by Sarah Grimm
It was her turn to shrug. “I’m not a big photo taker. I prefer to live in today and not worry about the past or the future.”
“And photos are memories and therefore the past?” he asked, voice filled with confusion and disbelief.
“I guess so.” Unsettled, she took her phone back and held it in her lap, looking out over the arena instead of at him. “It sounds stupid when you say it. I haven’t had much I felt like documenting is all.”
“What about your parents? Your family?”
Even though her eyes were on the stage where the finishing touches were being added to the set, she could see him looking at her out of the corner of her eye. “I was an only child. My parents passed away three years ago. Car accident.”
“Christ, Em, I’m sorry.”
“It’s life—none of us are getting out of it alive.” Some people had long lives filled with family and friends. Others never really had a chance to live. It was a fact she had come to terms with years ago when fate took her parents from her then bitch-slapped her with the cold, hard reality that was cancer. The problem was, that cold hard reality never stung quite so much as it did now, as she sat next to a wonderful man with whom she shared a connection. Because no matter how much she wished otherwise or how powerful the bond, there was no future for them.
“Damnit, I prefer to live in today,” she whispered, and because he was still watching her and she didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder.
He pulled her just a little bit closer to his side. “Most of the photos on my phone were sent to me.” The gentle swipe of his thumb back and forth across her fingers was comforting. “I’m not much for selfies. I see myself in the mirror every day. Why would I want my phone filled up with my own mug?”
“You’re very good at it.”
“At selfies? I have to be. For the fans, you know? Sometimes they’re a bit overwhelmed and I have to take the shot for them.” He stood, stepping over her legs and into the aisle. “Come with me.”
Disappointment settled in her belly. She’d enjoyed being held by him. Settling for holding his hand, she took it and walked with him.
They went around the stage, through the security gate, and up a set of steps, coming out right next to Kirk’s drum kit. She took the lead, walking counter clockwise around the edges of the stage, trailing her fingers over the stands of guitars, the microphones, the speakers. Stopping briefly to read a set list taped to the floor, she followed his lead when he gave a light tug and moved center stage.
“This is my view,” he said, looking out over the arena. “My world.”
There were just enough lights shining on them that she had to squint to see out over the stadium. Everything looked so much different from this angle, larger, more daunting. Rows and rows of seating spread out before her, wrapped around from one side to the other in a lower and upper bowl. She tried to imagine what it would look like when all the seats were filled with screaming fans and couldn’t wrap her mind around it. “I can’t imagine.”
“Hit it, Leo,” Joe called and the spotlights flared to life. Twirling and dancing, spinning from one side of the stage to the other. A bright beam of light honed in on them, blinding in its intensity.
She turned her face away, blinking until her eyes adjusted. “How do you see anything?”
“I don’t. Not much, anyway. You don’t have to see it to experience the rush. The crowd is an energy that is palpable.”
“I prefer the view from the other side. This one would give me a headache.”
He smiled at her and pulling his sunglasses off his head, slipped them on her face. “Better?”
“Much.” The bright spotlight centered on them went dark. No longer needing them, Emma pushed the glasses to the top of her head.
Joe stared out at the arena again, focused on a spot in the far back. “This used to be my favorite place to be.”
“Used to?”
A few strides, and he stood at the front edge of the stage. “You were right there.”
She looked out to where he was pointing and wondered how it could look so much farther away than what she recalled. Her memory was that she could have easily reached out and touched him, but from this angle that seemed impossible. Whether from the darkness of the rest of the arena or the glare from the lights above, she couldn’t see the front row very well, which probably didn’t help her judge the distance.
“I don’t remember what I was singing.”
“Because you weren’t.”
“Smartass,” he said on a laugh, then pulled her closer.
“You were singing Alienation.”
“Was I? I like that one.”
She made a face. “It’s terrible.”
“What?” He stiffened in surprise. “It is not.”
“Solitude creeps like the mist, charring your soul, consuming the light. That is horrible. It’s so depressing.”
The left side of his mouth tipped up in a grin. “That’s what I was singing?”
“That’s the last line you sang before going silent and standing there not moving. It was like you just turned off.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Laughed so hard he almost doubled over. “Christ, that’s brilliant! No wonder I forgot my words.”
His laughter was contagious, though she had no idea what he found so funny. “What are you talking about?”
“I was singing about being consumed by darkness when I looked into the audience, and found you smiling up at me like a ray of sunshine.”
“That’s corny.”
“Yeah, it is. It’s also true.” He trailed his fingertips from her cheekbone to her chin, flipped his hand over and used the backs for the reverse trip. Then he started singing it, that terrible depressing song, in his incredible sexy voice.
It pinged a memory.
“Wait.” She had to cover his mouth with her hand to get him to stop singing. “You said that to me.”
When he licked her palm, she pulled her hand away, wiping it on his shirt.
He grinned. “What did I say?”
“You really are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you? You said that after I stormed out of your dressing room and told you off. I thought you were being sarcastic.”
“Well, Sunshine,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You thought wrong.”
