I’d taken myself into a bar afterward.
I’d only gone there for a drink, but then I saw her, sitting on that stage, singing her heart out, her words sad and sorrowful, her voice beautiful and calling to me.
I wanted to know more about her right then and there.
And after that night, I took her back to my hotel. We’d both become lost in pleasure, and then she left, no goodbye, no last name or phone number given to me so I could find her again.
Now, three months later, after trying to figure out where she was, all but being a stalker, I was still nowhere close to finding out who Adele was. But that would change, because I was headed back to the city for work. My plan was simple.
Scour the city, go to every bar, and find her—because leaving without making her mine was not an option.