by Julia London
But they had, and as she waited below stage to make her entrance—rising up through smoke into blue light—she could hear the crowd whistling and stirring, anticipating her arrival. Fred, her stylist, was still futzing with her hair until she batted him away. She stood there alone now, listening to the last song Lucas would play, regretting that she had allowed him to sweet-talk her into opening for her—he really wasn’t that good, was he?
“Hey.”
Although there were a dozen technicians around her, the voice startled her. She turned to see Jack standing just beneath a big loop of cable. He was wearing a black shirt and faded Levi’s, and his pool blue eyes were amazingly luminous in the dark light.
“Just wanted to tell you to break a leg,” he said with a wink. “If you sing as good as you look, you will have them drooling all over the arena.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Thanks.”
He smiled, too; a warm, easy smile.
“Show time,” the stage manager whispered. “Your mic’d, so no talking.” He held up a flashlight to lead Audrey to the platform. Audrey picked up her guitar then turned around—but Jack was gone. She stepped through the cables and onto the platform, assuming her position as the band began to play a pretty melody. The platform Audrey was standing on shuddered into motion, and she felt herself being lifted up. She raised her head, looked at the lights swimming above her, and took a deep breath.
She was terrified. She was always a little terrified until she opened her mouth and the first note came out, clear and precise. Tonight, the terror rattled her bones.
But when she was lifted to the stage, and walked out into the smoke and lights to the deafening roar of the crowd as the smoke slowly cleared and they recognized her, she felt a current run through her like she had never experienced before. It was exhilarating, absolutely intoxicating.
“Hello, Omaha!” she shouted, and the roar of the crowd rattled the dome as the band quickened the beat. Audrey opened her mouth—and the first note came out clear, strong, and pitch-perfect.
Eight
The night was magical in a way Audrey had never imagined it could be. There was nothing quite as euphoric as the applause of thousands for a song well sung. Up until tonight, she’d never heard that applause from a group larger than five thousand souls. The shouts of her name, the whistling, the constant applauding—all of it infused Audrey with the desire to give the performance of her life. She sang like she’d never sung, danced through every song with fresh legs, her steps quick and feather light, and she smiled so broadly that her cheeks hurt with it.
Her only regret was that there were a couple of places she thought needed more work, but for the most part, everyone had performed fabulously. The show seemed to be over before it had even begun. She could have sung all night, could have danced until her heels were worn into nubs. She performed two encores. And at the end of the second encore, she noticed the lights shifting as she sang, and glanced to her right to see Lucas—Lucas!—strolling onto the stage playing a steel guitar. He was wearing his favored black leather pants, a trench coat, and shades. She continued singing, but the light stayed with Lucas.
When the song came to an end, she had no choice but to extend her arm in his direction and shout, “Lucas Bonner on steel guitar!”
The crowd roared their approval; Lucas bowed and then strolled across the stage in his little circle of light, wrapped Audrey in a tight embrace, and kissed her on the mouth—much to the crowd’s delight—then forced her to bow with him, as if they had just put on the show of her life, as if they had sung and danced their way through this night.
They bowed twice more before Lucas grabbed her hand and pulled her to the platform that would lower them below stage. The cheering and wild applause seemed to crescendo as they descended.
“Good show!” the stage manager shouted below, clapping Lucas on the back as he hurried off. They were alone—the stage crew was on the periphery, manning lights and smoke canisters. It was dark where they stood; Lucas grabbed Audrey and kissed her on the mouth like he hadn’t kissed her in ages.
“That was fantastic,” he said, kissing her again and pushing her back, deeper beneath the stage, into the tangle of cables and wires. “What a fucking rush!” he exclaimed breathlessly, as if he’d spent the last hour and a half up there, making his feet move through intricate steps in stiletto heels, as if he’d managed to sing without sounding winded while strutting across the stage and into the crowd and back.
He pushed her up against some planking, his hand groping for her breast.
“Lucas—”
“Come on, baby, that was a trip,” he said again as his hand slipped to her bare leg beneath the hem of her short skirt. “You totally turned me on,” he muttered as his hand rode up her thigh to the apex of her legs.
Audrey gasped a little; her head dipped back with her surprise at the bit of arousal and the pleasure of illicit sex under the stage . . . even if it was, as it turned out, fast and hard and not particularly romantic. Lucas came all over her leg, but still, it was sex, and there had been precious little of that in the last few months. Besides, Audrey was too revved up from the show, too excited by how well it had gone to dwell on the coarseness of it.
But she could not dismiss the thought in her mind that the person she was thinking of when Lucas lifted her up and pounded into her was Jack.
Above, at stage level, in an area curtained off for the crew and for Audrey to make quick costume changes, Jack had stood and watched the entire show. It was an electrifying performance—he was astounded by Audrey’s talent and her ability to relate to an audience of twelve thousand as if they were all squeezed into an intimate club setting. Granted, he preferred the soulful ballads she used to sing, but he was nevertheless drawn into this show. Audrey danced like a pro, her hips gyrating, her blond hair swinging. Her voice was beautiful. She was beautiful.
Perhaps the most surprising thing to Jack was that Audrey seemed happier on stage than he had yet to see her.
It was clear to him that Audrey was born for the limelight—she was mesmerizing, and it was no surprise that the crowd went wild for her.
It had been a great show, with no more than a couple of minor chinks . . . until Bonner wormed his way on stage and let the crowd know that Audrey was his. Jack despised Bonner in that moment—for no other reason than he had taken the last moment of a successful tour debut away from Audrey, had taken her away from the crowd, and had inserted himself where he didn’t belong.
