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It’s a smile that makes me believe in happily ever after, but it also reminds me of how alone I am. Ever since Brian and I called it quits—and even before then, if I’m honest; things hadn’t been good between us for months—I’ve felt my single status in new and painful ways.
Being alone is harder than it used to be. I long for a connection like the ones Lark and Aria have found, for a guy who will see me, understand me, and love every part of me, even the new, exploratory parts I don’t know quite what to do with yet. And I want to do the same for him. I have so much love to give, so much passion and excitement inside me just dying to get out.
But until I find this mystery man, I wouldn’t mind spending some quality time with Nick Geary…
As I swing out of Lark’s car and wave goodbye, I can’t help glancing over at the tattoo shop.
The lights are on and the “Open” sign hangs in the glass door, but I can’t see back to where Nick was sitting last night.
Probably for the best. Making eye contact with Nick right now will only make me more nervous. I don’t want to see the most boring, predictable version of myself reflected in his eyes; I want a clean slate, a fresh start, the chance to be someone exciting, unpredictable, and new.
With one final glance at the neon sign, I square my shoulders and start for the entrance to the bar.
The bouncer, a big guy with massive biceps and worn cowboy boots, remembers me from last night and waves me in without checking my I.D.
Soon, I’m enveloped in cool, faintly beer-scented darkness.
Outside, it’s still twilight, but inside The Horse and Rider, it’s always midnight. Midnight pierced by pockets of light in the darkness like dying stars. One muddy yellow ring surrounds the fifty-foot circular bar on the left side of the room, another moody blue puddle illuminates the tables on the right, and a brighter white with flashes of red lights the stage against the far wall.
Ghost Town Double Wide is already playing, and center stage is currently occupied by a twentysomething guy wearing Wranglers, a sleeveless black vest fraying around the armholes, and shiny black cowboy boots. He belts out a popular Top-40 country song extolling the virtues of his daddy’s truck, while behind him the four members of the band play backup—Lila, the only female of the group on bass, Hank on backup guitar, Reggie on lead guitar, and Seth on drums.
After chatting with the owner of the bar, Willy John, last night, I got the feeling he would prefer a male singer. The last lead singer was an older woman, and he mentioned it could be nice to see if a good-looking dude might be a better draw for the ladies.
So far, Wrangler Guy seems to have a strong voice and a good rapport with the audience. The dance floor is hopping, and more than a few women are casting longing glances at center stage. He’s good. If he’s good enough, it might not matter that his audition song is cheesy, or that his vest looks like it should have been buried in a shallow grave sometime during the 1980s.
The thought is snarky. Snarkier than my usual, and as I watch him, I feel a strange emotion rise inside me.
It takes a few seconds to pin down the hot, prickly feeling.
It’s the competitive instinct, sharpening its claws inside me.
I’m not usually a competitive person, but I’m beginning to think I want this more than I realized when I was prepping earlier today. I want to be up on that stage every Friday night, losing myself in the music, free to be a different Melody than the one I am at work or at home or even out with my friends. I want to belt out songs that make people want to get up and move, songs that help people forget their troubles for a little while and remember life is an adventure that demands dancing and laughter and moments of celebration.
I decide not to hold back.
I’m going to give this audition everything I’ve got.
Curling my hands into determined fists, I head for the wings of the stage with a spring in my step, ready to show Wrangler Guy who’s boss.
Chapter 5
Nick
The first thing I see as I walk through the doors of The Horse and Rider on my Friday night “Forget about Melody March” mission is…
Melody March.
Fuck me.
She’s wearing a red sleeveless dress that emphasizes her killer curves and flares around her thighs and a dangerous pair of brown motorcycle boots. Dangerous because they make her look even hotter than she did last night in that purple dress and heels.
There’s just something about a girl in boots…
