Author's Preface
She sat in the window seat, watching the cars glide down Main Street. After Mr. Harris left, she had made quick work of cleaning up the stage, dumping the takeaway rubbish into his bin, and making absolutely certain the heavy front doors were locked behind her.
Back at home, she had stood beneath the warm spray of the shower, her fingers tracing the tender marks scattering her skin, some left by their chaotic slide down the chute, others bruised into her hips by the frantic rhythm of Ian's touch. After dressing, she slipped into a modest floral dress, brushed out her damp hair, and headed out to meet her mother.
"Chantell."
"Mother."
They greeted each other with a quick peck on both cheeks before her mother settled into the opposite side of the booth.
"How are things, Mum?"
"Oh, you know-can't complain."
"And yet you will."
Her mother offered a brief sigh. "Well, did I tell you about that house from the other week?"
"No, Mum. Which one?"
"The old Jenkins place."
Chantell, who usually tuned out her mother's endless local gossip, instantly sat up straight at the sound of the name. Jenkins.
"That daughter of Mr. Jenkins is utterly insufferable," her mother carried on, smoothing her coat. "Ordering me around do this, do that like I'm her personal photographer."
"Oh, right."
"You know her, don't you? Holly, or Hailey, or something equally common."
"Holly Jenkins, yeah. I know her."
Her mother kept talking, entirely oblivious to Chantell's reaction.
"Cheerleader, my foot. And she's a mother now, did you know? Pregnant right out of school. Thank goodness you were never like that."
Her mother paused to take a sip of her drink before continuing. "And don't get me started on her brother," her mother added, wafting a hand dismissively. "Swanning around like he's the one paying for it all."
Chantell paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. "She has a brother?"
"Yeah, Ian or Isaac, I don't know. Did you know he did six... six musicals on Broadway?"
"No way," Chantell breathed, her mind racing to connect the boy in the auditorium with a Broadway record.
"Yeah, well," her mother sniffed, scanning the menu. "Only the shitty plays, mind. Nothing major like The Phantom of the Opera or anything proper."
---
Later that evening, after enduring two hours of her mother's complaints and remarks about Chantell still being single and childless, she finally escaped to the comfort of her sofa. Chantell sat sprawled on her sofa in sweatpants, eating takeaway straight from the container, far too exhausted to even think about cooking. She picked up her phone and texted Ian.
Chantell: Hi, What you up to?
A speech bubble bounced on the screen for a moment before his reply popped up.
Ian: just setting up. why, what are you up to?
Chantell: nothing much, watching tv and getting fat.
Ian: you fat? I couldn't imagine it.
Chantell: hey, I weighed a lot in junior high. and I mean a LOT. ask your sister.
Ian: come to think of it, she did mention something after we loaded your truck...
Chantell: of course she did... ,Bitch Chantell thought, Chantell: anyway, a little bird told me something today.
Ian: oh yeah? was it tweet tweet?
Chantell: you're lucky you're not here.
Ian: 😝😜 so what did this little birdie say?
Chantell: that you've been on Broadway.Ian: Who told you that? Was it Holly?
Chantell: Ha ha. No.
Ian: Do you work for the FBI or the CIA?
Chantell: Yeah. I slept with you to learn state secrets about building trapdoors in theatres.
Ian: I knew it! Just wait until I tell Dave.
Chantell: Please don't. Anyway... Broadway.
Ian: Yeah? What about it?
Chantell: Six shows, huh?
Ian: Again, you're scary. Sexy and beautiful, but scary. I still-
Ian: It was the realtor, wasn't it? That insufferable, nosy cow.
Chantell: Whoa, calm down!
Ian: No, she and Holly were in the back garden taking pictures of the house. I'm sure Holly told her. Mind you, she did mention something about her daughter.
Chantell: Oh yeah? Like what?
Ian: I'm not a gossip.
Chantell: Come on!
Ian: She said her daughter's a teacher at a high school. Works at the same one as you.
Chantell: Oh, I might know her.
Ian: I'm sure you do.
Chantell: You know...
Ian: What?
Chantell: You just called my mother an insufferable cow.
Ian: ...Yeah, I'm just putting two and two together now. Please don't hold it against me.
Chantell: I might. All this power could go straight to my head. 😘
Ian: Oh yeah?
Chantell: So, what should your punishment be?
Ian: Gotta run, C-our band's about to hit the stage. Text you later!
