Page 14 of Darcy
One of the band’s older albums is playing softly in the speakers, but Prophet’s heavy drum solo is muted by the loud hum of conversation. It’s a shame. I’d rather be here alone with their music while I try to figure out which one of them is the mystery artist.
Is it the stoic drummer? I can’t see him plastered in smudges of graphite and paint, pouring over a canvas. A few seconds later, I find the portrait that proves it’s not him.
Prophet’s avatar—a bulging orc barbarian with a giant axe—is on his knees with his palms raised in supplication to a floating black feather shining with dark radiance.
I chuckle-snort. Prophet has proved hundreds of times he’d rather lose all his in-game loot than beg me to heal him. Even on the few times he has backed down, he definitely never did it with such a look of awe on his face.
“I always thought this one was more moving than funny.” A woman’s unimpressed voice interrupts my reverie.
I turn, trying hard to tame my lingering smile as I come face to face with a curvy goddess with bold, slashing eyeliner, waist length pink ombre hair, and a pale lavender dress. She’s one of the few other women who haven’t gone for a black on black look, and the two of us stand out like sore thumbs.
“Very moving,” I agree quickly. “Unbelievably so.”
She scans me from head to toe, taking in my sleeveless blood red dress while lingering on the thigh slit and sweetheart neckline.
“You’re not familiar, but you’re not wearing a press pass.”
“I’m new.” I hold my hand out. “Darcy. And you are?”
“Emma.” She pauses, waiting for… something. “I work in makeup and costumes.”
“Oh, cool. That must be intense.”
Her eyes, which have been narrowed the whole time, relax slightly, and she shrugs. “At least the boys don’t need to change every three songs and be winched into corsets.”
“I guess not.”
I can only imagine what female artists go through. A part of me notes the easy familiarity with which she calls Hazardousthe boys, and I bite my lip, making a mental note to look this woman up the second I get a free moment. Most of my research has been into the cartel, but I need to know more about the other roadies if I’m to survive here.
Who knows how long it will take for all of my marks to be in the same place at the same time? Making friends in the meantime will help me blend in, and I might be able to get information out of them about how the cartel is blackmailing the band.
Emma hums, waiting for me to say something else, but when I disappoint her, she sighs. “Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of the party.”
She turns without waiting for me to reply, heading farther into the Gallery without speaking to anyone. I quickly shuffle away from the stunning piece of art and onto the next.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between,” Sully begins, his distinctive voice echoing through the gallery’s speakers. “If you could make your way to the main floor, the band has a few words they’d like to say before you return to drinking yourselves stupid.”
The good-natured chuckles that go up around me tell me a lot about how well liked Sully is by the crew. Even a few of the journalists smirk and raise their bottles in the air. Not wanting to stand out, I snag a bubbling champagne flute from a passing waiter, but I have no intention of drinking it.
Unfortunately, I’m a total lightweight, so drinking around my marks is a no-go. I don’t do my best work when I’m a giggling mess.
Following the press of people through the hanging paintings, I finally manage to breathe when they open up into a clear centre space that’s obviously intended for dancing. A bar has been set up to one side, but I ignore it in favour of finding a spot against the wall, with a clear view of the stage that Sully is standing on.
Behind him, in the shadows, I can make out four silhouettes. My eyes linger, but I’m too far away to make out the details of their faces, and my attention is quickly captured elsewhere.
As Sully steps down, a good-looking man, in his late twenties greets him and slaps him on the back. His shoulder-length hair is tied into a low ponytail, and his dark eyes shine with enthusiasm as he takes in the room. The older man stiffens at the touch, but it’s so subtle that the rest of the room doesn’t notice.
Miguel Rosales’s perfectly white, easy smile makes it obvious that he’s used to getting his own way, and the matching tailored suit he’s wearing screams money and professionalism. I know it’s all a lie—Man’s information is very rarely wrong—but his easy demeanour is so at odds with the shark I know he is.
“Hey, everyone.”
My eyes are yanked back to the stage, and my breath catches as I finally see the guys in person. Slate has stepped up to the mic, the rest of the band fanning around him, their matching white hoodies glowing under the brilliant spotlights. All four of them have the hoods up, casting their faces in shadow, and Arlo has tugged his trademark leather jacket over the top. They’re gods, standing above us all, and not for the first time, I question Man’s wisdom in sending me on this mission.
“So, we just want to say thank you for everything you’ve put into making the last two legs of the tour so unbelievably smooth.”
Slate’s presence is so magnetic that I find myself leaning away from the wall to be closer to him. I know, I’ve heard him before over my headset, but that was nothing compared to the reality of him. All of them seem to possess this incredible draw, even though they’re standing up there in relaxed leather and oversized hoodies, while the rest of us are dolled up to the nines.
Applause follows his words, and he has to pause to let it die down before he continues.
