Page 92 of You Rock My World
Josie tenses against me.
It’s small—the slightest stiffening of her spine, a hesitation in the way her fingers grip my shoulders. But the movement sends a ripple of awareness through the haze of the kiss.
Then understanding rushes in all at once. The absence of music. The unnatural hush from the crowd. And the sudden brightness of the stage lights above us.
We’re not hidden, protected in the darkness under the stage anymore.
My stomach turns to stone as my eyes snap open, my pulse hammering for reasons that suddenly have nothing to do with the kiss.
Fuck.
I wrap my arms around Josie, shielding her face, pressing her into my chest to block out the thousands of eyes staring at us.
“We messed up,” I whisper against her hair, calm despite the static running through my veins. “But it’s gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”
Josie gives a small nod against my chest.
I keep one arm locked around her while I lift my other, signaling the techs to lower us. It takes a second—an eternity—but then, with a mechanical groan, the cage descends.
Josie stays tucked against me, her breath shallow, until we’re under the stage again. The moment we’re swallowed into the lower level, Josie pulls back, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispers, her hands gripping the front of my leather jacket. “Everyone saw. They all—Dorian, we’re—” Her voice hitches, panic widening her eyes. “Everyone knows.”
I cup her face, my thumbs skimming along the edges of her cheekbones, grounding her. “No, they don’t.” My tone is calm—because one of us has to be. “They saw me, not you.”
Her brows knit together, unconvinced.
I tilt my head toward the ceiling, where the blinding stage lights had been. “Your face was in my chest the second I realized. I covered you. No one saw you.”
Behind us, the backstage is a battlefield. Crew members bark orders, radios hiss with frantic voices, while upstairs, the lead of Velour is making jokes, keeping the audience entertained. And then Grant comes shoving through the chaos with murder in his eyes.
“What the fuck was that?” My tour manager has aged a decade in half an hour. His eyes flick between us, recognition sparking when he sees Josie, then lock onto me with renewed fury. “First, you almost get your head taken off?—”
“Arguably not my fault.”
“—and then you make out with your PR rep in front of a sold-out arena like a horny teenager?” He looks like he’s two seconds from quitting.
I shift, keeping Josie behind me. “Relax, Grant.”
“Relax? Dorian, where the hell was your earpiece? We told you we were about to lift the damn cage, and you gave us a grunt we thought meant go. We didn’t know your tongue was halfway down someone’s throat!”
I blink. My earpiece?
Instinctively, I reach for it, only to find the cable hanging loose on my shoulder.
Huh. That explains why I didn’t hear them.
Grant follows my movements, sees the earplug, and mutters something foul under his breath. “Unbelievable,” he grits out. “We had this tour locked down tight for a hundred fucking shows. No glitches, no screw-ups. And now, on the last night?—”
“It’s not a big deal.” I cut him off. “I’m going to handle it.”
“You’d better dial up the charm before my career flushes down the drain,” Grant barks. “You’re up in five. Side fucking entrance, using your own legs.”
And with that, he spins on his heels and goes yelling at someone else.
I turn to Josie. She’s still tense, clutching her hands in front of her chest. She looks small in the chaos, her dress rumpled, her hair mussed.
I don’t want to leave her like this.
