Page 50 of Out of the Blue

With this rationalization firmly rooted, I enter the granite-covered lobby and walk over to the reception desk. A guy about my age wearing a wrinkled suit smiles at me. “May I help you?”

“I’m going to the radio station.”

The receptionist asks me to fill out some information and show him my driver’s license. “Are you with a band?”

Muffling a sigh at my inconsequence, I nod. “Yeah. I’m with The Light Rail. We’re opening for Hunte.”

At the name of the headliner, his eyes open wide with recognition. Someday, hopefully, we’ll achieve this level of recognition for our work. “Oh, wow. I heard they were in the building but wasn’t here when they arrived. I’m a big fan.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along your appreciation.” The words stick in my throat, but then I remember I used to be a huge devotee, too. How did my life get this complicated?

He writes my name down and gives me a nametag. “Thanks, Trent.”

I almost tell him not to forget my name. No. Who knows if we’ll even be around once this leg of the tour finishes? Gauging from the middle-of-the-road progress report Cordy read to us, it’s probably a fifty-fifty proposition.

Nametag adhered to my light brown untucked shirt, I take the elevator to the tenth floor. On the ride up, I fiddle so much with my sleeves that one of the other passengers asks if I need any help. Ha! If only he could do this ask for me.

Getting off at the radio station’s floor, I stand outside the glass doors for a minute. With a large inhale, I open the doors and stride over to the desk. A beautiful girl with long blonde hair raises her head, her eyes skimming my entire form.

Quirking my left lip upward, I lean my forearm against the counter. “Hi there, darling. I’m Trent Washington, a member of The Light Rail. We’re opening for Hunte during this leg of their tour.” Shit. Did I sound like a jerk?

“Hi. I’m Jenni. How may I help you?”

Whew. Guess not. While my body revolts, I know I need her help. “I need to talk with Braxton Hunte. Can you point me in their direction?” As I speak, I give her a wink. Too skinny for my taste, but gotta do what I have to do.

“Sure. They’re down the hall to the left. I think they wrapped. So long as the ‘On Air’ sign isn’t lit, you can go in.”

Wonderful. No obstructions to getting to him. Today’s my lucky day.Yeah, right.

“Thank you, Jenni.”

I turn and strut down the hallway she had indicated, making sure to put more swagger in my step for her benefit, and stop in front of an oversized ebony doorway. Since the sign isn’t lit, I can go right in. And ask my father—Braxton—for some tickets.Why did I feel the need to seek him out before they returned to the hotel?Oh yeah. Neutral turf.

Sheathed in this nonpartisan territory, I open the door. The members of Hunte are scattered about, talking with other people I don’t know, presumably from the radio station. It only takes a second to register the blond hair on my old man. With him in my sights, I circle the table.

“Hey there.” An overweight guy wearing a button-down shirt straining around his middle places his hand on my arm. His appearance is belied by a smooth-as-honey voice. Must be an on-air personality.

Refusing to be put off when my goal is so near, I square my shoulders. “Hi. I’m Trent Washington, a member of The Light Rail. We’re opening for Hunte on this leg of their tour.”

Braxton appears to the DJ’s right. “Hey there, Trent.”

The DJ’s head rotates between us. Addressing my father, he says, “I want to thank you, again, for such a great interview. We really appreciate your coming here and talking with our listeners. I’ll let you get down to business with Trent here.” He offers his hand, which Braxton shakes.

Now Braxton and I are alone, as it were, and my stomach clenches. Rubbing my palms together, I’m again struck by his well-chiseled features. For an older guy, he’s in good shape. Guess it bodes well for me.

“What brings you all the way over here?”

His question spurs me on.Spit it out. “I was talking with my aunt, who lives nearby. She and her family would love to come to the show tomorrow.”

“And you need tickets?” He tugs on his ear.

“Yeah. I was told you’re the guy to ask.”

“Well, I don’t have them, but Sara does. She’s in charge of all things on the money side. How many do you need?”

“Four.”

“No worries. Whose name should we put on the envelope?”

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