. Plainer than you, anyway.”

“Baloney,” she says brightly, “you’re fabulous. And don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Especially yourself.”

I wish I saw myself as beautifully as Poppy does. Or as Sterling does.

Sterling.

Whenever he comes popping up in my thoughts, I feel paralyzed. I haven’t begun to reconcile the different versions of him. The naïve one I knew before my brother’s wedding. The foolish one who left for the military and wanted to do the right thing—but ended up killing his squad-mates. The vindictive one who came back to ruin me, but couldn’t. The broken one who lost Francie.

They are all Sterling, but none of them is the real Sterling. My Sterling.

And that’s the problem in a nutshell. Sterling may not really be who I thought he was.

When we pull up to the Barrelhouse, it takes us a few minutes to find a parking spot because a crowd has already gathered. Poppy strides straight past everyone waiting in line and right up to the security team. I’m pretty sure that even if we weren’t on the VIP list, she would have no trouble getting in. Not with her toned, brown stomach on display in a champagne sequined crop top, her legs streaming from a tight leather miniskirt down to strappy stilettos. A few people grumble when we pass them, but no one tries to argue. Why would they? She looks like she owns the place. Her inky hair swings around her shoulders as she flashes the guard a sweet smile.

“Poppy Landry and Adair MacLaine.”

“This way.” He holds open the door, running his eyes down us appreciatively.

The Barrelhouse is still nearly empty. A few stagehands are setting up the mic and lighting, with Jack overseeing the process. He turns as we approach, his face breaking into a wide, warm smile. I try to return it as naturally as possible. He killed a dozen men? Maybe more? If someone had told me that when we first met, I might have laughed at them.

Jack doesn’t seem to notice if I’m acting oddly. That might be because he’s buzzing with excitement. “You came!” He reaches for a hug before I can stop him. His arms are as strong as Sterling’s and my thoughts drift to images of him in fatigues in a desert. When he pulls back, he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. Am I too excited?”

“She’s not a hugger,” Poppy explains, “but I am.” The two of them embrace warmly and I’m left wondering what it must be like to feel that at ease around people.

Someone calls over to him with a question, and Jack waves us toward the side door. “Kai’s in the green room. I’ll see you two later.”

We wind our way past the tables and into a hall that leads to the small room in back, which seems to function as a one-size-fits-all solution for performers. Despite the cramped quarters, it’s amazing to see the names scrawled on the wall. It’s a bit of Nashville history.

“He’s cute,” Poppy says in a low voice as we knock on the door.

“Who?”

“Jack,” she says, “and he can’t stop looking at you.”

I want to tell her that’s likely because he knows that I know that he’s a cold-blooded killer. But it’s not my secret to tell, so I just roll my eyes. “I think he was checking you out, actually.”

“Yes, but I’m off-the-market,” she says significantly. I know Poppy is fishing for information as to what happened between Sterling and me. I’ve been tight-lipped about our date so far. All she knows is what I know: things have changed for us—maybe forever.