Chapter Six

Maren

Hillside is packed as I perform for the outdoor venue. It usually takes me about five songs to warm up to the crowd, and tonight is no different. I see a few regular faces singing along as I play, which never fails to make me feel like a real rock star.

I like playing for small crowds. There's an intimacy here that I know I'd never get playing a stadium. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to experience the difference. Whenever I get a gig, a small part of me hopes there's a producer in the audience, looking for their next big talent. I often think of Jewel, a singer-songwriter who was living in her car and playing bars and coffee shops to a local following—just like me—before a record label discovered her .

I'm not playing these gigs with the sole purpose of being discovered. I love performing. I feel the most like myself when I have a guitar strapped to my chest, a microphone in front of me, and I'm singing lyrics I wrote because of a feeling. And to hear the crowd sing my words back to me? The adrenaline is unlike any drug I'd taken in the past. But because it's a small crowd, it feels safe, like I'm among friends.

To focus on bigger stardom would take away from the magic of these events, from all the ways these gigs fill my spirit. I'm determined to be present at every performance, connecting with the crowd on a personal level rather than trying to see what I can get out of it. Of course, I still send out demos to agents and producers with the hopes of getting picked up. But on stage, I offer the crowd all of me, no barriers as I reveal my soul. It's not only empowering, but it's also when I'm my most vulnerable.

Which is why it feels like a gut punch when I see Mac in the crowd—and he isn't alone.

I stumble over my words as he stares straight at me, seeming to ignore the girl talking to him. I collect myself and continue with the song I'm singing. But instead of singing to the crowd, it becomes a conversation between Mac and me. His eyes haven't left mine, and despite the wide range of emotions I've had over him this past month, I can't look away either. Seeing him in person is different than hating him from afar. I can't tell myself one-sided stories anymore. Instead, I'm faced with the undeniable realization that this man has an effect on me like no other, that if he just said the word, I'd be putty in his hands.

Maren, he sold your home to a demolition company.

And just like that, I shut it off. The feelings. The pull. Every way he's drawing me in by just keeping his eyes trained on me. I end the song I'm singing, then grin at the crowd as everyone cheers.

"This next song is a little rough, but one I came up with on the fly about a month ago when I met someone who ended up being different than I expected."

I dare a glance at Mac, disappointed to see him now facing the girl he's with, his eyes off me.

Use it, Maren.

"I call this one ‘Dance with the Devil,'" I say, strumming a few chords. I glare in Mac's direction, even though he's still not looking at the stage. Then I channel my feelings into the song.

Your charm is what I noticed first

The way you made my cold heart burst

Your sapphire eyes, your cunning smile

The taste of your lips, like honey cursed

I had my doubts, you made me believ e

I never knew worship 'til I was on my knees

I tried to resist, but your hands in my hair

Felt something like heaven in a coastal breeze

You said we're standing on holy ground

You took off my shoes as you set my crown

You wanted the earth to meet our feet

But as we danced, you dragged me down.

Because dancing with you is to dance with the devil

Your kingdom is built with the hearts that you break

You said you wanted the earth as your witness

Did it witness your lies from each promise you make?

I drank your poison, but I made my escape.

I look toward Mac the whole time I'm singing, who has finally stopped talking with that chick. At first, he seems pissed when he realizes the song is about him. But then his face relaxes into a grin, which only infuriates me more. When I'm done, he gives me a standing ovation—the icing on the cake.

"I'm going to take ten, so use this time to grab a drink from the bar or order dessert. And don't forget to tip the staff, they work hard to get you all drunk." The crowd laughs as I leave the stage. I can feel Mac's eyes on me as I make a beeline for the bar, and I can't help wondering if his girlfriend notices how much attention he's giving me.

"The usual?" Ethan asks from behind the bar. I love that even though he owns the place, he also works alongside his staff.

"Sure," I say just as he places a soda water with a lime and a splash of tonic.

"I'll have what she's having," a voice says behind me, and I groan without turning around. Ethan looks at me and gives a silent head tilt. Is that him? I nod ever so slightly, and he does his best to bite back a smile.

