Page 68 of Caught Up In You

Instead, I turn back to the road, settling back into the surprisingly comfortable passenger seat of the ancient truck.

“So what do you need from me?”

CHAPTER 25

WYATT

My whole sordid story, and that’s all he’s got to say?

“Fromyou?” I ask.

“Yeah. Are we beating him up? Yelling at her? Do you need backup? Or just a getaway driver?”

I have to force my gaze back to the road, because otherwise I will just stare open-mouthed at this beautiful man. I poured my mess all over him, and he didn’t even blink. Didn’t push me for details or explanations. Didn’t look at me like I was something he’d stepped in. Just asked me how he could help.

He’ssucha good guy.

And I never should have dragged him into my disaster.

But he’s here, and the truth is I’m really fucking glad to have him on my side.

“To be honest, I’m not totally sure,” I confess, partly to him and partly to myself. Because since I texted Romy and told her I’d be at the show, I’ve refused to think about what that meant. What would happen when I got there. I just…said yes. Because I knew I’d have Owen by my side.

But now, staring at this seemingly endless stretch of rural highway, cornfields whipping by on either side as the sun glows orange and pink in the clouds, I actually consider it.

“I think I’m ready to listen to her,” I say, working out my thoughts as they come. “Not him. He can get fucked. But…I miss her. And I think I might have made a mistake back then, cutting her off.”

“Linger” by the Cranberries begins. The tape’s a little scratchy and tinny, but it works for the guitar, for Dolores O’Riordan’s haunting voice.

But Owen’s voice, deep and strong, cuts right over the vocals.

“I’ll follow your lead,” he says.

Just like Romy said in her text, when I pull up to security and give my name to the very beefy guard at the gate, we’re waved into a small parking area and escorted into the bowels of Lucas Oil Stadium, where a tall, broad-shouldered woman with platinum-blond hair, several dainty face tattoos, and a pink Nudie suit is waiting for us.

“The mysterious and elusive Wyatt Hart,” the woman says in a Southern-accented voice that is somehow both fizzy and syrupy. She holds out a tattooed hand. “I’m Sienna Walker, Romy’s manager.”

I like her firm handshake and the arrow tattooed just above her lethally arched right brow.

I don’t particularly like the way she eyes Owen like she wants a taste.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m particularly mysterious or elusive.”

Owen stifles a snort beside me, and I elbow him in the ribs hard enough that he gasps.

Sienna watches us, appraising, then lets out a deep, throaty laugh.

“I knew I was gonna like you,” she says, turning and gesturing for us to follow. “Romy’s in her dressing room. She goes on in fifteen, and she’ll play a thirty-minute set before that walking Mountain Dew bottle full of snuff spit goes on.”

Suddenly Sienna is my favorite person in the world.

The backstage area is cavernous and bustling like a train station, full of crew members wearing black clothes and earpieces like Secret Service agents and rushing around in a hurry. But that makes it easy to follow Sienna’s 1940s bouffant and sparkling pink figure through the crowd until we arrive at a closed door.

And just when I feel my heart start to pick up the pace like a marching band is making its way from my chest cavity into my throat, Owen slips his hand into mine. The warmth, the weight, the feeling of him puts me immediately at ease.

What do you need from me?

He just knows.

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