Damnit, she didn’t know what to say. She fell silent as her brain struggled to come up with the proper response. He just stood there and looked at her.
When her stomach chose that moment to rumble, the spell was broken. He arched a brow, and she shrugged. “All I’ve had to eat today is a couple of donuts.”
“Let’s get you something to eat.”
Not letting go of her, he tugged her hand, leading her toward the back of the stage. Glancing over her shoulder, Emma looked into the audience, to the place where she had stood front row center. With the lights swirling and dancing around…how had he ever spotted her? The conditions would have had to be perfect; the chances of it happening slim. But it had. Somehow it had.
“Joe?”
He held open the curtain and stepped aside so she could pass through first. “Yeah?”
“If the stage is no longer your favorite place to be, where is?”
The look he gave her caused her heart to skip a beat. It stopped altogether when he replied softly, “With you, Sunshine.”
April 19
Remember that boy in high school every girl wanted to date? The handsome, charismatic one with the smile that melted hearts? The boy who somehow, for some inexplicable reason you never fully understood, wanted you? Sure, it was fleeting and didn’t last, but for a moment he was yours and you were happy?
That’s what I have with Joe.
I’m supposed to be on a flight to New York. Instead, I’m bound for Baton Rouge. He didn’t ask me to join him, not in so many words. I had to look deeper, to the pain and vulnerability in his eyes. I had to see more; the truth that I’d been hiding f
rom.
I need Joe and he needs me.
I want him and he wants me.
It is as simple and complicated as that.
I may not understand the why’s and whatfor’s, but I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. I don’t know how long it will last, be it two days, a week, or six. It does not matter. For a moment in time – this moment – he wants me and I’m going to grab hold with both hands and enjoy.
Life – with all its ups and downs – I’m running headfirst into it.
There’s no time for anything else.
Number of days since I decided to live: 59
Number of days since I met Joe: 16
Current level of panic: 4/10
ELEVEN
April 20
Blind Man’s Alibi was about to take the stage. They’d gathered in Joe’s dressing room, the entire band plus Gary and a few of his security team packed into the room, putting off an energy Emma couldn’t help but absorb. A high she’d never experienced before—like a drug, but with fewer side effects.
Everyone talked non-stop, laughing and joking. Everyone but Joe. He’d grown more and more quiet the closer the time came and switched into business mode the moment he stepped into the hall. It was fascinating.
Gary led the way to the stage, Joe and the boys trailing behind him. The rest of the security personnel spread out around them, keeping any fans who broke through the barricade from getting too close. There were a few of them: girls hollering about love and destiny, men tossing around words like hero. Flashes went off, panties were thrown—seriously, she had always thought that was a myth—but the band walked on, ignoring the chaos around them.
The crowd was restless, their energy palpable, just as Joe had said. It hit Emma like a wall as she stepped to the back of the stage and up the short flight of stairs. One of the security team keyed his walkie and alerted that the band was ready.
The arena lights went out.
Emma’s heart began to race as she was drawn into the excitement of it all.
Disguised by darkness, the band took the stage and got in position. Joe remained behind. A roadie handed him an earpiece, which he placed in his right ear. He tilted his head as if listening to someone or something, then gave a thumb up and a nod. He rolled his shoulders, bounced on the balls of his feet and shook his arms—loosening his muscles.
The audience grew restless, their volume increased.
Kirk pounded the beat on the bass drum and Bobby joined him.
People whistled, women screamed. It was intense, the noise level deafening.
Even with the stage lights so low, Emma could see Joe’s body begin to vibrate. Steve and Zach began the opening chords of the song, their guitars melding together perfectly. Joe moved forward, taking the wireless mic someone held out to him and gliding across the darkened stage with a skill born of practice.
Emma’s heart synced to the beat. Anticipation built slowly, painfully, until the band’s haunting melody was the only sound. Everyone could see the shadow at the front of the stage, and waited anxiously for what was to come. The music trailed off and everything went silent. Then, just when she thought she could wait no longer, all the lights in the house went on with a flash; from pitch black to blinding in a nanosecond. The band leapt into action, flipped on with the same switch that lit the arena. The crowd roared and launched to their feet.
Center stage Joe smiled at his audience then released one of his trademark growls.
Emma’s toes curled in her shoes. She shivered in delight. Just last night she’d had that sound in her ear as he’d moved between her legs—the rumbling that seemed to start at his feet, vibrating through his entire body before releasing from the back of his throat. She shifted, more aroused than she wanted to admit. Her nipples hardened, aching in the worst way possible.
Sweet Jesus, how was she going to make it through the whole show when just the first sixty seconds made her wet?
The man knew what he had done to her, too. He glanced over his shoulder, focused his attention to the spot she occupied, and flashed an arrogant, gorgeous smile before breaking out in song.
“Asshole,” she whispered affectionately.
Seventy minutes later, Emma remained glued to the same spot. A little less horny than she’d been in the beginning, but still having a wonderful time. Watching a concert from backstage was a new experience for her, and while she enjoyed it, it wasn’t something she would recommend for everyone. First, it was painfully loud, something she hadn’t expected. With all the speakers aimed toward the audience, she thought it would be quieter. Yet her ears were ringing more than the night she stood front row center. The second reason for not recommending her current position was the view. There wasn’t much of one. All she could see of any of them was their backs.