---
Band? she thought, staring at the screen as the three grey typing dots vanished into nothing. He's in a band?
God, as if her insides weren't burning for him already.
She tossed her phone onto the cushion beside her, sinking back against the couch with a heavy exhale. Between her bruised hips, the quiet hum lingering in her skin from the night before, and now this newly discovered Broadway-and-band side to Ian Jenkins, she was rapidly losing every ounce of composure she possessed.
She picked up a chip from her takeaway container, chewed it absentmindedly, and glared at his last text.
It took less than ten minutes of careful social media sleuthing and a quick, casual message to a mutual friend who had Holly on Snapchat to track him down.
Ian's band was playing at The Moonshine, a dimly lit, sticky-floored local dive bar down by the docks known for loud amps and cheap draft beer and the name of his band? Slug Heads.
Chantell couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped her as she read the flyer image on her screen. Broadway veteran by night, Slug Head by weekend.
Ditching her sweatpants, she raided her wardrobe for her best approximation of punk rock. She pulled on a pair of distressed black slim-fit jeans, a worn band tee tucked in at the waist, and a dark denim jacket with rolled sleeves. She laced up her boots, threw on a swipe of dark eyeliner, and grabbed her bag making sure her modest dress from earlier was safely tucked away in the wash.
Stepping out into the cool evening air, her thumbs flew across her phone screen as she messaged her friend.
Chantell: Emergency. Meet me at The Moonshine in twenty. Don't ask questions, just come.
Sarah: The Moonshine??? Who died? Or who are we stalking?
Chantell: I'll explain when you get here. Just bring earplugs.
---
The Moonshine sat at the edge of the industrial district like an oasis for misfits, its massive parking lot packed to capacity. Motorcycles roared as they pulled in alongside custom street racers and beat-up trucks. Groups of punk rockers and locals lingered near the entrance in clusters, passing around joints and cigarettes while laughter and thick smoke drifted into the cool night air.
Even from the lot, the deep, thumping bass line and muffled vocals vibrated through the pavement.
Chantell and Sarah pushed through the heavy front doors, stepping into an entry area that looked oddly like a retro motel lobby complete with a check-in desk, wood-paneled walls, and dim fluorescent lights. But past the desk lay a long, narrow tunnel. With every step down the hallway, the sound grew louder, the bass rattling Chantell's ribs until the corridor finally opened up into a massive, cavernous venue.
The place was rammed wall-to-wall with people of all ages. High above the packed floor sat a wide, elevated stage bathed in harsh stage lights. Directly opposite the stage, a wraparound balcony overlooked the entire room, featuring its own independent bar away from the main floor's chaotic dance floor below.
Chantell led Sarah up the metal stairs to the balcony, elbowing her way through the crowd until they secured a spot right against the railing.
Down below, the energy was electric. And up on stage, bathed in red spotlight and sweating under a worn leather strap, was Ian.
He was slinging a worn electric guitar, his fingers blurring across the fretboard as he laid down a blistering lead riff. His dark hair was a damp mess, clinging to his forehead as he stepped up to the microphone, lending rough, melodic backing vocals that effortlessly cut through the thunderous drums and pounding bass of Slug Heads.
Sarah leaned over the balcony railing, her jaw dropping as she looked from the stage to Chantell.
"Okay," Sarah yelled over the roar of the crowd, pointing down at the stage. "You definitely owe me an explanation and maybe a drink!"
Chantell didn't answer right away. She couldn't take her eyes off him.
---
"Okay, look do you remember Holly Jenkins?" Chantell asked, shouting over the deafening roar of the speakers.
"Yeah! The cheerleader who got pregnant by that doofus Luke or whatever?" Sarah yelled back, leaning in close.
"Yeah! Well, you see the guy playing lead guitar down there?"
Sarah squinted toward the stage, watching Ian rip through a solo. "Yeah?"
"That's her brother."
Sarah's eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open in total shock. "Shut the front door! Seriously? Wow... I need to get me a piece of that meat."
Chantell felt a sudden flare of heat rise straight to her cheeks. She looked away, but a betraying blush gave her completely away.
Sarah caught it instantly. Her jaw dropped even further. "No... No way! You... you and him? Oh my god! Wow... Where?... When?... How?"
"I am not telling you!" Chantell laughed, burying her face in her hands.