"Here you go, bud," Ethan says. "On the house."

"Traitor," I mouth, though I know for a fact that Ethan doesn't charge anyone for soda water. Still, he should have charged Mac a premium price just on principal alone. If his face is really on a billboard, I'm sure he can afford a measly soda water.

It's obvious Mac isn't going to leave, so I finally turn around only to find him too close to be a mere acquaintance. I'm pinned between him and the bar, his arm resting beside me as he leans in, forcing me to look up at him. His scent is intoxicating, a hint of cedar that goes straight through me, channeling my core in ways that make my breath feel shallow. Everything about him is electrifying, and I'm implicitly aroused. Get a grip, Maren .

"Interesting song lyrics." He challenges me with his icy blue eyes and consuming stare. I sip my soda, trying to will my beating heart to calm the fuck down.

"I like to sing from the heart," I finally bite out, hoping the edge in my voice hides the hammering in my chest.

"About anyone I know?"

I lick my lips, meeting his electric gaze with a bit of my own ice. "No one worth remembering," I say.

"You wrote a whole damn song about him. That doesn't sound like anyone you've forgotten."

I don't answer. I'm not even sure what to say. I want him to know just how much I hate him, but I don't want him to know I spend every day thinking about him. And now that I know his nearly naked morning stroll leads right by my kitchen window, I'm not sure I can shake him…or that I want to.

He moves closer, his warm breath invading my breathing space. My whole body betrays me as I inhale his woodsy scent, imagining myself claimed within his massive arms.

"You left," he growls, and this time his blue eyes are full of fire. This is different from the man I met at Torches. And still, the possessive way he's leaning toward me has me remembering the urgency of his kiss, the invitation to come home with him, and all the things he could have done to me had I accepted. I gulp, forgetting myself as I glance at his lower lip, swollen and ready for the taking above his perfectly groomed beard. But then the reason I hate him slams my memories.

Did you hear he's been selling off properties right and left?

I push my hands against his chest, forcing him to take a step back so I can move out from under him.

"I had somewhere to be," I counter, then turn to walk away. He grips my arm and forces me back in front of him. Miraculously, my drink stays in its glass. I glance over at Ethan, who's busy with another customer. I know if he saw the way Mac was caging me in, he'd be around the bar in an instant. I kind of want to see that. But also, I kind of feel excited at the idea of Mac dominating me.

Cool it, Maren. This is your drought speaking.

"Get your hands off me," I hiss, turning back to Mac and yanking myself out of his grip. "Won't your girlfriend get mad seeing you with me?"

"She wouldn't even be here tonight if you hadn't ditched me." His gaze darkens, his hands clenched as he leans against the bar. "Look, you're obviously mad about something. You wrote a whole goddamn song about me. Mind telling me the sins I've committed?"

I stare at him, wondering if he's for real. I mean, of course he has no idea that he took my home. But does he really sleep easy at night, knowing how many families he displaced just for a stupid commission ?

I want to tell him everything, to put him in his place as I shed some light on how his arrogant business moves have dire consequences for the people underneath his feet. That his so-called holy ground is just a battlefield of the bodies he's stepped on along the way.

But I can't.

He probably has no idea what it's like to wonder if today's the day the streets will kill him. He said he was a former runaway, but it's obvious that past is long forgotten because his world and mine are in completely different galaxies. If I tell him why I'm angry with him, I'll also have to explain the sad state of my paycheck, and how this pathetic wage is still a giant step up from where I once was. And while I should be proud of how far I've come, I suddenly feel small and insignificant as I stand here in front of him, fighting the urge to shrink under his watchful eyes.

"It's nothing. The song is nothing. You've done nothing."

"Then why did you leave that night without any kind of explanation, or even your number?"

I fiddle with my straw, hating how even in this moment, I can't help but notice the way his jeans are slung low on his hips so casually, just waiting for my hand to find what's underneath. No suit this time, but I find the jeans that much more enticing .

