From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Kylie Scott comes a new story in her Stage Dive series…

There’s always the one that got away. Or kicked you out…

The new darling of rock n’ roll, Adam Dillon, is ready to show his ex-girlfriend, Jill Schwartz, what a mistake she made kicking him to the curb. So maybe he wasn’t the best of boyfriends. Writing great songs and climbing to the top of the charts isn’t easy. Only problem is, he’s fast finding out that success isn’t everything.

**Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you’ll enjoy each one as much as we do.**

“You and me, we were never convenient. And you and easy have nothing in common. Trust me on that one.”

“You utter douche canoe.”

“I worshipped the ground you walked on.”

“You grunted at me and called it a conversation. No wonder I missed the signs of your supposed adulation.” I ground my teeth together. “Just admit it already. The whole being in love with me thing is bullshit. It’s a PR stunt or a…a…”

“Are you crying?”

“No!”

“Jill.” He leaned closer, cupping my face in his big hand. His gaze went from curious to startled in under a second. “Jesus, you are.”

I pushed off his hand. “I am not crying, I’m just very angry at you, and it’s coming out in unexpected ways.”

“We’re here,” announced the bodyguard.

Sure enough, out on the sidewalk, a group of fans waited along with several photographers waving their cameras around. I wiped the tears off my face. Stupid emotions. Righteous fury was what I was feeling. Not pain and heartache. I got over Adam a long time ago with the aid of ice-cream, vodka, and my most excellent girl gang. Those three things trumped a male of the species any day of the week. It was just that smelling him and hearing him and seeing him again had me confused or something.

In all likelihood, I was crying due to his presence giving me horrific flashbacks. To such occasions as when I went to visit my parents for a week and came back to find the interior of the fridge somehow entirely covered in black mold. Or the time I came home from work to find the furniture rearranged into the sign of the anti-Christ in honor of Ozzy Osbourne. Perhaps even the memory of when he wrote a song for me on the living room wall in permanent marker. A love song, almost, but without actually going so far as the L-word, of course. Because…Adam.

Actually, I didn’t hate that particular memory. I might have even taken a photo of the wall before I invited the girls over to graffiti all over it. But I still very much hated him and should tell him as much. Right now.

“I hate you, and I’m perfectly fucking fine,” I sobbed. “I am so…so over you, Adam Dillon. S-so…”

“Goddammit,” he snarled, reaching for me.