Sweet Regret: A second chance, single mom, rockstar romance

I’ve never felt more naïve in my life than I do in this moment.

Women mill around me. Most are half-dressed in sky-high heels. Some are drunk or obnoxiously loud or both. All are standing near the backstage exit waiting for a brief glimpse of any of the Bent band members in the hopes they’ll burst out of those doors and make the trek to their tour bus.

And in that glimpse, I have no doubt they are hoping to be seen, noticed, and then picked out of the crowd to join them for the evening.

I’m not sheltered by any means, but to say I’m not surprised by the comments being said around me is an understatement.

Getting an autograph is the last thing on these ladies’ minds.

I’ve heard he’s incredible in the sack. I plan on finding out.

If I flash them as they walk by, do you think it would help?

Panties are a no-go. I want him to see how wet I am for him through my pants.

I thought getting the concert ticket and driving the four hours to the venue was going to be the hardest part of tonight. Sure, it cost me some of my savings, but seeing Vince again was all I could think about.

The concert alone was definitely worth it. Bent was more than electric, but truth be told, I wasn’t exactly paying attention. My eyes were one hundred percent fixed on Vince.

He was . . . incredible. Fantastic. Mesmerizing. All of that and then some considering I knew the boy who’d fiddle on his guitar and blush when he messed up a chord. To see him so confident and playing up the crowd was everything I’d hoped it would be.

But now I’m here. Outside the back door. One of what seems like a hundred women vying to be seen and not exactly sure how to do it.

I’ve tried talking to the security guards at the door. The only thing I do know is that he changed his number somewhere during the past few years. Was it his way of making a clean break from his past?

I’m under no pretenses how this reunion will go other than the strong urge I had telling me that I needed to be here. That I needed to see him if for no other reason than to sate my curiosity and to find a bit of closure in a wound that has long since scarred over.

The question is . . . how exactly do I do that?

The confidence I had in how I looked—my new outfit, my freshly cut and colored hair, my perfectly colored spray tan—fades as I take in all these women and their knockout bodies. I could only wish to have the confidence to wear the skimpy outfits they are wearing.

Is this what Vince likes now? Is this who he is? Does that really matter, Bristol? This isn’t about sex. Right?

“Trying to get in his pants now that he’s made it, huh? Don’t let the lights fool you. He’s still the same fucked-up loser he was back then. Maybe even more so now. Don’t waste your time. He’s not fucking worth it.”

The slight slur to his words, the innate lethargy, the disdain for his son . . . it was horrible. The fact that I had to plead with that man . . . For whatever reason, he gave me Vince’s number, and until now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever use it. But I need to try. I can’t let this moment pass me by.

I dial the number Deegan Jennings gave me and wait as it rings and rings until an electronic voice picks up. Shit. Then I stare at my phone wondering what to text. It takes me way too long to figure it out. There is a lot of typing and deleting, but in the end, I figure simpler is better.

Me: It’s Bristol. I’m here at the arena. The backstage door. The concert was great. I know you’re busy but was hoping maybe to see you for a few minutes. – Shug.

I hit send and then silently freak out. I just played the only hand I have, and it might not be enough. Vince holds all the cards now.

The minutes drag on as my hope of seeing him fades.

The door opens and everyone clambers back to the ropes as a tall man in a white shirt, ripped jeans and a hat that sits low over his brow walks out toward us. He starts pointing at different women and then hooking his thumb toward the door he just came from. “You. And you.” He stands on his tiptoes and looks past the front row where I stand as those first two women squeal and all but jog in their heels toward the door. “You, you, and you,” he continues, looking over me. “That’s it.”

Every part of me deflates as I try to get his attention. “Hey. I need to see Vince.”

“So does everyone, sweetheart. Let me guess, you know him personally.”

“I do. I promise. Tell him Shug is here.”

A round of laughter goes off from the women blocking the view in front of me, and then there is an awed silence I can’t comprehend.

“Shug? Is that you?”

Vince’s voice rings out followed by gasps from the women around me as he comes into view.

“Vince. I’m here. It’s me.” My words are frantic. My heart is racing. And the next few seconds are an absolute blur as the man I later find out to be the road manager, Mick, grabs my hand and pulls me out of the crowd. I don’t even have time to see or talk to Vince as the crowd squeezes in around us. Mick pushes us through the door before slamming it behind us.