"I just had somewhere else to be."

"At two in the morning?"

I shrug. "Yeah. Ever heard of bed?"

It's a double entendre, and I find some satisfaction at the way he licks that lower lip. I'm teasing him, I know it. But in the process, I'm teasing myself. Mac Dermot is not someone that belongs in my bed, let alone my world.

"Look, I tried to let you off easy," I say, twirling my straw in my glass. "I realized too late that I really wasn't interested. I'm sure you're not used to hearing those words, but it's true. We're just too different, and I figured it was easier to walk away than to string you along for the rest of the night."

I start to leave again, and again he stops me. But this time his mouth is on mine, and fuck if I'm not kissing him back. It's like all my reasons on why this is a bad idea completely evaporate, and I'm left breathing him in like air, clutching him closer, savoring the taste of his tongue dancing with mine. It doesn't even matter that we're at a bar in a public space, that people are expecting me back on stage, or that we're here creating a scene that could catch this bar on fire.

He breaks away and I gasp for air, unsure how I'll ever breathe again if he's not there to breathe for me.

"Not interested?" he says. Then he walks away.

He. Mother. Fucking. Walks. Away.

"Holy hell," I whisper, then quickly look around. There are a few amused glances around me, but no one calls me out. Even Ethan shoots a thumbs up, which receives a dirty glare from me in return. He's supposed to be on my side. Mac is the enemy.

And the enemy sure knows how to kiss me stupid.

After collecting myself, I make my way back to stage, welcomed by a few hoots and hollers from those who saw the show at the bar. My face reddens, and while I'm dying inside, I wave them off as if what they saw was no big deal. Even though it was everything. Even though my insides are tied up in knots over the complicated feelings I have.

I begin the set with a slowed down version of "Watermelon Sugar" by Harry Styles. It was already on my setlist, and the crowd is obviously eating it up. But I can't help regretting the choice as the words' meaning flows through my mind and out my mouth. It's a fun and flirty song, but the core of it is about the female orgasm. It's a terrible choice for a song after receiving a kiss like the one Mac gave me.

As if I'm drawn to him, my eyes find Mac again. He hasn't left but is standing there getting berated by the blonde chick he showed up with. She's giving it to him hard while he just stands there, taking it. Finally, she throws her drink in his face before leaving.

I'm thrilled on more levels than I can count. I want Mac to suffer. I also want him free and single, even if I can't touch him with a ten-foot pole. But then I see a few people whispering around the little scene he caused—the second one of the night—and then looking at me, I realize I'm being taken down with him.

They think I'm the homewrecker.

Don't get me wrong—I am not one to worry about petty gossip or what people think of me. But this kind of drama could hurt my smalltime music career. Short of attempting to save face by telling the crowd everything, I instead abandon my setlist and go with a song I wrote years ago, but with lyrics that ironically fit the current situation:

When you say these things to me

You make me want to believe

But your mouth tells two different tales

What do you mean, what do you mean, what do you mean?

I look at Mac the whole time I'm singing, aware of the shift in the crowd around him. Now, instead of looking at me, they are looking at him. A murmur of awareness rises up to greet me, and I know they know the song is about him.

Even more, I know he knows.

He stands there alone, his hands in his pockets as I continue the song. But this time, I change the lyrics completely so that there's no doubt who I'm singing to.

You're not a man who's used to hearing no.

Because when you kissed me, I tried to tell you so.

Wearing her drink looks so damn good on you

Joke's on you, bud, because you've lost me too.

It's a total bitch move on my part, and I'm trying to wrap my callous heart around it without letting my conscience penetrate my soul. But then Mac smiles, and fuck if it doesn't go straight through me, even as I keep my poker face on while finishing the song.

The crowd erupts in applause, plus some laughter from those in the know. And Mac? He tilts his head at me as if I've won this round—as if there's a round to be won—then he turns and leaves. From the lack of satisfaction I feel, I think he's the one who actually won.

And I can't help wondering if I'll ever run into him again.