Chapter 2: Stage Lights and Snapped Wrists
Luke Reynolds had been in worse places. Had spent nine months in a Forward Operating Base with sand so fine it got into his teeth, his dreams, his rifle's action. He'd slept in the rain, eaten MREs cold, and once patchworked a bullet wound on his buddy's leg with a sewing kit and a bottle of Jameson. So no, The Rusty Anchor was not the worst place he'd ever been. But it was up there.
The air was thick enough to chew. Stale cigarette smoke layered over spilled beer and something faintly floral from the cheap air freshener someone had clearly given up on hours ago. The neon sign outside bled through the grimy windows, painting everything in shades of sickly amber. Hunter had promised him "just one drink, man, one drink and we're out." That had been two hours ago. Two hours of sitting at a sticky table with his back to the wall—old habit—watching a string of mediocre locals butcher covers of songs he didn't even like.
And then she'd walked on stage.
Emily Callahan. The bartender. The one who'd given him a look like she was already bored of him before he'd even ordered. She'd swapped her apron for a worn-out denim skirt and a faded band tee tied at the side, guitar slung low on her hip like an extension of her body. The spotlight hit her chestnut hair, catching the flyaways escaping her messy ponytail. Freckles dusted her nose and shoulders like someone had flicked a paintbrush at her skin.
Luke had meant to keep scowling at his glass of water. Had meant to keep his attention on the door, on the exits, on the civilians who were getting rowdier with every round. But she opened her mouth and started to sing, and every thought in his head just. Stopped.
Her voice was a live wire wrapped in velvet. Raw and husky, sliding over the notes like she was dragging gravel across silk. She wasn't just singing the song—she was feeling it, eyes half-closed, hips swaying in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the band behind her and everything to do with the pulse in the room. The crowd was eating it up. Luke hated how much he was too.
He tightened his grip on his glass. Just condensation and water. He wasn't here to watch a woman sing. He was here because Hunter had insisted, because the alternative was another night in his barracks room with his father's voicemails piling up, each one more desperate and ugly than the last. Son, I need the money. You owe me. You owe me, you little shit—
Luke reached for the water, took a sip, and forced himself to stop thinking about the tightening in his chest.
That's when he saw the flash.
A flicker of white light from the front of the stage. Quick, almost imperceptible. But Luke had spent years training his eyes to catch movement in the dark, to spot the glint of a scope or the shift of a shadow. His gaze snapped to the source.
A Marine. Luke recognized him from the base—Private First Class something-or-other, young, cocky, the kind of kid who thought a uniform gave him permission to be an asshole. He was crouched low at the edge of the stage, phone angled up, screen glowing. Up at Emily's skirt. Up at where the denim had ridden high as she swayed, lost in the music, completely unaware.
Luke's hand tightened around his glass until his knuckles went white.
The private grinned. The phone flashed again.
Something went cold in Luke's chest. And then something went hot. He set the glass down slowly—too slowly, like he was talking himself out of what he was about to do—and rose from his chair. Hunter was saying something about Rosie, laughing, gesturing at the band. Luke didn't hear him. The room narrowed to that one point of light, that one grinning face, that one piece of garbage in a uniform who was about to find out what happens when you forget the Corps teaches you how to break things.
He took a step forward. Another. The crowd parted around him without noticing—too drunk, too wrapped up in the music. He was three paces away when the song shifted, Emily hitting a high note that sliced through the bar like a blade. Her eyes were still closed, her body still moving.
But then she opened them.
And she saw.
Luke stopped mid-stride. Because Emily Callahan didn't flinch, didn't freeze, didn't miss a single beat of the song. Her gaze flicked to the crouching private, to the phone in his hand, and a slow, dangerous smirk spread across her face. The kind of smirk that said watch this.
She finished the verse. Held the note. And then, mid-song, she bent at the waist—fluid, graceful, like she was just catching her breath—and plucked the phone clean out of the private's grip.
Her fingers brushed his knuckles. The private's grin froze. Twitched. Died.
Emily straightened up, the phone in her hand, still singing. Her voice didn't waver. She held the device up to the light, angled it so the screen caught the glow of the stage lights. The camera app was open. The video was recording. She angled her eyebrow at it, then at the crowd, who were starting to catch on. A ripple of laughter ran through the room.
And then she raised her middle finger. Slow. Deliberate. Right at the camera lens.
The bar erupted.
Howling, clapping, hoots and hollers echoing off the grimy walls. The private's face went red as a fire engine. He opened his mouth, sputtering something incoherent—you can't, that's my— but Emily had already turned, already spotted the manager leaning against the bar with a dish towel over his shoulder, and tossed the phone in a lazy arc. He caught it one-handed, his expression about as amused as a man who'd seen everything and was tired of all of it.
"Evidence," Emily called over her shoulder, as if that settled it. And then she was back at her mic, fingers curling around the neck of her guitar, as if some asshole trying to film up her skirt was just another Tuesday.
Luke stood frozen, halfway to the private, his fists clenched at his sides. The private was slinking backward now, neck burning, head down, making for the exit. Luke's body demanded he follow. His training demanded he follow. But his eyes—his eyes were still on Emily.
She turned back to the crowd, a wicked little grin still tugging at the corner of her mouth. She leaned into the mic, her voice crackling through the speaker. "That one's for you boys in the back."
And then she winked. Directly at him.
Luke's heart did something his combat training had never prepared him for. A stutter. A skip. A shift in his chest like a gear grinding into place.
He sat back down slowly, his legs not quite his own. Hunter was slapping his shoulder, shouting something about damn, did you see that? Luke didn't hear him. He was watching Emily Callahan strap her guitar back on, watching her mouth curl around the next verse, watching the way the light caught the freckles on her shoulders.
He picked up his water glass.
Took a long drink.
And realized, with a sinking certainty that had nothing to do with the bar or the Marines or his father's relentless calls, that he was in trouble.
She was mid-solo now, her voice raw and low, spilling out over the crowd like smoke. The skirt rode up again as she swayed, and Luke’s jaw tightened—not at her, but at the room. At every pair of eyes that watched her like she was a piece of meat on a grill. At himself, for being one of them, even if his reasons were getting harder to name.
He watched her slide into the final chorus, watched the way her fingers danced over the strings of her guitar, watched the way she seemed to be singing just for the hell of it. Not for the crowd, not for the tips, not for anything but the pure, defiant joy of making sound.
Luke pulled his phone out of his pocket.
His father's voicemail icon blinked at him. Fourteen missed messages. The last one had been three hours ago, a slurred, ugly tirade about debts owed and filial duty. Luke thumbed the screen, opened the contact, and stared at the name he'd never bothered to change.
Dad.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
And then Emily hit the final note, holding it so long and so pure that the room seemed to hold its breath with her. Luke’s thumb moved. He pocketed the phone. He looked up.
Emily opened her eyes, breathless and slick with sweat. Her gaze found his across the smoky dark.
She smiled. Small. Real.
Luke didn't smile back. He couldn't. But he also didn't look away.