My will is my strength. I can’t crumble.

“Thanks, Ryland.”

He huffs a laugh and then says the one thing he’d promised not to. “Good luck, Berry.”

I almost hate him for that. Almost.

Rye

 

I go to Chicago with Whip. Nothing left for me in New York, so why not? It’s a nice distraction from all this thinking I’ve been doing.

Only, and this is a damn annoying problem, I quickly find out that you cannot run away from thinking about certain things. I’ve spent a lifetime cramming down the bitter disappointment I felt when my dad cheated on Mom. I did a pretty good job of not dwelling on how, as a kid, when he left her, it felt as though he left me too.

Surely, I can spend a few days hanging out with Whip and not let myself think about a certain redhead. And if my chest feels a little too tight, my stomach a bit hollow, that’s easy enough to ignore.

“Why the hell did we decide to go to Chicago in November?” I ask, as we leave the warmth of our hired car and step into the frigid air. It’s got to be twenty degrees already—and that’s not counting the freaking wind that cuts to the bone, which I am most definitely counting.

Whip hunches into the collar of his coat. “Stop being a wimp. If you stayed in New York, you’d still be playing sad songs on the piano.”

“At least I wouldn’t be freezing.” We hustle our ass down an alleyway, flanked on each side by a security guard. “All I’m saying is that we could have gone somewhere warm like—”

“California?” Whip supplies dryly.

I don’t dignify that remark with a response. But given that Brenna told everyone she was headed out to LA on “business” and the fact that Whip is smirking, I’d say he’s on to us.

We’re almost halfway down the alley when a side door opens, releasing warm air that steams in the cold and a wall of thumping bass. A man steps out, his solid frame silhouetted in the light. He catches sight of us and smiles.

“You made it.” He clasps Whip’s hand and draws him in for a shoulder bump then turns and catches my hand next.

“Tariq, long time,” I say when we half hug. The world knows him as ShawnE, but I met him as Tariq and the name is stuck in my head.

“When was it?” he asks. “London, 2016?” There’s a gleam in his brown eyes that says he’s remembering our mischief.

“Think so.” We’d hung out at a private club we’re both members of. I have fuzzy memories of getting drunk, willing women on our laps, and doing something downright dirty with a bottle of Creme de Cacao—however, the details of that remain scant. Probably for the best.

With a chuckle, he leads us into the blessed warmth of the hall. Inside, the music surrounds me like a much-needed hug, pounding into my flesh and pumping my heart rate up. A surge of energy follows as Tariq heads down a narrow staircase.

The club is an underground lair, filled with dancers and flashing lights. I only get a glimpse of it through a two-way mirror before we enter a private room. Tariq gets us settled with a couple of beers, and we chat for a while. The club is Tariq’s baby, bought after his first album went platinum. He hosts a variety of artists and has made many an up-and-coming DJ famous.

“So,” he says to Whip, “you ready, man?”

Whip rolls his shoulders and then bobs his knee in an agitated rhythm. “Need to let off a little steam.”

Tariq chuckles because he knows how it is. Guys like Whip and Tariq have an energy that can only be burned off by creating beats. Tariq raps and Whip plays the drums, but they’ll both go out some nights and DJ at a venue for a couple of hours just to recharge their creative wells.

Right now, I get all the highs I need from Kill John. If I want to refill the well, I get it by producing on the side, helping others find the right sound and smoothing out rough tracks. Tonight, however, I’m Whip’s wingman.

The door opens, and the club manager pops his head in. “Whip, Rye, how you been?”

“Jay.” I give him a wave.

Whip greets him. “My set all right, man?”

Whip likes to do things old school, which means he spins using vinyl. It’s an unwieldy process hauling crates of records around then setting everything up. He’d come to the club earlier today to arrange things.

“Good to go.” Jay glances at Tariq. “Need a word. You got a minute?”

“I’ll be out in a second.” Tariq turns to us. “You good to go in thirty?”

“Yep.”

When Tariq leaves, I stand and wander around the room. I’m restless in a way that no amount of performing will settle. It’s her. She’s in my blood now. When I’m with her, it’s like nothing else. No better high. When I’m not with her?

I am lost.

I’m lost, and she’s in LA—thinking about moving there.

Shit.

What the hell am I doing with her?

I stop at a vintage arcade Donkey Kong that’s in the far corner. The big screen is bright with its glaring, simplistic ‘80s graphics. “You ever played this?” I ask Whip.

He gets up and ambles over. “Nah. To tell you the truth, these old games freak me out.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “What?”

Whip grimaces. “It’s ridiculous, right? But there’s something about the twitchy-ass way the characters move that makes my stomach clench.”

I can’t help it; I laugh again. “Sorry,” I say after a moment. “It’s just so…”

“Whack?” he supplies with a self-deprecating smile.

“Random. It’s random as fuck.”

“Yeah, well…” He glances at the game. The intro is playing and Donkey Kong paces—in an admittedly twitchy fashion. Whip scowls and looks away. “Nope. Still drives me bug fuck.”

Grinning, I push away from the machine and start pacing again.

“You nervous?” Whip sounds a little surprised. As he should be; we never get stage fright. That’s Jax and Libby’s specialty.

“No.” I’m not. I’m…I don’t want to think about it anymore.

But Whip watches me with those ice-blue eyes of his that see far too much. He leans against the couch back, crossing his arms over his chest. “We ever going to talk about this?”

About her. The one person I’m trying to forget for the moment.

I kept it secret. But, fucking hell, Scottie knows, Jax knows. Why can’t I talk about this with my closest friend?

With a sigh, I find an armchair—some ultramodern piece made out of metal and leather straps—and flop down. The damn chair groans in an ominous fashion. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“But I guessed it,” Whip fills in. “So you’re not really breaking her secret.”

A snort escapes. “That’s a thin-ass excuse, and we both know it.”

“But it’s the defense we’ll go with if asked.”

“Sometimes I forget your mom is a lawyer.”

“Try growing up with her. I couldn’t get away with shit.”

“That’s why you’re cagey as fuck now.” I rub a hand over my face. “All right. I’ll talk. Mainly because I’m…Well, shit. I don’t know what the hell I am anymore.”