“Christ, Jennings. You trying to get me fucking killed?” Mick asks as he shoves him from behind.

Vince laughs. “Too bad it didn’t work.”

“Fucker,” Mick mumbles about the same time that Vince turns to face me.

The area we are standing in is brightly lit, has concrete floors, white walls, and Vince stands before me dressed in head-to-toe black.

He’s gorgeous.

I mean, he always has been, but his boyish face has matured. His jaw is stronger, covered in more stubble, and his eyes, though lit up with surprise, are more reserved. His left arm is peppered with a few tattoos that give him more of an edge than the guy I once knew. And then there’s his body. That wiry teenage boy I once loved is most definitely a man with a broad chest, square shoulders, strong thighs, and sexy as hell hands.

And in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back to me as if no time has passed.

But it has.

It most definitely has.

We stare at each other for what feels like forever but is merely seconds before a slow smile crawls onto his handsome face. “Jesus, it really is you,” he says before he swoops me up in a hug, picks me up off the floor as he does so, and just holds on tight with his face buried in the curve of my shoulder.

He smells of leather and soap from the shower he must have taken after the show. His hair is wet against the side of my face, and his arms are strong as they squeeze me tight.

Processing my feelings is impossible, so I shove them away and try to memorize the moment.

“Fuck, man. If you’re going to fuck her, then at least get out of the hallway,” someone says as they bump past us.

“It’s not like that.” Vince chuckles as he sets me down.

It’s now when we stare at each other that the awkwardness sets in. For the first few moments, it was like he was the guy I used to know, and now he’s the famous musician I don’t really know anything about.

When we finally talk, we both start at the same time.

“Sorry,” we say in unison.

“You go first,” I say through my laugh.

“I still can’t believe you’re standing in front of me.” He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks and motions for me to get out of the way. Distractions are everywhere around us. People moving about. Black cases being moved here and there. Voices shouting out and echoing down the corridors.

There’s a harshness to it all that clearly Vince is more than used to.

“I don’t know,” I say and shrug as someone walks past him and hands him a beer.

“Want one?”

“No. I don’t think—”

“Killer show, man,” a guy says and fist-bumps him. “I love that new riff you added into Take Me Down. Talk about kicking it up a notch. No doubt kids’ll be all over the socials trying to copy it.” He laughs. “That’s how you know you’ve made it. Hey, you heading out with us?”

Vince looks to me and then back to him. “Nah. Not right now.”

The guy looks at me and his eyes widen. “Oh. Gotcha. Dude, your bus is free and clear if you need it . . .” He looks my way again and smirks. “For whatever you might need it for.”

“I—I’m not—” I start to say when I realize he thinks I’m a groupie here to sleep with Vince, but the man just holds his hands up in a no judgment motion before taking a step backward and walking away.

“Just ignore him,” Vince says with a chuckle. “He’s just . . . Jimmy.”

I stare at Vince and suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous being here. What did I expect? That we’d see each other and things would be like they were back when we were in high school? That we’d slip back into talking about how Mr. Parker sucks as a math teacher, how my mom won’t budge on my curfew . . . and I don’t even know what else.

“I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously and look around at this chaos he lives in and know I’m way out of my element. “I just showed up without warning. I’m sure you have other plans.”

“Get your ass in here, Jennings,” someone calls from an open doorway. I’m actually grateful for the interruption so I have time to calm my nerves.

“Follow me for a sec?” he asks and then moves toward the door. It’s a large room—what I would think a quintessential backstage would look like. A large oriental rug, couches everywhere, and people milling about. The band members. The women from outside. Other people trying to look the part but that stand out like a sore thumb.

The music is loud and the cigarette smoke is thick as Vince introduces me to a few people. I like his bandmates immediately. Hawkin Play, the lead singer, definitely owns the room. He’s charismatic and energetic even after running around on the stage for the past few hours. Rocket, their other guitarist, is definitely the class clown of the group, and Gizmo, their drummer, the more mellow one.

I’m sure the mellowness isn’t hindered by the woman’s throat he currently has his tongue down.

Vince is pulled in to settle a debate between Gizmo and Hawkin as I move to the edge of the room and just take it all in. This new and crazy lifestyle that he leads.

