by Emily Childs
“Bridge, just be careful, okay? I hated watching that crap and I can’t imagine what it feels like on your end. I’m worried about the publicity you, and maybe Lex, might get. But mostly you, man. Don’t let her bring you low. She sucks, dude.”
“Sugar coating a little with the crap and sucks, are we?”
“There’s a family with little twins right next to me.”
“Where are you this early?”
“The airport. Got a show to get to.”
I chuckle and feel a little better. Nadia might be out for blood, but I’ve got my own army behind me. The press will swallow me and spit me back out, no doubt. But all that matters is I get to play guitar and keep my fiercely loyal people.
It’s sort of a comical, motley mix. A mama bear who’d kill for her sons; brother and sister-in-law whose version of wild is staying out past nine; three-year-old nephew who’ll either be the most successful guy in history or end up in jail; major league pitcher who only trusts two people on earth. A few rockstars; and Al—a homeless librarian.
I’ll take them.
“Bridge,” Parker says. “Are you good? No cameras here, man. You can be honest.”
I rub the knot on the back of my neck. “I’ll be good, how’s that?”
“Semi-honest.”
“I can’t really think about it or it makes other things start to look appealing.”
“Got it. Well, don’t think about it. You’ve got your show tonight, so focus there.”
I roll my eyes. “My manager is making the entire thing damage control. He’s hiring some groupie to pose as the girl-next-door and hang all over my arm.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Apparently, women want a reformed rebel who attracts the good girl. What better place than a charity concert?”
“That’s stupid,” Parker says. “Hey, we’re boarding. I’ll let you know if your bad habits somehow found their way into my drug screen.”
He’s trying to make light of this, but it makes me sick. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize again, Bridger. Just . . . look after Lex, okay? Don’t kill her, and don’t let her get caught up in all this.”
“Deal. Go pee in your cup.”
“Already did. It was magical.”
I let out a laugh, better than I was before the call. “I’m so relieved. See you later.”
The room falls silent again, but at least I’m smiling. My life is spent around Tate and Adam and Lance. We’re family, no mistake, but Parker will always be a true second brother. Even if he chose baseball, and I often remind him of his poor life choices whenever my royalties come in.
Honestly, sometimes I feel closer to Parker than I do Brooks. Not that my brother and I aren’t close, it’s just Brooks and I live wholly different lives.
And he listens to country music. It’s a sin, really.
I gather my things and head into the kitchen. Grilled onions and bacon bring me to a halt outside the door. A sweet, soft hum fills the silence. My throat tightens, but it’s more the way my pulse picks up a notch that gets me. With a swipe of my tongue, I lick the dryness away and step inside the kitchen.
Alexis turns away from the stove. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a wild bun. She’s got her sexy librarian glasses on and is wearing teal running shorts and an oversized tee that hangs off one shoulder.
I’m not sure I’ve seen such a perfect sight in my kitchen.
“Al, what are you doing up before five thirty in the morning?”
She bites into an overly crispy strip of bacon, spatula in hand. “Chef, right? I was given an itinerary from Thor downstairs and I knew you had to be out the door by five forty-five this AM.”
“Thor?”
“Quinn. But Thor is a more fitting name for a guy of his breadth, don’t you think? Anyway, he hooked me up. I now know anytime you take a step, Mr. Cole.”
“Uh, okay, but—”
“No.” She swats the spatula at me and grease splatters on the floor. “No fast food, no bagels, no donuts. You have a crazy long day and you’re going to start it off right. I take my duties as chef seriously. Plus, I make a mean breakfast burrito.”
I can’t help but smile. The duffel bag drops off my shoulder and I move to her side. “This is weird.”
“What is?” She doesn’t look at me and keeps flipping the bacon and eggs in the pan.
“Someone cooking for me in my own house.”
“Is it really that uncommon? I bet Tate has a chef for each meal.”
I laugh. “He’s actually a tight wad.”
“Really?”
“You know he has his reasons.”
Alexis meets my eye, then nods, understanding. “Well, get used to someone cooking for you. At least for a few days. Tis my job after all.”
I roll my eyes and lean against the counter. “Can I help?”
“I’m sure you can.”
She’s annoying, but still the perfect sight this morning. “May I help. Satisfied, grammar police?”
“Mmmm, you have no idea.” Alexis flashes me a cheesy smile as she prepares the tortilla. “You’re probably in a hurry so if you will hand me the cheese and fill up your own condiment things. I bought those little plastic to-go cups restaurants use. We’re fancy up in here.”
I dig into my weirdly full fridge and hand her shredded cheese she must’ve prepared last night.
“Why not just buy the cheese already shredded?”
“Trust me it’s better off the block,” she says. “I’m the chef. Don’t question me.”
I hold up my hands in surrender and take out an unopened bottle of salsa. Shoulder to shoulder, we roll a few burritos. She insists I share with the band and give her credit because they’ll be blown away.
After the first bite, I’m positive my house will be constantly filled with the guys if it means they get to eat here.
“Good?” she asks, a bit of vulnerability in her eyes.
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Alexis smiles, lifting her chin smugly. “I’ll give your compliments to the chef.”