They headed over to the upstairs bar and ordered a round of drinks, chatting loudly over the noise. Sarah tried every trick in the book to pry details out of Chantell, but Chantell held her ground, offering only coy smirks and flushed cheeks instead of specifics.
Her resolve didn't need to last much longer anyway. Mid-conversation, Sarah glanced down at the stage just as the song hit its climax and her eyes locked onto the band's lead singer.
That was it. Ian's brotherly connection was instantly forgotten.
"Okay, never mind the guitarist," Sarah shouted, slapping Chantell's arm and pointing over the railing. "That one. That one right there, he's mine."
Chantell laughed, raising her glass as Sarah immediately shifted into full predator mode.
For the next few hours, the night dissolved into a blur of loud music, sweet mixed drinks, and endless laughing. They wandered down to the main floor, navigating the sea of leather jackets and flannel, occasionally brushing off overly confident guys who tried to buy them drinks or slide into their personal space on the dance floor.
At some point, Ian and the rest of Slug Heads vanished into the back room after their set, but Chantell was too swept up in the music and the alcohol to go hunting for him.
---
They danced until their feet ached, completely losing track of time until suddenly, the venue's harsh fluorescent house lights buzzed to life overhead.
The crowd groaned in unison as the heavy bass snapped off. Chantell blinked against the sudden glare, checking her phone screen with bleary eyes.
12:05 AM.
"Oh, man," Sarah groaned, squinting against the bright lights and shielding her eyes. "My head is already predicting tomorrow morning."
Chantell laughed, turning around to grab her denim jacket and stopped dead in her tracks.
Standing near the edge of the stage floor, a towel slung over his bare shoulder and an unopened beer in hand, was Ian.
"Chantell Lovelace," he said, looking up at her with a crooked grin. "Stalking me now?"
Heat curled through her lower body at the sound of him saying her full name.
"Ian Jenkins," she countered, attempting a sultry purr. "The boy with secrets."
Unfortunately, in her drunken state, it came out sounding more like a raspberry blown by a mischievous toddler.
Ian stared at her for a second before bursting out laughing.
"Come on, you. I've got a cab waiting."
"My friend!" Chantell exclaimed, turning toward the spot where she'd last seen Sarah.
Except Sarah was nowhere to be found.
Ian glanced toward the back rooms. "Your friend's probably back there with Ricky."
"Who's Ricky?"
"The lead singer." His grin faded slightly as he took a closer look at her. "You okay?"
"I'm fi... f... fine."
"Right. Let's get you home."
He slipped an arm around her to steady her as they made their way outside. The cool night air seemed to sober her for all of three seconds before she swayed against him.
"Careful," he murmured, guiding her toward the waiting cab.
"I'm being careful," she informed him solemnly.
"Naturally."
Once they'd climbed inside, Ian gave the driver his address and settled beside her.
For the first few minutes, Chantell sat quietly, her head resting against the window. Then she swallowed hard and pressed a hand over her mouth.
Ian turned toward her.
"Chantell?"
She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut.
"Don't talk," she mumbled. "If I talk, I'm gonna be sick."
"Okay. Just breathe slowly."
The rest of the drive passed in uncomfortable silence, broken only by Chantell's occasional swallowing and the driver's increasingly suspicious glances in the rearview mirror.
---
When they finally arrived, Ian paid the fare and helped her out of the cab, keeping a firm arm around her waist as he guided her inside.
By the time they reached his apartment, Chantell was barely keeping her eyes open.
"Nearly there," he told her.
"Your place smells nice," she mumbled.
"Thanks. Try not to redecorate it with your dinner."
She gave a weak, offended noise.
"You're mean."
"I've been told."
He helped her into the bedroom and eased her down onto the bed. She curled onto her side almost immediately, dragging a pillow against her chest.
Ian crouched beside her.
"Chantell? Can you hear me?"
"Mmm."
"Do you know where you are?"
"With the boy with secrets."
Despite himself, he smiled faintly.
"That's right."
Her eyes fluttered closed.
"I still want your babies," she whispered.
Ian stared at her.
"Let's revisit that conversation when you can remember having it."
She made a vague noise of protest, then slipped into unconsciousness.
His smile disappeared.
"Chantell?"
He touched her shoulder gently, trying to rouse her. When she failed to respond, panic seized him. He grabbed his phone, already preparing to call for help, when she suddenly flopped onto her side and let out a thunderous snore.
Ian froze, staring at her.
"You have got to be kidding me."
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