Page 65 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“It’s a concert, not a date,” I shot back. “Zane Ryder isn’t going to stop mid-show and ask where you went.”
Tess smiled without looking at me, eyes fixed on the horizon as if the ocean owed her something shiny. “Oh, he’ll ask. Maybe not out loud. Maybe only to himself, while he sings. And every note will be a call in my direction.”
“Or in the direction of the girl in the front row with the see-through T-shirt and theMarry me, Zanesign.”
She raised her glass and toasted alone. “May the best woman win.”
38
We arrived backstage with all the grace of three lost tourists crashing a wedding just as the cake was being cut. Security guards gave us a look equal parts suspicion and resignation, letting us through only because someone had apparently left word that “the two girls and the guy with the sax” were expected.
Inside, the air was thick with overheated cables, sweat, and adrenaline. Techs darted back and forth, shouting orders and waving their arms. We moved in single file: Tess in front, marching like she was headed toward a foregone triumph; me behind her, zigzagging through crates and microphones; and finally Bernie, nudged along by a backstage hand, sax slung over his shoulder, wearing the fixed expression of someone who had been brought there entirely by mistake.
We found him in a corner, perched on a gear case as if it were a makeshift throne. Zane Ryder still wore the sweat of the just-finished show, blackshirt open at the chest, eyes burning with stage afterglow. An assistant handed him a towel, but he didn’t take his gaze off Tess for a second.
She approached with slow, deliberate steps, as though crossing an invisible runway. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even smile. She just looked at him—the way you might look at a work of art you weren’t sure you wanted to buy.
I stayed at a safe distance, watching the silent tension stretch tighter between them—until a flicker of movement distracted me. Bernie, a few feet away, was locked on a beer bottle sitting on top of an amp, his eyes as focused as a hawk’s. After a few seconds, he snatched it up, popped the cap, and downed it like water. Then, satisfied, he let out a cavernous grunt that bounced off the metal walls.
No one said a word. Not even Zane. But his eyes flicked toward Bernie for a moment, as if wondering whether he was part of the band or some kind of alcoholic apparition.
“Hey,” Ryder said, seated like he was posing for a GQ shoot.
“Hey,” Tess replied.
Zane wiped his neck with the towel, his gaze still locked on her. “How was the trip?”
“Fine,” Tess said. “The Gulfstream IV isn’t bad as planes go, but I prefer the Gulfstream V. More elegant finishes, almost no turbulence. Feels like flying inside a work of art.”
Ryder’s eyes widened. “You’ve flown on a Gulfstream V?”
“I’ve done plenty of things in my life…” Tess said.
Sure. This from the girl who, up until a week ago, considered “luxury” to be a subway line that wasn’t on strike. Now she talked about private jets like she was the Queen of Qatar.
Ryder smiled, lowering his voice. “I don’t doubt it… Did you like the show? Florida’s got this crazy vibe, you can feel it in the air—like electricity.”
“Your show?” Tess pursed her lips. “Sorry, I didn’t catch it. We just got here.”
Silence. The man who’d seen oceans of fans scream his name looked like he’d just taken a dagger straight to the chest from three simple words.
“What? I thought you got in this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Tess nodded calmly, “but we went straight to the beach. You can’t come to Florida and skip the ocean. One mojito led to another, and… well, we were late. Very late.”
He gave her a half-smile, equal parts challenge and invitation. “Shame. I would’ve played better.”
Tess stepped closer—enough to shrink the distance, but not enough to look eager. “You sure you can impress me?”
Zane tilted his head, weighing her. “Depends how hard you are to impress.”
Behind me, Bernie grunted again—louder thistime—and dropped the empty bottle to the floor. The crash cut through the tension for a second, but Tess didn’t flinch.
“You listened to my last song,Room Without Windows?” Ryder asked, his eyes glowing like a student waiting on a grade.
“I made time for it, yes,” Tess said, calm as someone pouring a gin and tonic without looking at the glass.
“And… what did you think?”
