“You’re Micha Scott’s wife, right?” the dark haired, late twenties bartender interrupts my thoughts as she appears in front of me.
I hesitate. If I’ve learned anything over the last couple of years, it is that it’s not necessarily a good thing in the female world to be the wife of a sexy rockstar. Hence, the crazy blonde tonight.
“Relax,” she says as if sensing my edginess. “I swear I’m not some crazy fan. Just making sure you’re not a customer, so I can lock up the bar.”
“Oh.” I nod then swallow the last gulp of beer. “Yeah, go ahead. I’m just waiting for him to…” I flick my hand in the air, searching for a word that would describe what Micha does. Even though I can’t see him right now, I’ve observed enough signings that I can perfectly picture the dazzling smile he offers each person, both male and female.
“Quit charming everyone,” the bartender finishes for me as she collects the empty beer bottle.
“Yeah, I guess that’s kind of what he’s doing.” I thoughtfully smile as I glance over at the stage. All that’s left of tonight’s concert is a piano and two large speakers. A man wearing black pants and a T-shirt is closing the curtain, and the stage slowly slips from my view.
“You can hang around here if you want to,” the bartender says as she pops the cap off another beer and sets the bottle opener down. “I’m sure it gets a little intense being around all those swoony females.”
I raise my eyebrows and laugh. “Yeah, it kind of does.”
She flips one of her dark locks off her shoulders then rests her arms on the counter. “I totally understand. I used to date this drummer, and I got some of the nastiest looks while we were going out. And sometimes, they’d even send me notes.”
“Yeah, I’ve been there, too. In fact, for about two months last year, I kept getting threatening texts from someone who was clearly in love with Micha. We had to change my number, it got so bad. I wish they’d just chill out and focus on his music instead of him.” Usually, I’m not so chatty, but I guess I’m lonelier than I thought.
“I hate to break it to you, but the more popular Micha gets, the worse it’ll probably become,” she says. When I frown, she adds, “Don’t worry. All you have to do is ignore them. And trust your husband, too.” She smiles as she offers me the beer. “Here, this one’s on the house.”
“Thanks.” I oblige, taking the bottle from her, wondering if she’s right. Will things get more intense the more popular Micha gets? If so, things are going to suck balls.
The bartender begins wiping the counters off while I sip on my beer and stare at the television screen. By the time the bartender says good-bye and heads out, telling me the owner of the bar will lock up after all the bands have cleared out, it’s been almost two hours since I sat down.
Mike said Micha would only have to sign for one hour. Then again, Mike usually feeds Micha shit just so he’ll be more cooperative.
I finish my beer, growing more restless with each minute that ticks by. Eventually, I get up from the barstool and wander across the floor and under the balcony of the bar toward the stage. I hoist myself up onto the stairs then roll under the curtain and lie on my back. I briefly stare up at the domed ceiling before I push to my feet and take a seat on the bench in front of the piano. My fingers lightly graze the keys, the off-key noise echoing in the emptiness around me.
It’s not that I’m alone a lot. I have Lila and Ethan at home. My brother Dean and his wife Caroline visit occasionally, and they bring my niece Scarlett, who has so much energy it’s impossible to have enough downtime to focus anything. Plus, when I get really restless, I sometimes fly up to Star Grove and visit my father and his girlfriend.
I do feel lonely, though, a lot more than I like to admit. It’s not like I’d ever leave Micha over having to live alone. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. It would just be nice if the tours would ease up just a tiny bit so we could actually spend more than a few weeks together every few months.
“Ella, what are you doing up here?” Micha suddenly says from behind me.
I spin around on the bench, startled so badly my heart slams against my chest. “Jesus, you scared me,” I say breathlessly. Then I lower my hand and savor the sight of him.
Dressed head to toe in black, he nearly blends in with the inadequate lighting of the stage. My fingers twitch to feel the muscles of his lean body and his soft, sandy blonde hair that hangs in his aqua eyes. My lips are desperate to taste his lip ring. God, I fucking love that lip ring.
He softly chuckles. “You know, I could take a picture if you want. It’ll last longer.”
I smile up at him. “I just might ask you to do that.”
He moves around the bench and plops down beside me. His fingers align with the keys, and the notes he creates sound a lot more like music than the noise I was just making.
“You looked sad,” he tells me as he rests his fingers on his legs.
I shake my head as I turn around on the bench and face the piano again. “No, I was just bored and passing time.”
“Are you sure?” His fingers enfold around my knee. “You know you can talk to me about anything, including if you’re sad or if some blonde crazy girl said something to you that was completely inappropriate.”
“How did you find out about that?”
“Jerry, the bouncer, told me about her.” He sighs. “I’m so sorry she said that stuff to you. You know it’s not true, right?”
“Of course I know it’s not true. Micha, trust me, if I’ve learned anything about our relationship over the last six years, it’s that I can trust you and tell you anything. And I didn’t tell you about crazy Blondie because it doesn’t matter. You love me—that’s what matters.” I bring my leg up and rest my chin on my knee. “Now, enough talk about me. It’s your turn for you to tell me what’s wrong. Because I know there’s something bothering you.”
He stares at his fingers massaging my kneecap. “I hate burdening you with my problems.”
I cup his scruffy cheek and force him to look at me. “It’s never a burden. I promise.”
He swallows hard. “I think I’m just tired.”
“Of this?” I point at the stage.