Not that Joe’s backside was painful to look at. She just preferred his front, which she had an amazing view of whenever he stepped out for a clothing change. When Joe traded sweat-soaked shirts for dry ones, he did so not three feet from her. This allowed her to watch him: the flex and play of muscle, the shimmer of the lights on his skin. It provided her a front row seat to half-naked Joe. Not that she didn’t already know what full-naked Joe looked like.
Damn. She began to salivate just thinking about it.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Joe stepped off stage. He removed his earpiece and took the towel Beth handed him, rubbing it over his head and face. In a move choreographed by time and practice, Beth pulled his soiled shirt over his head and replaced it with a fresh one without any awkwardness, even as he towel-dried his chest. Joe shoved his arms through the sleeves, released the towel into Beth’s hands and replaced his earpiece. The entire process took seconds and, fascinated by it, Emma watched every time.
Joe never seemed to notice though, always returning to the stage as quickly as he’d stepped away. But not this time. While Zach continued his guitar solo, Joe drank greedily from a cup he’d been handed. Then he turned and met Emma’s gaze.
He grinned, crooked his finger, and mouthed “Come here”.
She stepped toe to toe with him.
Without warning, his right arm snaked around her, warm and taut with muscle, pulling her in tightly as he pressed a hard kiss against her lips. Stunned, she didn’t react quickly enough, and was left standing there with a stupid grin on her face as he returned to the stage.
“I wouldn’t get overly excited.”
“Sorry?” Emma asked, turning to the woman on her left. People had been moving about, in and out of the area throughout the show, which by her guess was nearly complete. This girl, however, she hadn’t seen before.
“That kiss?” The smile she gave Emma seemed less than sincere even though it was blindingly bright. “I wouldn’t get overly excited about it. You’re not at all his type.”
“Really? I suppose you are?”
“Of course,” she replied with a nod, running her fingers through her long curly hair. She had beautiful bottle-blonde hair and ginormous fake breasts. Breasts she appeared very proud of, as she made a show of positioning them in her low cut dress as she smacked her glossy lips.
Emma smiled. All petty jealousy aside, this chick didn’t stand a chance with Joe. He didn’t like fakes.
She turned back to the stage.
Which seemed to set the woman off. “I mean seriously, why would he go slumming with you when he could have me?”
Emma wore her typical jeans and a tank—this one sporting the band’s name and tour dates—her favorite pink Chuck’s on her feet. How did that equal slumming?
The chick’s eyes went to the stage. “Or her for that matter. Even that skank is classier than you.”
The skank she was referring to had managed to make her way over the barrier before security could grab her. She ran across the stage and launched herself at Joe, literally taking flight. Gary snagged her mid-air before she could body slam Joe but, hell bent on wrapping herself around him, she grabbed at his shirt, scratching and clawing before
being hauled off the stage.
Fake tits began to laugh, snorting like it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Emma found it disturbing. As a fan, it was one thing to appreciate the band members, another to want to meet them. It was a completely different story to paw at them as if they were a piece of meat.
“Face it, sweetheart,” the chick said with a flip of her hair. “You are completely out of your league.”
Emma skimmed her gaze over the woman. Dressed in a barely there scrap of lace—was that a dress or a tube top?—that barely covered the essentials, the chick’s entire purpose for being backstage was unmistakable. This woman was looking to bang a rock star, and she didn’t care what she had to do to make it happen. It was too bad, really, because beneath the bleached hair and over the top boobs, she was a pretty girl. But the slutty dress and desperate gleam in her eyes screamed cheap. The yellow blowjob smiley hanging around her neck cinched it.
Emma bit the inside of her cheek and told herself not to comment. When the woman arched her brow and flashed a smile that could only be interpreted as her believing she’d won the verbal battle, Emma broke her silence.
“Nice pass,” she said, flashing her best social smile. “You’ve got a little something right….” She rubbed at a spot on her bottom lip.
Fake tits actually rubbed at her own lip before Emma’s meaning seemed to sink in. “Bitch!”
“As if you’re the first person to ever point that out.” Fed up with it all, Emma walked away.
What a petty beast. God, people sucked.
She massaged her temples as she headed for the rear steps, nearly running into Beth in the process. Beth gave her a big smile and a thumb up but Emma returned neither. Putting the bitch in her place had been far too easy. Not falling for her line of crap in the first place would have been the better move, but her lack of sleep over the past forty-eight hours was catching up with her. And fast. A dull ache had started at the base of her skull, and she was feeling tense and abrasive.
The man minding the barrier gave her a nod as she passed through, heading left. She considered hitting the concession stand for some water, but that meant circling back the way she had come. Instead, she ducked into the first room after turning into the hall leading to the band’s dressing rooms. Long tables covered in booze lined the left and back walls, and a couple dozen people already milled about. Last time she’d been in a room like this, the water had been hidden beneath the table at the back. Emma headed for it.
