Page 12 of Love Songs

I frowned. “You need water.”

“Too cold,” he gasped, pushing my hand and the bottle away.

“Are you for real right now?” I snapped, speaking before thinking. But seriously? He was going to be a diva about the water temperature?

He raised an eyebrow at me, and if an eyebrow could be condescending, that one deserved an award.

“Ginger tea or . . . hot water with lemon and . . . honey . . . is better . . . for my throat,” he said haltingly.

I cursed under my breath and pulled out my cell phone, punching Jackson’s number.

“I need you to run over to Mabel’s Bistro booth and get a ginger tea,” I ordered before he could say hello.

“You want me to get you a tea?” Jackson sounded scandalized. “Now?”

“No.” I snorted. “Dallas Blade inhaled some smoke.”

“Oh.” His voice took on a whole new note at that information. “Yes. Right away.”

“Thanks. Mabel will have it waiting for you.”

After calling Mabel and putting in the rush order so it would be ready for Jackson, I took a good look at Dallas. The defeated set of his shoulders bothered me for a reason I couldn’t explain, but more so was the fact that he seemed scared. The fire hadn’t been big, and we’d been there to put it out before it could turn into something serious, but maybe he was afraid of fire. Though that made little sense, considering the amount of pyro their live shows were famous for.

Those damn pyrotechnics.

“Why was there a cell phone set up on the stage?” I questioned, my tone a little harder than I intended, but again, people doing stupid things . . .

Dallas glared at me but didn’t speak.

“He can’t talk right now,” Kirk said as he entered the room and handed what looked like a hard candy to Dallas, who took it with a grateful nod. He opened it and popped it into his mouth. I noted the wrapper was for a throat lozenge.

Kirk turned to me. “He was recording the show for his—”

Dallas kicked him with the toe of his boot, shifting his glare from me to Kirk, who raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, man.”

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “If you wanted to record you should have told me. There are a million safer ways to do that.”

Dallas opened his mouth and snapped it shut with a snarl.

Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor, and Jackson burst into the room. He held his hand high, holding a to-go cup.

“I’m here!” he shouted the obvious, skidding to a stop in front of Dallas.

He passed the cup to Dallas, who flashed a blinding smile as he accepted it. A tendril of jealousy snaked through my guts that Jackson had been the recipient of that smile.

What the serious freaking hell?

“That was an amazing show,” Jackson effused, and a second later, his eyes widened. He stammered on. “I mean, before the fire. I’ve seen you play live like, four times.”

“Thanks, man,” Kirk said with a smile. “We love to hear that.”

Jackson gasped, as if only now realizing who Kirk was. “You’re . . . Can I, uh . . .” He patted his pockets, coming up with a small notepad he always carried with him. “Could I get your autographs?”

I rolled my eyes. Now was really not the time for this. “Jackson . . .”

“It’s all good,” Kirk said, and Dallas made a gimme motion at the same time.

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