Page 37 of Darcy
I might as well have struck him. He takes a step back, then another, until I can no longer feel his breath on my face or smell the intoxicating scent of his aftershave. The crestfallen look on his face makes me rethink my words, and I bite my lower lip in indecision.
“Dodger…”
He shakes his head. “All right. I think you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
Without waiting for me to apologise, he turns on his heel and disappears.
Feeling confused, and more than a little guilty, about the whole exchange, I glance around. The techs don’t seem to have noticed our interlude, and Gabrielle has disappeared. I should return to work, but my focus isn’t where it should be.
Am I overreacting? He said he didn’t sleep with her, and being fawned over—while annoying—is part of his job. It won’t go away. Ugh, I should hunt him down and talk about it like an adult… after I apologise for lashing out like that.
I end up on my phone, checking on the scripts I wrote to track Gabrielle’s virtual life. Everything’s running well. When I get back to my laptop, I can have a proper look around.
“Has anyone seen Darcy?” Sully booms from above me.
Shit. Safety check.
“Coming!”
I check the last wires in a rush, then climb up the steps to the stage. Arlo, Slate, and Prophet are all there, waiting beside Sully, Miguel, and a flustered-looking Gabrielle. I slow my steps, watching the way that she shrinks back from her boss.
“Where the fuck is he?” Miguel demands. “We don’t have time for him to be off fucking around. I have an interview lined up and a photoshoot after soundcheck.”
Gabrielle shrinks. “I don’t know. He’s not answering his phone.”
“Send Jackson after him,” Miguel demands. “He’s head of security. He should be able to keep an eye on one temperamental singer.”
“Yes, sir,” Gabrielle says, tapping furiously at her screen.
“He’ll be here,” Sully says. “Calm down.”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” Miguel retorts. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Why are you here, anyway? Don’t you have some motivational speeches to deliver or something, old man?”
Sully rolls his eyes and turns his back on the tour manager. “See you boys later. Listen to the girl this time. I don’t want to have to dig out a fire extinguisher and deal with all that paperwork.”
A man after my own heart.
“Start,” Miguel snaps at me. “If he gets blown up, it’s his own fucking fault.Cabrón!”
The manager strides off the stage, spouting a tornado of curses in Spanish and English, leaving Gabrielle to hurry along behind him with her phone glued to her ear.
“So,” Slate begins, only to stop when I cut him off with a look, because I’m at my limit today after Dodger. “New outfit?” he finishes.
“I’m blending,” I retort. “Now, the first song, we’re starting with the flame—”
“You shouldn’t blend,” Arlo interrupts, and my head whips around to look at him. “You’re perfect in your unicorn hoodies.”
Do not glow. Do not glow.
Fuck, I think I’m glowing. Can I really be blamed, though? What woman doesn’t want to hear she looks perfect in comfort wear? And my carefully curated collection of hot and cold weather hoodies certainly warrants compliments.
“Flame throwers,” I continue, forcing myself to stay on track with a willpower I didn’t know I possessed. “Which means that this whole area at the front of the stage is a risk zone.”
My safety talk continues uninterrupted after that, and Dodger never turns up. He’s still not there when the rest of the band traipses off the stage towards the interview that’s been lined up for them. It isn’t until the crowd is filling the stadium, the Rottenheim Twins have finished their set, and Yesterday’s Cascade is halfway through theirs, that I finally catch sight of him with the others.
Miguel is with them, looking almost disturbingly calm after his earlier outburst, but I don’t trust that for one second. I don’t have a chance to move closer and listen in, because I’m called away again.
By the time I come up for air, almost an hour into their set, they’re midway through the guitar solo that marks the midpoint of one of their newer songs. Arlo’s fingers are a blur, every note pinpoint and precise.
