I stand at the edge of the stage all night, until they finally come to their last song. “It Wasn’t Days Ago” is a simple but crowd-affecting ballad, and Zane belts it out. Shouts from nearly thirty thousand fans call for an encore. Turning away from the microphone, Zane coughs again. He bites his thumbnail, looks over at me, and I slice my finger across my neck.

“One more song for tonight,” he tells the screaming fans, and my blood pressure rises. “This one is a cover, an ‘ode to’ I’ll call it. It’s for Xander Wilde, the band’s manager, and it’s his favorite song. Everyone ready?” As he starts to sing Linkin Park’s “Iridescent,” I close my eyes and listen. When he hits the chorus, his voice gets so low my eyes snap open. Zane turns to grab a bottle of water while the guys continue to play, but I can tell something isn’t right.

CHAPTER 2

Something Beautiful

Last night definitely didn’t go as planned—a visit to the ER, then sleeping in a chair next to Zane all night on the bus because the steroids he was given freaked him out wasn’t what I had expected. It’s noon and Amy and I are just arriving at Pelican Hill Resort. She invited me to join her at some party being thrown tonight by her band’s label. I would rather have skipped, but since we are here anyway, Ellie, the tour manager, insisted we all go for the good PR.

I’m exhausted and really need some sleep before dealing with the press and tomorrow night’s show. The paparazzi have been everywhere—by the bus as we exited to the waiting car in LA, outside the doctor’s office, at the gates of Zeak Perry, Zane’s father’s house, and now they’re here in Irvine at the hotel.

To avoid the chaos awaiting us in the lobby, I called Ellie and asked her to check me in and meet me at the pool bar with the room key. I drape my arm around Amy, and we head that way. I’ve been here a few times, so I know my way around. Cutting through the grotto and over to the pool and cabanas, I steer Amy to the right and stop in my tracks as all the air rushes from my lungs.

My body floods with adrenaline and my gut twists. I don’t even have to do a double take, since I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistaking her. She’s just so beautiful—the elegant planes of her face, those high cheekbones, the red lipstick, and her platinum hair, which may be shorter than it used to be but is still tucked behind her ear like it always was. She looks the same. No, she looks better. Her skin glistens in the sun and my gaze automatically follows the shape of her long legs. They look smooth and tan against her white bathing suit. An ache forms in my chest as I think about running my fingers up them. She still looks like that eighteen-year-old girl I once knew, but now she has the body of a woman—lean and toned and full of curves. The sight of her is so familiar it doesn’t seem like a day has passed since I last saw her—and everything I ever felt for her, it’s all still inside me.

My pulse races at the mere memory of us. She’s reclining in the cushioned lounge chair, reading a magazine just outside a cabana. My heart slams harder in my chest when she sticks her earphones in her ears and it transports me back to the last time I saw her do the very same thing. We’d skipped school and were at my grandparents’ house—their pool. She was lying on the lounge chair listening to music and singing along—her voice so full of soul. I’d moved to sit with her under the guise of putting lotion on her back. She sat up and smiled that shy smile she didn’t need to have when she was with me. I squeezed the tube into my hands. And after rubbing them together, I slowly applied it to her back, kneading my way up and down, touching every inch of her that I could.

Suddenly she sits up and looks over at me. Her eyes pin me in place, bringing me back to the here and now. She looks at me as if she remembers me for who I was, what we were. Not what I did to her. With my chest pounding, memories of us keep flashing through my mind. Fighting a smile, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—remembering what we were, what we shared, how we loved.

She quickly breaks our connection when she averts her eyes and turns toward the man handing her a drink. I suck in a deep breath, trying not to feel sick at the sight. He’s nearing fifty, wearing a terry-cloth robe. He’s about my height, dark brown hair, meticulously groomed facial hair, and not exactly ripped, but fit. I’ve never actually met him, but I hate him all the same. Damon Wolf. I’ve seen his picture on TV and in magazines. He’s her agent, her fiancé, and I’m sure he’s the reason she’s not singing anymore.

She looks up at him with that same forced smile she used to give people she just wanted to appease and mouths “thank you.” I have a sudden urge to go over and deck him, but then her gaze shifts back to mine. After a few moments, he pulls her chin back to make her look at him, and I can sense some discomfort between them. We could always sense each other’s feelings even when we weren’t near each other.

Amy’s hand slides down my arm and I have to blink a few times before I can hear what she’s saying. Glancing one last time at Ivy, I see that she’s staring at me again. Then suddenly her mouth forms a scowl and she flicks her attention away from me. Hooking her arm around Damon’s neck, she pulls him down for a kiss and I think I might throw up.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, not able to say a word.

“Isn’t that Ivy Taylor over there? The girl you used to date in high school?” Amy asks. There’s an irritated tone to her voice I’m not used to hearing, and it makes me agitated.

“Yeah, it is.” I try to sound casual. She’s not just a girl I used to date . . . she’s the only girl I ever really loved. She’s also the girl whose heart I broke. Seeing her now brings back all those feelings I blocked, ignored, cast away. So many times over the years I wanted to go after her and tell her the truth—but I never did. Why, I don’t know. Then one day it was too late—she had gotten engaged.

Amy chatters on. “I think that’s Damon Wolf with her. We should go say hi.”

My body goes cold at the thought. I straighten and just as I’m about to say, “No f**king way,” my phone vibrates in my pocket. Squinting at the screen, I see that it’s my brother. I look over to Amy and motion toward the bar. “Hey, this is River. I need to take it. I’ll meet you over there in a minute.”

