Page 11 of Love Songs

“Sorry, everyone,” I raised my voice to be heard. “The fire’s out now. What a way to end the show, right?”

Cheers and whistles greeted my declaration. I took a bow, because it seemed like the right thing to do when people were cheering you.

Dallas glared at me—which, what the hell for?Ididn’t start the fire—and stepped up to the microphone.

“Thank you, Caldwell Crossing. You’ve been a wonderful audience.” Dallas paused and cleared his throat, but his voice sounded a little scratchy when he continued, “I’ll be signing autographs at the side of the stage in half an hour.”

A smaller crowd of hardcore Dallas Blade Band fans whooped and headed toward stage left, while everyone else made their way out of the park and onto the rest of their evening. I wondered how many of them would be at the auction in a couple of hours.

Ugh. Why did I think of that?

I turned to inspect the area. Someone had placed a power bar on the stage, right underneath the curtains. One outlet had a plug in it that led to the backside of the amplifiers, where a small gorilla stand sat on the floor holding a cell phone. Its red recording light was still on.

You havegotto be kidding me.

I put my free hand on my hip and growled. That had not been there when I’d signed off on the band’s setup, and if it had, I never would have entertained approving it for even a second. No matter how magical Blade’s voice was at making me agree to things I knew better not to.

I glanced over my shoulder. They hadn’t moved the flash pots from where I’d told them they should stay, lucky for them, but that foreboding gust of wind I’d felt must have pushed thesparks inside the stage, where they’d hit the power bar and short-circuited it, and that then ignited the curtains above it. The progression was as easy to see as tumbling dominos.

I didn’t take much in life too seriously and I joked around a lot, because in my job, I’d seen how fast life could change, or worse, end. But when it came to fire, I was dead serious. I tried to stay professional. I really did, but nothing pissed me off more than otherwise smart people doing stupid things. Add in months of frustration dealing with this particular band, and well, buh-bye professional.

“Who the hell put this fucking power bar here?” My voice boomed inside the band shell and out into the park. Jackson stared up at me with wide eyes, along with a few startled fans. “And this goddamned phone?”

I blasted the thing with the fire extinguisher to make the point before taking a second to think better about that. White foam encased the phone and stand into a single abstract art object.

Whoops.

“What the hell, man?” Dallas shouted over my shoulder, and I jumped, not realizing he’d been that close. “You trashed my phone!”

“That—” I pointed at it, my movement jerky and disdain dripping from my voice. “—was the reason for the fire. Which might have been okay if you hadn’t insisted on your precious fucking pyro.”

“It’s just a cell phone,” Dallas retorted, followed by a short cough, not getting the point.

“Which was plugged into a friggin’ power bar. Not to code, by the way.” I waved toward the bar. “And your pyro short-circuited that bar. Thatshouldn’t have been there!”

My voice rose with each word of that last sentence, because yeah, I was pissed as hell now. The nerve this guy had to arguewith me . . .? I swear, my blood was on the verge of boiling in my veins.

Dallas’s complexion paled as the guitarist, Kirk, came up beside him.

“You need to stop talking,” he said to Dallas.

Good advice.

“I’m fine,” Dallas snapped, the color rising in his cheeks again. “And you!” He jabbed a finger at me. “Owe me a n—”

A full-on coughing fit overtook Dallas. His eyes widened with something like fear, and he flailed his arms the way someone drowning would reach for help.

Anger fled and all my firefighter training kicked in. He’d probably been standing too close to the fire, not realizing how much smoke it emitted before the flames took hold.

I grabbed his shoulders, and he gripped onto my forearm like a lifeline.

“Hey, you’re okay. You probably inhaled a little smoke.” I guided Dallas to the backstage area and onto a chair. “Anyone have water?” I shouted.

A roadie from earlier handed me a fresh bottle of cold water. A look of concern etched on his face.

I thanked him as I twisted off the cap.

“Here.” I handed it to Dallas, but he shook his head.

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