“I didn’t know your girlfriend could play the guitar and drums,” Quinn said from beside me as he watched Remy begin to sing “Green Eyes” by Coldplay.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I murmured, my voice hoarse. “But yeah, apparently she’s just full of little surprises, isn’t she?” Because I’d had no idea she could play either.
But she played amazingly well.
My gaze was glued to the stage, and I had no idea what I felt as her clear voice sang shit like I was her sea, but it made all the air inside my chest compress until I could barely breathe.
They were just words, I told myself, steeling myself against the sweetness of her attempt to get my attention. Lyrics of someone else’s song that meant nothing to me, like she wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me. I didn’t even know her.
Still. I couldn’t believe she was up there singing...for me. Trying to beg my forgiveness.
Sure, other women had been singing “All About That Bass” to me for months. But this was Remy. That made all the difference.
Except I started thinking about every confidence I’d shared with her, how I’d poured my heart out to her and she’d only lied in return. The bitterness of that deception warred against the part of me that was melting and wanted to forgive her.
I turned away as she finished the song, glad it was over—no more mental war to keep me away. But then she went and said, “Oh, no. Sorry, honey, but I’m setting up my own little filibuster of sorts. I’m staying right here and singing until the message I’m trying to deliver reaches the ears I want to hear it. I’m not leaving this stage until Asher Hart himself comes up here and makes me.”
I whirled around to glare at her just as she shooed away the three women who were trying to take their turn next. When she turned back to the crowd, her gaze caught mine and she winked with this knowing smile, as if she knew she was getting to me.
I hated that she knew me so well, so I scowled back, setting my hands on my hips to show her I was not amused.
But she blissfully ignored me as she started in on “The Reason” by Hoobastank, where she told me she was sorry she’d hurt me and wished she could take all my pain away.
For a minute, I stared, captivated by her beauty and her voice, by the words she was telling me. Then I remembered how she’d purposely made me think she hadn’t known English and I began to wonder what the hell she was doing here, trying to torture me with her presence when the chorus came up, and it finally became clear.
She really thought singing was going to just...get me back.
“Fuck,” I muttered as her gaze found mine and held on. I narrowed my eyes ominously, but she just kept singing, so I whirled away, mumbling something to Quinn before I hightailed it from behind the bar and down the back hall. Once I reached the storage room, I paced and cursed under my breath, commanding myself not to be affected.
After a couple minutes, I eased open the door to see if a new song had started yet. I breathed easier when I realized it had, but then...I heard her voice. She was still up there, this time singing “Please Forgive Me” by Bryan Adams.
Christ. There were a lot of fucking apology songs; she might just keep her word and sing all night.
If I didn’t stop this now, I might end up doing something really stupid, like forgiving her.
So I marched out into the bar, determined. When I caught sight of Pick sitting on a stool, watching her performance, I stopped by him.
“Are you going to do something or not?” I demanded.
He turned to me, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then he shrugged. “You heard the woman. The only person getting her off that stage tonight is you.”
I opened my mouth to tell him it was his damn bar; he could kick her out if he wanted to, but then he grinned. “Besides, I already gave her permission to sing the whole night if she wanted to.”
“Oh, you fucker,” I breathed. “No wonder you’re still here so late on the night before your wedding. You knew she was going to be here and you just wanted to see me suffer, didn’t you?”
Pick scowled. “No, I do not want to see you suffer. I wanted to watch my brother make amends with someone who’s been a good friend to him this past month and made him very happy in the process. And she apparently has.”
I wanted to argue. But I couldn’t stop remembering all the good times Remy and I’d had together...as both Sticks and Elisa.
“She isn’t—” I started to tell him she wasn’t the same person who’d befriended me. Sticks had been my friend. Except she was supposed to be Sticks now. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. But the irritation brewing inside me kind of took over.
I marched toward the stage.