Reckless Abandon (November Blue, #2)(77)

I feel my face flush. “Here?”

“Yeah,” Dane drags a rag across the wet bar, “he’s been coming in here for like three or four weeks—”

“What?” Suddenly, I’m extremely lightheaded. Thankfully, an empty stool is nearby.

He stops mid-swipe. “Relax, Ember, it’s not like he’s a celebrity or something. Just a good-doer socialite.”

“No...no...that’s not it.” I lean over the bar, grab a bottle of tequila, and pour myself a shot.

“What’s this all about, Ember?”

The tequila sets fire to my insides. “Was he here tonight?”

“Of course he was, he comes in—oh. Shit.” Dane seems to be calculating something.

“What, Dane?” I stand and grip the bar.

“He’s the ex-boyfriend, isn’t he?”

“How’d you put that together?” I mindlessly twist the cuff around my wrist. “Never mind that, what were you saying before? He

comes in and what?”

“He comes in just before your set and leaves right after. Every time. The first time I thought he was just late.”

My cheeks burn. “Was he here tonight?” Dane swallows hard. “Dane, was he here tonight?”

He nods.

“Shit.” I race away from the bar, knocking over the stool.

My heart is beating mercilessly against my chest as I run outside. Without thinking, I yell.

“Bo?” I look around, a few people turn in my direction, but most ignore me.

I circle the small parking lot, looking for signs of his car, or him. There aren’t any. He’s gone. As I stand in the middle of

the lot with my hands on my hips, breathless from frustration, Dane comes outside.

I launch in, “What the hell? He’s been coming here for three or four weeks and he can’t come up and say hello? I would’ve liked

to—”

“Whoa, what are you talking about? What happened with you two?” He grips my shoulders.

“Psh,” I huff, “you got four months?”

And, for no good reason whatsoever, I give Dane a rather horrible Cliff’s Notes version of our story. For the love of God, we have

a story.

When I finish, we’re still standing in the parking lot and Dane has a stupid grin on his face.

“So?” I ask, bugging my eyes for effect.

“So,” he shrugs before squeezing my shoulders, “what the Christ are you doing here talking to me about this? Go get him.”

Forty-five minutes.

That’s all that separates me from Bo—if I decide to turn left. Home lies an hour and a half to my right. It’s a drive I’ve done

every week for the last two months.

Left it is.





Chapter Thirty-Seven


Buzz. Buzzzzz.

The sound from the call button on the gate barely drowns out the buzzing of my nerves. It’s 1:00 AM, so I determine—after

pressing the buzzer two more times—that Bo is either not home, or he’s ignoring me. The latter is certainly not acceptable after

finding out he’s been sneaking around and watching me perform for the last month. I smile, biting my lip. He’s been watching me.

I should have known. The last few weeks I’ve felt so good, so alive, on stage. I realize it’s not just because I feel at home on

stage—it’s because I feel at home with him.

When he doesn’t answer, I tentatively punch in the code he gave me months ago. It works. With nervous energy, I jump back into my

car and head down the long driveway. My heart races when I find the lower driveway empty. He’s not here? He left Delta Blue long

before I did. It didn’t occur to me he’d make other plans for the night since it’s already so late.

Wait for him.

I sit on the front steps for ten minutes; hope sinking with each changing number on my cell phone clock. I screwed up. Not

recently, but five months ago, when I flipped my hormonal shit and kicked him out of my life. I rejected Bo’s advances, dove into

an ill-fated relationship with Adrian—a decent guy who didn’t deserve my mess any more than I deserved his expectations of me—

and I, worst of all, left Bo after Rae’s funeral. Shit, I left him. Yeah, he asked me to, but what would have become of us if I

had held onto him?

I panic, wondering briefly if it was some test—some grief-soaked test of my faithfulness to ask me to go. When he needed me most.

Shit. I jump to my feet and head for the front door—I know it’s not locked.

“Bo?” I try, even though I know he’s not home. You can’t enter a house and say nothing.

On a whim, I decide to call Regan. I know he was meeting up with Bo earlier today—maybe they’re drinking together somewhere now.

Regan answers, sounding exhausted. “November? What the hell? It’s...Jesus, one AM.”

“Shit, Regan, I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“Trans-Atlantic shit, remember?” He laughs.

“Sorry. I was just wondering, do you know if Bo had plans tonight?”

Awkward silence.

“Regan?”

“Uhh ...” He sounds conflicted, making me laugh.