“What are you doing here?” she spits out, crossing her arms under her tits. The way she stands with her shoulders curled forward, I wonder if she’s trying to comfort herself.
“My band’s putting on a show…tomorrow night…at Madison Sq—”
“I mean what the fuck are you doing in my bar? Interrupting my band’s precious rehearsal time?”
Unable to admit the truth, I ask, “What are you doing in New York?”
We’re rudely interrupted by her guitarist who steps up behind her, wrapping his fingers around her bicep. “You alright, babe?” Then he tosses me a glare laced with warning. “Who the hell are you?”
I bristle with the word “babe,” feeling instinctively protective of Belle. He’s a reasonably big dude, dark hair shaved down the way I wore mine at the academy, determination fueling his anger. I’m still a good inch or two taller, and his inked arms are a third the size of mine, so I could easily take the fucker. It’d even be worth the hell I’d have to pay with Normie if I got my face messed up before the show.
Drawing my shoulders back, I take a step closer to the guy. “I’m an old friend of Belle’s.”
“Bullshit,” he snarls, lifting his chin. “If you’re really her friend, then you’d know she doesn’t like to be called that.”
Since when? I glance Belle’s way to find her grimacing. When she catches my questioning gaze, she quickly recovers with a tight smile as she spreads her fingers over the guy’s chest. “It’s fine, Chaz. Grab Stew and set us up with some shots. This will only take a second.”
Chaz brushes his lips against her cheek in a way that’s possessive and too intimate. “Holler if you need me, sweetheart.”
Once the fucker seems satisfied that he made his message clear, he throws me a smug smirk and saunters away. I’m temporarily blinded by the urge to take off after the asshole and pound him to the ground for putting his lips on my girl. She was always mine, even back when we were too stupid to admit the truth and during all the years she rejected me.
When she flips her dark hair over her bare shoulder, my balls draw tight. It’s weird as shit to see her exposed skin, knowing I’ve had my mouth on every inch of her body but don’t have the right to touch her that way anymore.
“Seriously, Roman. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I-I wanted to explain,” I start, only mildly irritated with my stutter. “The other night…when you saw me with Brooke—”
“I don’t give a shit who you’re fucking.” With a shake of her head, she laughs. It’s a cold, cruel sound that sends shivers racing down my spine. “You don’t owe me any explanations. In fact, I don’t need to know a damn thing about the man you’ve become. I’m nothing like the girl you knew from camp. We’re two completely different people. Strangers.”
“That may be true, but I wouldn’t have become the man I am without you.”
Her dark eyes narrow into little slits. “Yeah, because if you hadn’t slept with that broken girl, then you wouldn’t have come up with the lyrics that made you famous, right?”
Guess I don’t have to ask if she’s heard our songs. When I first wrote them, I never saw her as broken. She was my pillar of strength when my father tried to beat me down. She was the reason I kept going when I was desperate for everything to end. She was my entire world. What has made her so bitter? I’d give up my fucking contract with the label and every goddamned thing I’ve worked for to erase whatever damage was done to my girl.
Any hope that she would take me back disappears with the anger in her unrelenting expression.
“I’m sorry, Belle. I—”
“You what?” She closes the distance between us, laughing cruelly. “God, Roman! It’s been five fucking years! Do you get how long that is? Move on already!”
I shuffle backward and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before shoving my hands in my pockets. It was clearly a mistake to come here.
“I just stopped by to make sure you’re all right,” I mutter.
“As you can see, I’m fucking awesome.” She gestures back at the stage and laughs sincerely, a bit of the anger slipping away. “I mean, I won’t be playing at Madison Square any time soon, but—”
“You totally could one day,” I insist. “You sounded amazing just now. It’s a matter of finding the right manager. Your voice…can’t say I ever expected you’d be singing hardcore metal, but you fucking rocked that melody.” When she doesn’t snap at me and her expression becomes wistful, I decide to run with it. “Do you write your own music?”