With that stupid swagger and crooked smile and those obnoxious muscles etched down his arms, I suppose he has every reason to be arrogant. Unlike past days, when he was all lanky limbs and freckles and wild, gap-toothed smiles.

But it’s more than that. More than the shame eating away at my heart for hurting him all those years ago, and more than old fears setting my nerves on fire. It’s something I can’t put a finger on.

And it makes me restless.

How dare he show his face again?

“Baby, let’s go upstairs,” the girl in my arms slurs.

I’m going to have to set her free soon—pawn her off on her friends so that they can watch her vomit and listen to her cry about some ex, or whatever it is this girl is getting wasted for. If it’s not heartbreak, it’s something else. It always is. And I’m not in the mood to play therapist tonight. Not after the holy trinity of shitty days.

No, if anything, tonight calls for a quick and easy wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.

“I gotta go back on stage in a few,” I mumble into her neck, nibbling on the soft flesh. She half moans in pleasure and half groans in disappointment, and I half gag at the taste of tart chemicals coating her skin.

Moving onto a safer place—her ear lobe—I find my thoughts drifting once more.

Will’s back, Will’s back, Will’s back.

Maybe if I repeat it enough, this stupid knot in my chest will loosen up a bit.

All through our first two sets, I found myself wondering if he was here, watching from the shadows. It was pitiful. Frustrating. The anticipation alone nearly drove me to drive a drumstick into my eye.

No. Not anticipation.

Dread.

And then there he was. Sitting at the bar like he belonged there, watching me up on stage with those big, sad blue eyes. As if I was someone to him. As if me seeing him again didn’t threaten to unravel everything. As if the past ten years didn’t happen, and we were once again those stupid kids who thought nothing and no one could touch us. Ruin us.

And because the universe so clearly has it out for me today, I didn’t even get a chance to recover. To prepare what I would say or do before running smack fucking into my second worst nightmare come to life.

Let the record show: I didn’t intend to be a raging asshole.

Let the record also show: It had nothing to do with his biceps.

He’s just another dude in a sea of dudes with decent genes and hard-earned muscles. Like Mason. Shawn. The grocer at Ray’s Market. Thor. There’s nothing special about this guy that warrants any kind of special preoccupation. None, whatsoever.