“I have no idea what their name is. You know I don’t listen to that kind of noise. Someone said they’re getting ready to kick off their first tour. One of the guys is a friend of Vinnie’s cousin or some shit like that.” Pursing her lips, she glances over her shoulder before leaning into me. “Wait until you get a load of one of the guys…I think he might be the lead singer. He’s fucking hot. We’re talking like Charlie-Hunnam-with-longer-hair kind of hot.”
My insides liquefy with the mere idea of meeting someone that attractive. After binge watching Sons of Anarchy nearly a dozen times, I developed a little obsession with the leading man. I scan the wild crowd once again, trying to locate said hottie.
Then Cary nudges me with her hip and motions to the far corner of the room. “There he is! Over there, with the blonde chick!”
I follow her gaze to where a well-built man stands in a black leather moto jacket and tight jeans, one of his large hands spread on the wall behind the woman as they share a passionate kiss. He’s noticeably tall, making the woman look child-like. Sandy blond hair hangs down to his chin, obscuring the features of his face. I spend a moment appreciating the way his torn bluejeans cup his perfect ass, and how the black leather jacket clings to his thick arms.
Without even caring if the guy has a decent face or one that’s meant for radio, I’m ready to throw the woman off him and drag him back to my place for what would likely be an unforgettable night. Guys with a body like that always seem to know how to have a stellar time. It’s like they’re gifted the skills needed to make a girl feel good.
As the guy pulls away from her, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear, my entire body numbs with shock. My heart sputters to a standstill as five years of repressed feelings slam into my chest with suffocating force, threatening to buckle my knees. I desperately try to suck in a breath, but nothing comes.
Time hasn’t changed the unmistakable curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the soft pout of his beautiful lips, or the deep roll of his voice when he laughs. And when he smiles…oh my god, that fucking smile. I’d know it anywhere. It has played a starring role in my dreams for the past five years.
All at once his starlit green eyes are on me, and the grin on his kissable lips dies.
I know without any shred of uncertainty that it’s him.
My Roman.
This man was once the boy I gave my body to when he promised to love me forever.
Even from across the room I’m able to see his face ashen. We’re both as frozen as statues, eyes locked, neither of us certain what to do. My heart forces blood through my body at a dizzying speed, whooshing through my ears.
Run to him! my fractured soul cries. Let him know that he’s still yours after all this time!
As I’m debating my next move, the blonde he just made out with presses against him and slides her hands beneath his t-shirt while whispering something into his ear. When her bright blue eyes shift over to me, a sudden surge of vomit fills my throat.
I stagger backwards, shaking my head and wishing I could disappear into another universe.
Roman and Brooke are together.
Bursting from the room, I run all the way home.
Chapter Twelve
Roman
The memory of Belle’s disgusted expression when she realized I was with Brooke continue to haunt me weeks later as I start belting out our biggest hit. It’s inevitable that the lyrics would stutter from my lips. Though it hasn’t happened for years, it’s becoming more fucking frequent since that night.
With my stomach at my feet, I throw all my focus into the words as I attempt repeating them, but they still come out all wrong. Jesus Christ! Why the hell does this have to happen? If I don’t find a way to stop it, my career will be over before it has a fucking chance to take off.
Clenching my teeth together, I nudge my guitar against the microphone stand until a loud squeal rips through the speakers. Better to stop on a technicality than admit what’s going on in my head.
“Where’s this feedback coming from?” I shout into the mic. “Where the fuck is Normie?”
The instruments behind me fade out, replaced with my band mates’ moans of protest. A few roadies scramble below the stage and a minute drags by before my tour manager yells out from behind the stage, “Calm your tits, Roman! We’re on it!”
Tension built up from the past week has almost become paralyzing. Not only am I stressed to the max for our first headlining tour, but I’ve gotten shit for sleep ever since the run-in with Belle.
At the time, I was sure my alcohol-induced brain was playing tricks on me. I mean, shit. It’s been five goddamned years! Five years of worrying if she’s okay, five years of trying to remember every last detail of her face and body outside of a small handful of pictures we took together as kids. There isn’t a day I don’t wonder what would’ve happened if I had stayed in Vegas and fought for her.