Page 19 of Darcy
Slate’s phone buzzes, and he groans, but my ears prick up as I hear a distinctiveribbitchime come from our left.
I whirl in place, but before I can see where the noise has come from, Rick is pressing my guitar into my hands. In the crowds above us, the chants have begun.
I heard her ringtone. I swear—
Dodger frowns at me. “Get your head in the game, man.”
A bright stage light cuts through the gap in the black curtain, momentarily blinding me.
“I heard—”
“On stage in five, four, three…” Sully counts us off on his fingers while his other hand holds his earpiece in place.
Then we’re running, diving headfirst onto the blackened stage. My fingers find the neck of my Les Paul, and I wait for Prophet to start the beat. Two seconds later, the loud pounding beat echoes out over the crowd, and my hands move automatically, strumming the first lines without thought.
“Los Angeles!” Dodger roars into the mic as the flames whoosh out beside me. “How you doin’?”
The screams that answer him drown out all thoughts of Dark, and I slip into the only drug that’s ever really mattered. Music.
Eight
Darcy
The band jogs off stage, grinning widely and covered in sweat. All four of them are completely ignorant of the blush that’s stealing over my cheeks at the sight of them. I’m still trying to ignore them, but it’s damn near impossible now that I’ve spent the last three hours listening to them blow the roof off this place.
From my spot backstage, I had a panty-melting view of Prophet’s back flexing as he thrashed the drums like they personally offended him. I even caught glimpses of Arlo, Slate, and Dodger as they jumped around, lost in the grip of their music.
I thought watching Dodger cradle the mic as he sang into it on video was intense, but in real life, he made it look intimate as he alternated between soft vocals and harsh screams that gave me goosebumps. Even when he wasn’t singing, his dancing…
I swear at one point, he made love to the fucking floor.
Sometimes I had to remind myself I was supposed to be working and drag my attention back to the gerbs—which I learned today is the technical term for all things on stage that go boom. More than once I almost missed my cue to shower them in titanium sparks or set off the butane flame throwers.
To be honest, the band is doing a better job of ignoringme. As a roadie, I’m invisible. Even when I mumbled the safety instructions at them during rehearsal—certain that they’d recognise my voice—they just looked right through me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been infiltrating organisations since I was a teenager—I’m good at it—but this time, my heart just isn’t in it. I know I’m making mistakes, and I can’t bring myself to care. I keep berating myself for not treating this like any other job, and then in the same instant, silently pray for them to figure out who I am so I can take this opportunity to spend time with the four men who are my best friends.
Unfortunately for that vain hope, it seems like even with my own self-sabotage, they’re completely oblivious.
Hell, Arlo was just endlessly scrolling on his phone or gazing off into space.
Was he high the whole time? With his sunglasses on, I couldn’t read his eyes to check for redness or blown pupils. His favourite accessory has gained a new meaning now, and I can’t help but wonder how long he’s been using.
At some point during the show, Dodger lost his shirt, and so did Slate. The two of them are eye candy, and it’s making it hard for me to focus on my stupid paperwork—because yes, there’s an after-show list of safety precautionsas well. They don’t even make eye contact with me as they hand off their instruments to the guitar and bass techs beside me, before they’re ushered towards the post-show VIP meet-and-greet by Sully.
“Good show tonight, everyone!” the old Texan cries, as the band disappears down a corridor to the left. “Let’s make it a quick pack down, so I can get some shuteye before my flight tomorrow.”
A chorus of agreement follows, and he strokes his moustache with a smile before heading my way.
“You did good tonight, Darcy,” he says. “I know the health and safety talk made you a bit nervous, but you powered through, and what a show!”
I can’t help my smile. “It was fun,” I admit. “I could do with less paperwork, but…”
He chuckles and pats me on the back. “You and me both, darlin’.”
He’s gone without another word, leaving me to pack away in silence.
It goes faster than I thought it would. After a long, tiring, and stressful day with very little progress on my mission—or even a peep out of my mark—all I want to do is go back to my hotel room and crash. The knowledge that our flight tomorrow is at an ungodly hour only makes me more determined to get some sleep where I can.