“That’s fine. We can catch up with them later. I’ll go order us a drink.” She smiles and starts toward the bar.

Turning around to avoid staring at Ivy, I answer the phone. “It took you long enough to call me back.”

“I was in a meeting and stepped out as soon as I could, so don’t start. What did the doctor say about Zane?”

“He’s out for the rest of the tour and we’re f**ked.” I hated the sound of the harsh truth in my own words.

“You sure? You’re back in LA for almost two weeks after tomorrow night, right? Isn’t that enough time for him to heal?”

“Technically, yes. But his old man wants him out. The doctor said that he couldn’t be sure as to how long the blood that had accumulated under Zane’s vocal cords had been there, but obviously last night, the degree of ruptured vessels was severe enough to cause his voice to freeze. The doctor advised at least two weeks of rest before another evaluation to see if surgery is necessary. Zeak wants his son to take a longer period of time off. He’s afraid that if Zane keeps singing and it keeps happening, scar tissue will build up and cause his voice to change forever.”

“Do you blame him?”

“No, I don’t.” I feel like shit that I have to put River in a position to do what he didn’t want to do in the first place. But I also know that if I don’t, the band won’t survive. If I have to cancel this tour, the Wilde Ones are done. So I ask, “Did you talk to Dahlia?”

He sighs. “Yeah, I did. She’s cool with it, Xander. I’m just trying to figure it all out.”

“You know I’ll do whatever you need me to do, right?”

“Shit, why can’t you just be an ass and make it easy for me to say no?”

“Because you have no idea what this means to me.”

“Actually I do, and that’s why I’m going to make it happen. But, Xander, remember I can’t play a twelve-string.”

Laughter and relief take hold of me. I feel a huge weight lifted off my shoulders. “Right now I wouldn’t care if you only played the mandolin,” I joke.

He laughs and I add, “You’ll be here tonight?”

Now he sounds slightly annoyed. “I said I would. We might be a little late, so don’t get your panties in a wad.”

“That’s cool. Thanks for everything. Hey, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Ivy Taylor’s here.”

“No way. Have you spoken to her?”

“Fuck, no. You know she won’t talk to me. And besides, she’s with that ass**le.”

“You should talk to her. Tell her the truth.”

“What’s that going to do now? She’ll just think I’m lying.”

“You want me to talk to her? I can explain everything.”

“No. I don’t need my little brother to fight my battles. I’ll talk to her if I feel the time is right. Do you hear me?”

“Whatever you say. Look, I have to run, but I want to discuss this later. And, Xander . . . you don’t know he’s an ass**le. Just because Dad said his name once doesn’t mean shit.”

“Right. Okay, see you tonight,” I say and end the call. My head is spinning from knowing that after all these years I’m actually in the same place she is. I want to talk to her, tell her everything, but I can’t see how that would change anything anyway. Glancing behind me, I catch another glimpse of the two of them that turns my stomach. He’s such a slimeball. Since his father was hospitalized and he took over the business, he’s been scooping up labels, tearing them apart, and rebuilding them with bands he thinks are better fits. My guess is he picked up Jane’s label—that’s why he’s here. I heard they were having some financial difficulty, and he’s just the kind of bottom-feeder that would want to capitalize on being not only Jane’s agent but now also her producer. The sight of him touching Ivy makes my skin crawl.

Damon Wolf, now turned music mogul, is the agent to a select few stars. Damon Wolf—two of the last words my father spoke to me before killing himself, and I never knew why. Of all the guys in the world Ivy had to end up with—why him? I look up and they’re gone. I’m anything but relieved, though. Rubbing my chin, I’m antsy, agitated, pissed as hell, but I feel more alive than I have in years.

• • •

Our breakup is permanently etched in my mind—it’s something that, although done, was left unfinished. What matters the most is that she didn’t stay in LA for college. She got away from her mother’s influence and didn’t go into acting. She ended up right where she belongs—in the music industry. I felt at peace with what I did when her career started to take off. I was even okay with the fact that somewhere along the way she traded the alt-rock edge for the pop culture route—following in the path of Britney Spears instead of Alanis Morissette. However, whenever I watched her perform I did notice she seemed uncomfortable, unsure, and uneasy with the show she was putting on. Perhaps if she had taken the other route her comfort level would have been there, but who knows? I have to admit, though, that Damon Wolf did help create Ivy Taylor the vocalist, as the world knows her today. She may not have been at the top of the charts but she certainly wasn’t at the bottom. She was made for the spotlight—and I really want to know why she stopped performing.

The resort club is filled with staffers, managers, agents, musicians, and reporters sipping their drinks and talking—all waiting to hear the news from the label about the fate of Next Records. I’m on my second Jack and Coke when I notice Ivy enter the room. Damon surprisingly isn’t by her side. Gorgeous and alone—she looks incredible. At five seven, she is perfectly proportioned from head to toe. She joins a group of people on the dance floor. Her pin-straight hair moves across her bare shoulders as she sways among the guests. Her short black dress shimmers under the lights and accentuates her curves in the best possible way. It’s tight—longer in the back than the front, showing an edge only she could pull off. And my rebel girl has turned in her combat boots for thigh highs—flashing a bit of leg that is sexy as hell, but maybe just a little too much skin. No matter what she wears, I’ve never been able to take my eyes off her. And now, my mind can’t turn off how I once felt about her. But the large diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand signals a reminder that she’s not mine anymore.