I chuckle. Funny how she can still read between the lines. I finish off the burrito, snag another one (utterly aware how her smile widens), and pick up my bag. “If you want to come today, I can arrange to have a pass for you at the gate.”
“Oh, I already have one,” she says, rolling a few burritos and shoving them in plastic bags for the guys.
“You have one?” I take the bag from her, brow lifted. “How?”
“Ellie Walker left one for me with Thor. By the way, he laughed when I called him that, so don’t worry, I’m not offending him. Unless I am, then you’ll tell me, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, shifting my bag’s weight on my shoulder. “But when did Ellie drop off a pass?”
Alexis shrugs. “I think she was being nice. Or she wants to meet Parker, who knows.”
I shake my head. “Probably both. Okay, well if you come around noon there’s always a good lunch spread and it’s not as busy as night.”
“Oh,” she says as she starts on dishes. “It was nice of Ellie to think of me, but I don’t know if I’ll make it.”
What? My face contorts into a disappointed frown. I liked the idea of Alexis in the wings and I don’t have time to unravel why. I school my voice into something aloof. “I get it if it’s not your thing anymore—”
“It is,” she’s quick to say. “I-I’ve missed seeing the shows.”
My blood heats and a smile plays with my mouth. “Then why don’t you want to come?” I take a step closer until I smell her sweet orange cream shampoo. “Could be a good time. Backstage pass, super-hot rockstars—”
“Ah, full of ourselves this morning.”
“Never said I was talking about me, but I’m glad you thought so.” I flick some of her hair off her shoulder like I used to. “The guys will want to see you, and Parker is going to be there.”
Alexis drags her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I don’t know. It might not be a good day for me to be in public.”
“Why?” She sighs and holds up her left hand, pointing to her ring finger. I’m an idiot. “Crap, Al. Sorry, I didn’t even think . . . well, now you’re for sure coming. You’re not sitting here wallowing over a scumbag like him.”
“I’d never wallow.”
“Right, because you didn’t love him.”
“Quit being so judgmental.” She hits my shoulder, but her cheeks are pink in an instant.
“Come.” I want her to come. It’s been too long since I’ve looked out through blinding lights to Alexis Knight giving her signature I love you sign because she always forgets to tuck the thumb for the rock on symbol. “We’ll go out after like we used to when we were singing in dive bars for free onion rings.”
“I wasn’t allowed to come to those.”
“You can be one of the guys tonight.” I’m pushing this, and the more the idea simmers in my head, the more I like the idea of leaving the stage and seeing her. But I’ll keep that to myself.
She cracks a smile. “Fine. But I’m not going to an afterparty or anything. Parker told me about one he went to.”
She shudders.
“They aren’t that bad.” Sometimes they can be bad. Especially on tour, and it depends on what fans get passes from the roadies. Once or twice, Tate has nearly been trapped by false pregnancy accusations from some of those afterparties. I drape my arm around her shoulders. “There’s no afterparty, though. It’s the first responders’ concert, so a lot of kids will be in the audience.”
She sighs and lets her head fall against my shoulder. This close feels too good, too right. Her body molds against mine. I should pull back, but there’s no way I’m doing that, either. I’d nearly forgotten what genuine, normal touch felt like.
Alexis seems to realize what she’s doing and pulls away. “Um, okay. I’ll go. But I don’t want to be trampled in the crowd.”
“Backstage, Al. Best seats ever.” I clear my throat and take a step back. “Listen, I need to go. When you want to come, call this number. It’s for Mallorie, our label assistant. She’ll arrange a car for you.”
“A car?”
“Parking is awful. Trust me, you’ll want a car.”
“I just think you don’t want me driving yours.”
“One hundred percent true.”
I’m late and back toward the kitchen door. I give Poppy a scratch behind her ears and look back at Alexis. She’s staring at Mallorie’s card, a little broken. Maybe lost.
“Al,” I say. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen. You deserve better than Bryce. Come tonight.”
She grins, eyes wet. “I might show. Who knows, maybe I have better things to do.”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing better than rock.”
“Hey Bridge,” she says when I’m halfway out the door.
“Yeah?”
“When I come tonight, even if I dance and sing along and cheer for you, it doesn’t mean I like you.”
I laugh to hide the flood of heat in my face. “I’d never think otherwise.”
Outside, the luxury car is already waiting. I slip inside and let my head fall back. An ache building behind my eyes. To know she will be there, for the first time in two years, it does something to me and I shouldn’t let it.
Alexis was going to get married today. To forget would be stupid. I’ve already promised I’d never give my heart to anyone again, and Alexis has no interest in romance or unstable relationships. Touring with a rock band—hardly the sort of stability someone like her is looking for.
As the driver pulls away, I have to wonder why I wish it was.
Chapter 14
Alexis
I wish Parker would drive to the concert with me, but he’s about as stubborn as me and insists on doing his ritual of trying to unsettle Bridger.
Bridger does the same thing whenever he goes to the Kings’ games. Once the entire band of Perfectly Broken held up large cutouts of terrible pictures of Parker right behind the catcher. It made the news, but Parker pitched his best game on that one. I think it’s sort of good luck thing between them at this point.
