Page 8 of Love Songs

Yeah, buddy. I feel the same way.

“Can you show me your pyro set up?” I asked, biting back a remark about his attitude and treatment of his employees. Captain Burgess would not be happy with me making a public scene.

Brian waved an arm toward the front of the stage. I scanned the immediate area and what I could see of backstage through the greenroom door as I crossed the wooden floor, but I didn’t see Dallas, the elusive rock star.

Shoving down an unexpected flare of disappointment, I turned my attention to their setup.

They’d set a microphone stand in the middle toward the front. About a dozen feet behind it was a shiny chrome drum kit on a foot-high riser. Two towers of amplifiers flanked the drums, and another set of amplifiers stacked two-high sat flush with the frame of the band shell. Black curtains with the Dallas Blade Band logo screen-printed on them ran along the curved wings. Stagehands had placed the band’s two flash pots at the very front, about midway between the amps and the mic stand.

“These are too close to the edge of the stage.” I pointed at the flash pots.

“That’s where we always put them,” Brian argued, his expression tight.

“If you want me to sign off on them, you’ll need to move them back.” I propped my hands on my hips to keep from wringing some sense into the guy. “I can’t have them hitting any fans at the front of the stage because there’s no security pit here to keep them a safe distance away.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to argue with me.

“In fact,” I added before he could speak, taking another scan of their setup. “You should push everything back a couple of feet. And make sure you aim the pots directly up, so the sparks fall back on themselves. It’s not windy today, but that doesn’t mean we won’t get the odd breeze that could blow sparks into the crowd or back onto the stage.”

“I think they’ll be fine,” Brian hedged, pulling at the collar of his navy polo shirt.

“Hmm.” I made a point of looking him over from head to toe. “I don’t see a fire department badge on your shirt.”

“Fine.” Brian huffed under his breath and whistled to call the roadies over.

This guy issucha dick.

With a manager like that, my doubts grew that Dallas Blade would be any better. If he was, why would he work with someone like Brian?

I helped the roadies adjust the pots, making a point of thanking them, and satisfied that everything was safe, I did the final sign off on their permit.

As I crossed the stage to leave, I saw Dallas Blade standing on the other side, leaning against the staging area doorframe. I stumbled over my own damn feet.

The larger-than-life singer was frowning at me, but that didn’t stop my heart from lurching in my chest.

Holy.Shit.

I’d thought Dallas was hot in photos and videos, but in person . . . My childhood crush came roaring back to life with a vengeance. Dallas was tall, though not as tall my six-foot-four. Maybe four or five inches shorter. The bottom half of his long brown hair faded into a sun-kissed blond, giving him a bohemian vibe. He was wearing soft-looking jeans that hugged his long legs, shiny cowboy boots, and an open-collared white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows that showed off his muscular tattooed forearms.

I gulped.Please don’t be an ass.

“Have a good show,” I called out to Blade with a smile and wave.

His expression didn’t change. If anything, his frown deepened, but he tipped his head in acknowledgement.

Sigh. Of course, he’s an ass, too.

I WAS NERVOUS.

My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and my stomach felt all twisted up in knots.

I didn’t get pre-show jitters. Ever. But today was a big deal, worrying whether my vocal cords would hold up. The last thing I wanted was to let our fans down because I came back too soon, and my voice crapped out on me. Or worse, my voice was gone forever.

A shiver trembled through me at that depressing thought.

“I need to stretch my legs.” I jumped from my chair in the small backstage room of the band shell where we’d be playing shortly.

Kirk looked up from where he sat on the couch, strumming on an acoustic guitar, while our drummer Arthur was playing video games on his phone, and Luna was sitting crossed legged on a mat on the floor, eyes closed, meditating. I’d been sipping on a hot cup of water with lemon and honey after doing my vocal warmups.

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