Page 6 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

wilder

Ten reasons to forget you

Twenty lies that were true

A hundred ways out

A thousand through

Even if I could (really should)

Won’t ever walk away from you

I scan the faces around me, ignoring the rising chatter and focus of L.A.’s rich and bored. Let them stare and gossip. I don’t care about them.

Nor do I care about the woman who attached herself to me like we’re old friends—the intimate kind—the moment I stepped outside. She’s been chattering in my face for less than a minute and I’ve already stopped listening.

Talon-like nails pinch my bicep. “Did you hear me, Wilder?” she asks with a little laugh. A laugh that says, Of course you did because you can’t possibly be ignoring me.

I pause my search for Evangeline and frown down at her. Her face is familiar, but I don’t know her name because she didn’t bother telling me. Like she can’t imagine a world where every man she meets hasn’t jerked off to her photograph.

“You have such pretty eyes,” she says breathily.

I extract my arm. “Thanks. What did you ask me?”

She arches her back, trying to draw my attention to her breasts. I keep my eyes on her face.

“I asked if you wanted to get out of here,” she says with a sultry smile. “Celebrate New Year’s our own way.”

I’m almost, almost impressed by her nerve.

“No, thanks.”

Her shocked expression makes me want to laugh. It also makes me want to buy her six months of therapy. In lieu of suggesting she consider how propositioning a stranger might not be healthy, I go back to ignoring her.

She doesn’t like that, her breasts pushing against my arm. “Fine by me. We can just find a bedroom here.”

Now I’m annoyed. I open my mouth to tell her to get lost, but no words come.

Because in that moment, my roaming gaze finds Evangeline’s profile, downturned as she walks toward the house on the other side of the patio.

Martin Page is with her, his arm around her waist. He’s staring at me, dark eyes glimmering like he’s trying to telepathically communicate.

My brows lift in question, and he shakes his head.

Utterly confused, my gaze falls to Evangeline. The second it lands on her, her head jerks up and turns. Mismatched eyes lock unerringly on mine.

My breath stills.

My heart seizes.

It’s the first time in over six years she’s looked directly at me and nothing has changed.

She hates me.

I swallow. Nod in acknowledgment. She and Martin disappear into the house.

When Lily and Rye asked me what my plan was for tonight, I told them I didn’t have one beyond seeing Evangeline for myself, maybe observing her for a minute before bailing. It was true— was being the operative word.

Now that I’ve seen her, I’m incapable of walking away .

Even harder to swallow than her gaunt cheeks and the almost brittle way she moved was seeing the absence of what always made her her . That intangible aura that ensured she was the center of every room even when she was hiding in a corner.

She didn’t look like someone at the peak of professional success, whose lifelong dreams have come to fruition.

She looked empty.

The only thing familiar about her were her two-toned eyes and the loathing in them. In every other way, she barely resembles the girl I grew up with. The woman I loved, whose heart I irreparably broke.

I wander the party in a daze, waiting for Evangeline to come back outside or for an ability to leave to manifest. People talk to me. I talk back. Smile and nod and fulfill the demands of small talk.

“What brings you to L.A.?”

“Just escaping the rain for a minute and visiting some friends.”

“Did Night Theory break up?”

“Don’t believe everything you read. We’ll be back in the studio soon.”

All the while, I fight the instinct to find Evangeline.

When I reach my absolute limit of socializing, my smile a grimace and my ears buzzing faintly, I retreat to the shadows at the edge of the patio where a waist-high fence separates the home’s backyard from a terraced hillside. In the distance, downtown L.A. shines like a gold-dusted circuit board.

I look up at the sky, clear but disturbingly starless, like even the air here holds dreams just outside of reach.

She doesn’t belong here.

“Wilder?” asks a tentative male voice. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I turn, a polite refusal ready, but choke the words back when I see who it is. “Sure.”

Martin Page approaches the fence a few feet away from me. He doesn’t say anything right away, just stares outward much as I’d been doing. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I wait, braced for him to tell me off on Eva’s behalf.

“I don’t know if you remember me, but we’ve met in passing a few times.”

The thread of nervousness in his tone makes me blink and swiftly reassess. “I remember you, Martin. Good to see you.”

His head turns, eyes scanning mine, and he gives a little laugh. “It’s so weird. I feel like I know you, but this is the first time we’ve had a conversation.”