And as I stand here, it’s obvious to me from the various people vying for Vince’s attention, that everybody wants something from him. His bandmates want his mediation skills. The women who keep walking up and running a hand down his arm with huge come fuck me eyes want in his pants. The other guests wait for a snippet of his time and seem satisfied when they get it.

How silly is it for me to still love a man as untouchable as him?

And yet, I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from him.

Because of that inability, I see the minute he realizes I’ve slinked off into the shadows of the room. He stands on his toes and scans the room to find me, his smile greeting me when he does.

He’s at my side in seconds. “Sorry. It’s habit to unwind like this after a show.”

“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have come. I—”

“What are you talking about?” Vince says, grin widening. “It’s a lot. I know, but you get used to it. Come on, let’s go to my dressing room. It’s quieter there.”

I follow him as he starts to walk, my mind still trying to process that Vince is in front of me. How very different his life is compared to mine.

And what now?

We pass open doors—one where another party is clearly going on. Another where someone shouts out his name and he just lifts his middle finger at him. A third where the smell of pot permeates the air. People stop him to compliment him or ask him questions, and after each time, he apologizes.

“It’ll be quieter in here,” he says and pushes open a door with his name on it. The room is medium sized. A leather couch is on one side, a table on the opposite wall with a variety of food and drinks set up on it. A rack of clothes is beside it. Jazz plays softly on a speaker in the far corner, which should surprise me most but he always did like to listen to it to unwind.

“Thank you,” I murmur, still not sure what to do or say.

“Have a seat. Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Water. Beer. A Coke?”

Right about now I could use a whole bottle of something strong to battle my nerves. “A beer is fine.”

He lifts his brow at me, almost as if he too is having a hard time remembering we aren’t in high school anymore.

I thought this would be so much easier than it is. We’ve always had an effortless friendship, so I don’t know how to be any other way with him.

No time like the present to figure it out.

“I didn’t mean to just show up. I saw you were in town and decided to drive down. I didn’t think that you might have plans with the guys . . . or other women to go out with or . . . anything. I just—”

He puts a playful hand over my mouth from behind as he hands me a beer with his other before whispering in my ear. “You always did ramble when you were nervous.” He laughs. “Why you nervous, Shug?”

He lets go and circles around me to take a seat on the arm of the couch with one combat boot on the cushion beside me and the other on the floor so he can face me.

“I’m not nervous.” I take a sip of beer and cringe at the taste.

He just stares at me, his head angled to the side, his hand reaching up to scratch the side of his neck. He has a couple of leather bracelets on his wrist. It’s so much easier to focus on them than him, but there is one in particular that catches my eye.

It’s a thin, black, faded braid of a bracelet. I remember giving him that on his eighteenth birthday, because it was all I could afford but thought he would like.

My eyes flash to his and one corner of his lips turn up, his eyes soft. “What can I say? It’s my good luck charm.”

“You’ve kept it all this time?”

“Something like that.” He takes a long drink of his beer and ignores a knock on the door. A little part of me melts knowing he’s kept it all these years. “What’d you think of the show?”

“I thought you guys were incredible. High energy. Good set list. The crowd was really into it.”

“Thanks, but we still need work. Rocket fucked up on a song. I missed a chord on another. Hawkin forgot the lyrics and just told the crowd to sing along to cover it up.”

“Didn’t notice at all.”

“Yeah, but there are a million other bands out there waiting to take our place.” He lifts his beer again, giving me a better view of some of his tattoos. Some Japanese writing. The neck of a guitar. More that I can’t make out.

“You always were hard on yourself.”

“We need to be better. That’s all there is to it.”

“Better?” I laugh. “I’d say having the number one album in the country is pretty damn good. Can’t go much higher than that.”

Vince stares at me, his cheeks flushing, and his sheepish grin reminds me of a little boy before he shakes his head. “It’s absolutely fucking crazy, isn’t it? A total mindfuck. The guys . . . we still can’t wrap our heads around it.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“We went from couch-surfing and ramen to The Ritz and private jets all within a year.”

Another knock at the door. “Gotta go. Buses are loading,” a voice says through the door.

My heart sinks. This is it? That’s all the time I get?

Vince looks at me and then looks at the door before jogging to it and throwing it open. “Go on ahead,” he calls out. “I’ll catch up.” He turns to me. “I know a hole in the wall not too far from here. The food’s not great, but it’s dark so I won’t be recognized. Want to go?”