Page 1 of Smoke and Glitter

Prologue

Sam

Summer comes in before the first act. I catch the door opening while I'm pouring a beer and reach for the bourbon before she makes it to the bar. When I first met her, she used to come through that door looking like something the river had spit back out, take the corner stool and stay there through every show. Now she walks in with her head up, already laughing at something, and that's when I notice she's not alone. There's a woman beside her I've never seen.

Red hair, long and loose, dark at the roots. She's in the middle of a story, hands moving while she talks, mouth curved around whatever she's saying. Curves, confidence, black clothes that make the red brighter. She walks into the room like the lights came up because she did.

I have Summer's bourbon in my hand.

The redhead turns slightly as they work their way through the crowd, and I catch green eyes, the line of her mouth, the easy way she moves through a room full of people without checking to see who's watching.

I'm watching.

I set the bourbon down when Summer reaches the bar. "Thanks," she says, still smiling, and I barely get out a "Yeah" before the woman beside her turns toward me.

Then I'm looking straight at her.

Fuck.

It's a half-second, maybe less. Long enough for her eyes to settle on mine and stay there instead of doing what people usually do when they realize I've caught them looking. There's nothing shy about it. She looks at me like she's trying to figure something out, and for once I have no problem letting somebody take her time.

My hand finds a glass while I'm still looking at her.

I could ask what she wants. That's what I should do.

Instead, I reach for the mezcal.

Not the bottle we burn through on busy nights. The good one off the top shelf, smoky enough that half the people I pour it for make a face on the first sip. I pour it and set the glass in front of her before I've given much thought to why.

Her eyes drop to it, then come back to me.

"I didn't order this."

Her voice is lower than I expected, rough around the edges, and that doesn't help anything.

"You didn't have to."

One eyebrow lifts. "That's a hell of a thing to say to a stranger."

"You're not a stranger. You're Summer's." I tip my chin toward the glass. "And you're a mezcal. I'd put the bar on it."

The woman beside Summer studies the glass for another second before picking it up. She doesn't knock it back. She takes a slow sip while she watches me over the rim, and I find myself waiting to see what happens when the smoke hits.

Her eyes water a little, but she doesn't flinch.

"Okay," she says, and the corner of her mouth moves. "Okay, Sam."

I glance at Summer.

She takes a drink of her bourbon like she has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that this woman knows my name.

I look back at the redhead.

Someone farther down the bar lifts a hand for me, but it takes me a beat longer than it should to notice.

Then I go see what they need.

Autumn