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A half-eaten plate of cold garlic pasta sat abandoned on the table in front of me.

My appetite was shot.

My sleep was all over the place; I spent nights watching trashy TV shows, not even listening to the dialogue or following the story.

All I could think about was Deacon, frustrated that we worked so hard to build a productive, proactive reconciliation and somehow still screwed it up.

I stared out at the view, lost in thought.

Raff was at Théa’s for their fortnightly sleepover, leaving me alone at home with my sadness.

I’d passed the day drinking wine and cooking food I never ate.

I listened to music, FaceTimed Shalini, and sorted through the Six Sinners photos taken on the most recent tour.

Each shot with Deacon reminded me he still was ghosting me.

My chest ached with every single breath, the agony still lingering weeks after he walked out on me in Chicago.

Hell, I missed him.

I needed to see him, even if he refused to speak to me.

These days, I only caught glimpses of him during the few, silent hand-offs of Raff, or on social media.

I picked up my phone and scrolled until I landed on Six Sinners’ official IG page.

I arched a brow at a fresh post announcing a gig at Davis & Third tonight.

Where I first laid eyes on him years ago.

He had an acoustic jazz set lined up alongside Levi, Bishop, and Reign.

They were calling their side project Four Deadly Sins.

I figured Jude and Angel were MIA, staying home with their wives and babies.

A wild tear idea hit me; maybe I’d catch a quick glimpse of him from the back of the crowd without causing a scene.

I took a breath and made up my mind on the spot.

I’d take the crumbs to catch a peek of him, even from a distance.

Lips pursed, I stood, scraped my leftovers into the bin, and headed upstairs.

I lifted a black suede skirt from the closet, then pulled on a fitted tee, a cropped jacket, and high leather boots, tucking my dark hair beneath a sable cap.

I drove across town, the windshield wipers slapping rhythmic patterns against the glass.

I parked behind the club, eased out of the driver’s seat, and dashed through the drizzle to the undercroft bar.

At the bottom of the stairs, a small check-in desk stood.

‘We’re full up,’ the lone security guy announced, crossing his arms.

‘My friends are playing on stage tonight,’ I replied. ‘Please?’

I flashed him a warm smile and slid a hundred bucks across the counter.