“What are we doing here?” I glance up at the neon blue sign that says Bottom of the Hill and back to Vince.
“Giving you your lesson for tonight.” He grins and it makes my pulse jump. He takes me by the hand and pulls me into what looks like a club once we’re inside. He ushers me to a back area and then pushes me forward at the small of my back.
“This is why you brought your guitar with you.” The realization dawns on me that Vince intends to play here tonight. I was curious why it was in the car when we left the hotel.
“Have guitar. Will travel.” He holds it up and flashes me a smile. “I’d planned to play here all along. It was the before playing stuff we did tonight that was impromptu.”
“So then what do you need me to ask—”
“Tim’s the owner. He drives a hard bargain and is a stickler when it comes to his schedule and not messing with it. Ask for him and then–”
“I don’t want to be a promoter, Vince. I want to be an agent.”
“And being an agent is advocating for your client. I’m your client. I want to try out my new stuff tonight. I’m so unpredictable and such an asshole that if you don’t give me what I want, I’m going to trash some shit up and give you even more to worry about.” His shit-eating grin tells me he’s joking, but the point is made. “Now what demands has your unpredictable client required you to fulfill?”
I meet his eyes and sigh, secretly excited by the rush of adrenaline racing through my veins. “Say you want to play but be announced only as a special guest and not by name. That you need to have a quick sound check.”
“Yep.” He looks at the time on his phone. “And they open their doors at ten so we’ve got to get moving.”
“Okay.”
He lifts his chin toward the back of the room. “He’s the one with the dark blue shirt on.”
I start to walk away and am yanked back without warning, met with the slow, seductive warmth of Vince’s lips on mine. The butterflies in my belly flutter to life.
“I wouldn’t be kissing my client,” I say when he steps back and winks.
“I know but I figured we could both use some luck.”
I glance over to Vince. He’s standing alone on one side of the room. His head is hanging down, his hands that have been fiddling with his guitar are now idle at his sides, and one could either think he has the weight of the world on his shoulders or he’s about to take on the world.
Both give him a vulnerability I haven’t seen before.
My chest constricts. Instinct has me wanting to walk up to him, slide my arms around his waist, and offer him moral support. But circumstances—our circumstances in particular—tell me I’m not sure that would be welcome. This isn’t high school. He’s a grown man.
Tonight has been . . . incredible. Amazing. Once in a lifetime. The last thing I want to do is ruin it.
“Hey,” I murmur, needing to do or say something.
Vince lifts his head and meets my eyes. His gaze is strong, resolute, and the soft smile and subtle nod he gives me says even more. Tonight has meant something to him too.
His hand goes to his opposing wrist, the one with the bracelet I gave him so many years ago, and he smiles. His smile lights up the room despite the sudden sense of gravity I feel from him. But the moment is fleeting as the staff swoops in and tells him it’s showtime.
I’m nervous for him. The crowd is small compared to the sold-out arenas he’s used to, and yet I still can’t imagine willingly standing onstage and opening myself up to everyone’s criticism, judgment, and let’s face it, adoration.
He’s announced as only a “special guest.” I watch from stage right as the lights go up on him standing center stage, his head down with the hood of his sweatshirt casting shadows over his face, and his hands positioned on his acoustic guitar.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t look up. He simply starts playing.
It’s slow and haunting at first. Just Vince and the acoustics. Just bated breath from the audience and chills chasing over my skin. Just his fingers and his talent and a microphone to share it.
It’s one thing to watch him from the nosebleed seats in an arena. You can hear the music there and sense that he’s enjoying himself.
It’s another to stand a few feet from him and watch the music take over him. Own him. Soothe and possess him. Become a part of him from the posture of his body and the tendons taut in his neck.
He finishes the guitar solo, lets the note die until the silence eats the room. And with timing that has clearly been perfected, before the crowd begins to clap, Vince flings his head back, so the hoodie falls off, and kicks into Bent’s most popular song.
The crowd recognizes both him and the song and goes absolutely batshit crazy. Even from where I stand behind the speakers, the roar is insane.
Vince soaks it all in, his presence dominating and a cocky smirk on his lips. He plays the chords without thought before stepping forward and singing the opening bars of the song.
The words Hawkin usually sings.
Play me. Beg me. Take me. Make me.
Be the one to make me fall.
Be the one to take it all.
It doesn’t matter to the crowd, though. They’re still in shock over their luck to be here tonight. Phones are out recording, live-streaming, sharing everything that is Vince Jennings.
I catch the quick glances over his shoulder as if he’s looking for his band—something from years of habit. I notice the stutter of his expression on his face when he realizes his bandmate brothers aren’t there. But it’s slight and it’s quick.
But it’s there.
“How’re you all doing tonight?” he asks after a few songs. He’s breathless, sweaty, and by the grin on his face, loving every minute.
The crowd roars in response. He hangs his head sheepishly and laughs before looking back up at them and taking a seat on the stool that a stagehand has run out to him.
“So, I was in town for a few things and got the itch to play. My people contacted their people and asked if I could play a few songs for you tonight.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s already damp. “I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your evening.”
He doesn’t even finish. The audience drowns out his words with their appreciation.
“I guess that means I’m forgiven.” More cheering. “Smaller is sometimes better. Venues. I’m talking venues, people. Fuck, man. Get your minds out of the gutter.” He laughs. It’s the purest sound to me.
And it sounds just like Jagger.
The thought staggers me when it shouldn’t. The guilt that I’m keeping this incredibly perfect human being from Vince even more so.
But standing here, watching him, knowing him . . . loving him, I know this is where Vince is meant to be.
This was why he left all those years ago.
He belongs to them.
Not to me.
And I was right all those years ago not to try harder to make him something he didn’t want to be, no matter how much I’d love him to be.
“So, I’ve written some stuff for the new album.”
“I love Hawkin!” a woman screams from the darkness.
Vince’s smile is bittersweet, his voice a reflection of it. “I do too, sweetheart, but I have a feeling your type of love might involve knee pads and handcuffs.” He holds his hands up. “To each your own.”
The crowd laughs and the heckler shouts, “Damn right.”
“As I was saying,” he says through a chuckle. “I’ve written some new stuff. I wanted to try a bit of it out. See if you guys like it so I know if I’m on the right track. Do you think if I played it for you, that you could let me know if you like it?”
More riotous applause.
“Okay. Sounds good.” He clears his throat as he grabs his guitar pick and then adjusts the mic. “This one uh . . . it means a lot to me. You see . . . it’s about a girl . . .” Vince looks over at me. His smile softens. His eyes swim with so much emotion I don’t know which to settle on. “A girl whose different is her beautiful. The song’s called Sweet Regret.”
Mistakes. Headaches.
My heart is here, it’s yours to take.
Drowned out. Holding on.
Is your love for me still going strong?
Drawn lines. Mixed signs.
I walked away without a word.