Page 90 of Blacklist

I reach over, cradling her face in my left hand, my thumb moving to brush off the tears. “The truth is that when something breaks, you don’t put yourself back together the same way. You make something new with what’s left.”

“When do the nightmares stop?” she asks. The question is so small and hopeless that I don’t want to tell her the truth—that they’re never going to go away. That you just get used to them. That someday it might be all she has left of her mom as time steals away the sound of her laughter or the way she smiled or how she smelled. That someday she might look forward to those nightmares.

“It gets better,” I promise her.

“Can I stay here just a little longer?”

I can’t say no. I don’t want to.

“Okay, but I’m going to make you listen to The Great Gatsby,” I warn her.

She shifts toward me on the couch, carefully resting her head on my shoulder as though testing it out. I put an arm around her, hoping this doesn’t remind her of the last time I did this. If it does, it doesn’t seem to bother her. She relaxes against my body, fitting perfectly against me.

I open the book. “‘In my younger and more vulnerable years’—see? It’s riveting.”

She snorts, elbowing me lightly in my ribs before nuzzling back against me. “Keep reading.”

So I do.

26

Adair

Present Day

“No live music tonight.” Jack flashes an apologetic smile. The man oozes charm, but it does nothing to soften the blow.

“This is the Barrelhouse!” I smack the counter. Maybe I’m beginning to feel those shots a bit. “Unacceptable. Actually, I might be able to something about that.”

“Oh really?” Jack and Sterling share a look. They think I’m drunk. They’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’m blowing smoke. “What?”

“A girl has to have her secrets.” Pulling out my phone, I send a text.

“Are you going to sing for us, Lucky?” Sterling asks.

I hate the way my old pet name sounds rolling off his tongue, smooth and silky as the bourbon Jack keeps pouring me—with just as much fire hiding under the first taste. I hate that after all these years he can slip back into the way it was between us. I hate that I know it’s all just pretend.

I hate that I like the way it makes me feel anyway.

We’ve nearly finished a bottle when the Calvary arrives. Or maybe I’ve nearly finished a bottle because Jack is showing no signs of being drunk. In fact, he’s as sharp as ever, which means he’s the first to spot my friends walking through the door.

“Is that…?” Shock registers on his face when he sees who’s entered his bar.

I wave to Poppy and Kai as they scan the crowd. The truth is that I didn’t just text them to hook Jack up with a performance for the evening. I needed backup. If a girl is stuck drinking whiskey with her ex-boyfriend, who quite possibly is a sociopath, then she doesn’t have a lot of other options than to call in her friends. Kai keeps his head bowed, his cowboy hat tipped down to avoid recognition, but he’s unmistakable. He sticks out from the crowd for all the reasons he once thought he’d never fit in. His tight jeans and vintage flannel shirt might look old-school country, but he wears the look like a rock star. As it turned out, I’d been right all those years ago. He was exactly what country music needed exactly when they needed it.

Poppy’s always known how to dress the part. Tonight, she’s found a cotton summer dress printed with little yellow flowers. Its ruffled skirt ends mid-thigh and showcases her long legs. I used to be jealous of her dancer’s body. Her height. The way she seemed to flow across a room. It’s strange, but when my girlish body gave over to a slightly more plump version of myself, I’d gotten more comfortable in my skin. Not that I wouldn’t kill to move as gracefully as she does

“You look gorgeous,” I say as she forcibly hugs me. I don’t fight it. Sometimes in friendship, you have to compromise. Poppy is a hugger. I am not. She puts up with my cranky ass, so I let her. This is how being best friends works for us.

“I’m not going to hug you,” Kai says with a laugh, spotting my slightly rigid form. “But only if you give me a drink.”

“I thought superstars didn’t ask for booze,” I tease him.

“They don’t,” Jack interjects, sticking out his hand. “Jack Archer. I’m a big fan.”

“You like country music?” Kai asks. It’s a test. We all know it.

“Not particularly.” Jack passes it. “I’m more of a blues man. But you’re not really country—not modern country, at least. I love what you’re doing for the scene. It was getting a bit stale. It needed you.”