I called Mallorie. She sounded flustered, but insisted a car would be there.
And a car it is. One of the nice, black luxury cars you’d expect dignitaries or movie stars to ride in.
Quinn stands by the door and opens it for me.
“Thank you, good man,” I say. Inside is a bottle of champagne and strawberries and—I let out a laugh—gummy bears and chewing gum.
Ah, Bridger Cole. My nemesis who gets me.
I startle when Quinn slips into the car beside me. “Whoa, what are you doing?”
Quinn smirks. “I’m accompanying you tonight.”
“Accompanying me?” I snort and bite into a strawberry. “Didn’t take you for a hard rock kind of guy.”
“I’m accompanying you, Miss Knight.”
I pause with the strawberry halfway to my mouth. “Hmm. Sounds a bit like you’re going to be my bodyguard.”
“If you’d like to call it that.”
“Will I need a bodyguard?”
He turns his flat no-nonsense expression my way. “I wouldn’t hold stock in beating people with a book as the best line of defense.”
There Bridger goes again. Overprotective while aggravating me at the same time. It’s a character flaw that holds a certain kind of charm, I suppose.
I finish my second strawberry, wipe my hands, then lean against the seat. “Well, Thor. Looks like you and me better become friends then.”
I’m not positive, but I think there is a flicker of a grin on his mouth.
It’s packed at the arena.
Maybe I should’ve taken Bridger’s advice and come earlier. I didn’t come to the arena at lunch because I needed to be a responsible adult and try to find a job. There is a promising one at the county library and I applied straightaway. Right after I applied, I reached for my phone to tell . . . Bridger.
I know! I’d surprised myself. After I readjusted my head, I told Parker and Zoey all about it, then proceeded to get dressed for the show.
I went backstage at one of Bridger’s shows once during my senior year in high school. It was at a club in Phoenix, back when Perfectly Broken still booked their own gigs, drove themselves in an old ten passenger van, and had to pay for their motel rooms out of pocket.
Dressing for a backstage event of this caliber, I resorted to a FaceTime call with Zoey, and settled on ripped jeans and a Perfectly Broken tank top with their awesome gritty raven logo.
The arena is already packed with the VIP firemen and police officers, plus their entire, and I mean entire, families. It’s a chance for grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, anyone they love most to come and celebrate their sacrifice.
I smile at the roaring crowd, the kids running around wearing Las Vegas Fire and Rescue or LVMPD on their shirts. From North Las Vegas to South, the concert is open to all departments, all branches of emergency responders.
A guy in sunglasses and a tight black T-shirt opens the door for us on the east side of the arena. There are lines of fans waiting to get a glimpse of the bands, and when they see our car with an escort I want to curl back inside and run. My new friend, Quinn, doesn’t allow it.
I duck my head and flash my backstage pass to anyone nearby, as if they might toss me out any second and I need to prove I’m meant to be here. The ground rumbles from the thunder of the crowd and the beat of the opening band.
“They’re good,” I shout at Quinn. I don’t know the openers.
“Band from Portland. Called Chasing Silver. Mr. Cole heard them on his last West Coast tour.”
“He’s got a good ear,” I shout back. Chasing Silver looks pretty young, but the singer has a smooth, crisp voice that sets the crowd on fire. I predict in a few years they might be making their mark on the map of celebrity.
“Miss Knight, this way.” Quinn holds open his arm and g
uides me toward a covered tunnel.
I disappear from the screams. Guys and girls screaming for Bridger, for Tate, for Adam. Ellie has her own fan club, too. Bare-chested guys with initials of her name on their skin. It’s all exciting and intimidating and I wonder how Bridger does this.
He doesn’t like crowds, doesn’t like tight spaces.
Not since Garett died. I think it comes from the nightmares he had for a solid year after his dad passed. Being trapped and suffocating torments Bridger. We never really talk about it, but I know all about it. I was his safety net, after all, and once I caught him pacing the sidewalk in the middle of the night. Caught red-handed he had to admit why he never slept.
Last I heard, planes were still an issue, too. Cramped and overcrowded. Nothing but his music would get Bridger on a plane for oversea tours. But even then, Tate always has to distract him with Boggle or card games.
Once we’re in the tunnel, the music fades slightly and I’m fascinated by everything. Crew members dance around ensuring final sound checks are in place, checking lights, and rooms. Security is everywhere. So are groupies. Really? At a charity concert?
I avoid the girls with overdone makeup and glitter in their hair. A few sneers find me because I’m wearing the badge that’ll get me to the stage and they, well, they aren’t allowed there.
I roll my eyes when a guy dressed in a suit walks up to the dozen girls and says, “Okay, ladies, cell phones in the basket. If anyone in any of the bands wants to spend time together you can get them back at the end.”
Ugh. It’s degrading to female empowerment how they squeal and drop their phones, fluffing their hair and tugging down necklines. For what? An hour with a guy who won’t remember their names? Do they really think they’ll get bragging rights? Guaranteed, each of those girls won’t get their cell phones returned until NDAs are signed and sealed.