For a second, I think he means Evangeline talked about me over the years, but then he continues, “When my little sister was first getting clean, about three years ago, I went with her as support to a sobriety convention in Seattle. You were one of the main speakers.”

All I can manage is a weak, “Ah.”

I remember that convention well. How I’d wanted to refuse the invitation, but my sponsor convinced me—or rather, bullied me—into doing the forty-five-minute talk.

I’d been nervous as hell leading up to it, the task of sharing my story with a ballroom full of recovering addicts seeming infinitely harder than performing for thousands.

In some ways, it had been. But there’s also nothing quite like having hundreds of people from all walks of life nodding and laughing in solidarity as you talk about the most fucked-up time of your life.

More than any therapy or one-on-one conversation, the experience convinced me that I’m not alone—or even remotely unique—in my struggles with addiction.

And there’s massive relief in knowing that.

Afterward, I was glad I’d done it, but I’ve also never accepted another invitation to speak at a large event. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate the sense of belonging I feel when I’m with other sober people, I’m still not much for group activities or crowds. Without a guitar in my hands, that is.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Martin says. “I know it’s all anonymous for a reason. I swear I’ve never told anyone about seeing you or shared what you talked about.”

I smile wryly. “It’s all good. My sobriety is an open secret, anyway. But I do appreciate the discretion. How’s your sister doing?”

His face lights up. “Amazing. Still clean.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Martin glances toward the house. “So, uh, there’s another reason I wanted to talk to you.”

My pulse kicks inside my throat. “You want to dress me, don’t you?”

His laugh is a tad shrill. “Talk about a dream come true. But no—I can’t because… well, you know.”

I nod slowly. “Because of Eva.”

He gives a wincing smile and a nod. “She’s actually who I wanted to talk about. I realize this is insanely presumptuous, so feel free to tell me to fuck off.”

“Not gonna do that,” I murmur.

Whatever he sees on my face seems to encourage him, but then his gaze darts anxiously toward the house again. It belatedly occurs to me that he’s worried we’ll be seen together, that it will get back to her.

Where we’re standing is pretty dark and a good fifteen feet from the closest person. It’s also past eleven and from the increasing sounds of revelry, everyone’s pretty trashed. But I still shift a few steps back until Martin’s shorter, slighter frame is blocked by mine.

When he realizes what I’ve done, he looks embarrassed but also relieved. “Thanks. If she finds out I’m talking to you, she’ll never speak to me again.”

I should be used to hearing confirmations of her continued enmity, but I’m not. Every one is a fresh blow to my chest.

Before I can think better of it, I ask, “She still hates me that much, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s you she hates,” he says with a sigh.

My brow furrows. “What does that mean?”

Martin shakes his head like he either doesn’t have an answer or can’t tell me. He clears his throat. “I stashed her in a bedroom and told her I’d look for Clay. But I don’t see him. Do you?”

Confusion deepening my frown, I turn and scan the throngs of people. I haven’t seen Clay at all tonight. While wandering the party, I was half-expecting him to appear and try to get me to leave. I can’t say I’m not glad I’ve avoided him so far, but…

My gaze snaps back to Martin. “What are you getting at?”

His jaw firms. After a few seconds of internal struggle, he says tensely, “He went inside before you got here. I didn’t see him in the house, which means he’s probably in a different bedroom.”

“What—” I start, then stop as the words click. Rage unfurls under my skin. “He’s cheating on her at a party they’re attending together ?”

Martin gives an agitated shrug. “Even if he isn’t, he’s still the piece of shit who threatened to end my career if I didn’t quit working for Glow. More to the point, he’s a toxic asshole who doesn’t deserve Eva.”

Reeling, I open and close my mouth a few times before managing to speak. “Does Eva know? About him threatening you?”

Martin shakes his head. I’m somewhat relieved until he says, “I’ve been where she is—with a partner like him—and knew there was no point in telling her. That’s not to say I didn’t try early on to get her to dump his ass. The red flags were waving from the beginning, if you know what I mean.”

Cold snakes down my spine. “I don’t, actually.”

His eyes probe mine. “Do you still care about her the same way you did when you gave that talk?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

His sad smile makes me think he can see the fractured heart beating in my chest. “I figured when I saw the way you looked at her tonight. You’ve got the whole broody, pining thing down pat. ”