Now, with the lights up, the crowd had started to dissipate, the crew was breaking down the stage, and the lovers still had not emerged from the caverns beneath the stage.
Jack pushed down a strange twinge of jealousy and walked away.
He spotted them a half hour later when they finally showed up to the after party. Audrey was resplendent, absolutely glowing with the exhilaration of having pulled off an almost flawless show. Or a quickie beneath the stage. Okay, Jack wasn’t certain about that, but he knew women, and he knew that look.
She bounced from guest to guest, receiving their accolades, signing hats and CD covers. Individual cameras flashed; Lucas pressed a drink into her hand as she stood and posed for a dozen pictures or more with fans lucky enough to have gained a backstage pass. Her smile never wavered, the glow never dimmed.
When she finally made her way to the bar, she spotted Jack and smiled so warmly that he felt a peculiar little tug in his chest. “Hey! What did you think of my show, Superman?”
He smiled at her glittering green eyes. “I thought it was out of this world,” he said sincerely. “I predict you will be an even bigger star—you’ve got a presence on stage that is fantastic.”
“Wow! Thank you,” she said, beaming with pleasure. “I’ll have to buy you a drink for that.” She chirped to the bartender, “A glass of red wine, please—and whatever my friend is having.”
“I’m good,” Jack said to the bartender, and to Audrey. “I’m working, remember?”<
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As the bartender stepped away, Audrey shifted her gaze to Jack again. “So you saw the whole show? I mean, all of it?”
“Every number, every dance.”
“So let me ask you something—what did you think of the lighting during the ‘Take Me’ number?”
“A little too dark,” he said.
“Too dark!” She laughed. “What are you talking about? It’s a very sultry song—it’s supposed to be dark. You’re probably not the sultry kind.”
“What kind do you think I am?”
She peered at him closely, then winked. “The no-holds-barred kind.”
“Audrey!” someone called, interrupting them before Jack could tell her she had pegged him exactly right.
She turned to her right. “Hey, Randy!” she said, throwing her arms wide and around the guy dressed head to foot in Prada. Everyone else in the room was wearing jeans. “Did you see the show?” she asked excitedly.
“I saw it and it was great. Perfect! But what was that with Bonner?” Randy, whoever he was, asked. “I hope that doesn’t become a habit. You’re spending a lot of money to promote your release. Not his release.”
“God, Randy, it was just one song,” Audrey said. “Hey, do you want a drink?” she asked, turning toward the bar.
“Audrey, listen, between you and me . . .” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jack and paused.
“Oh, this is Jack, my security guy,” she said, putting her hand on Jack’s arm. You can say anything to him.” She smiled up at Jack. “Randy is my agent.”
Agents, managers . . . it was impossible to keep up with the entourage.
“Good to meet you,” Randy said, shaking Jack’s hand, but he was looking at Audrey. “I am just saying don’t let Bonner get ahead of you, okay? Remember that you’re the money—not him.”
“You worry too much, Randy!” Audrey said cheerfully. “Lucas knows that. He was just having a little fun on the kick-off show. And everyone said it was great!”
Randy didn’t look convinced, and frankly, neither was Jack. But Audrey was sipping her wine, beaming with joy.
“Okay, Audrey,” Randy said and glanced around the room. His gaze fell on Courtney, who was sitting on a tabletop with her skirt hiked up so high that Randy was afforded a very nice view of her thigh. “I’ll call you next week. Rich and I are headed back to L.A. in the morning.”
“Rich, too?” Audrey asked absently as she sipped on her drink.
“He’ll be back. He’s going to try and make a show next week, depending on his workload.” Randy looked across the room again. “Will you excuse me? I’m going to go say hi to Courtney,” he said, and with a kiss on Audrey’s cheek, he looked at Jack. “Later.”
“Bye, Randy! Thanks for coming!” Audrey said after him. She watched him go then turned her beaming grin to Jack. “You look good in black—it’s definitely a good color for a bouncer.”
“I am going to pretend that was a compliment,” he drawled.
“It was.” Her eyes were shining like a pair of headlights on a dark highway. “I’m feeling strangely magnanimous.” She laughed at herself. “The thing is, Rambo, when you aren’t so full of yourself, you’re pretty cute.”
A smile stretched across Jack’s lips. “That’s interesting. This afternoon you wanted to fire me. Tonight you think I’m cute. You might want to slow down on the wine,” he added, and casually reached up and pulled free a strand of blond hair that had become caught between her glass and the edge of her mouth as she sipped.
Her eyes sparkling, she lowered the glass. “Oh, I still want to fire you,” she cheerfully affirmed as her gaze flicked to the open vee of his shirt. “But you’re still cute.”
“Interesting. I still think you’re a diva . . .” He leaned in, his gaze locked on hers. “But you’re pretty cute yourself.”
Audrey laughed, but she also blushed. She blushed. Jack had no doubt someone was telling her how damned sexy she was on a fairly constant basis, but she blushed like a young girl. And when she blushed, she looked so damned appealing that Jack had the urge to kiss her. A strong, extremely volatile urge, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was looking at him like she wouldn’t mind it at all.
There was probably no end to the number of men and women alike who wanted to kiss her, and if there was one thing that was fairly clear to him in his short association with her Frantic tour, she didn’t need that from him. Nevertheless, he wanted to take her in his arms in the worst way, to feel her body against his, to taste her lips . . .
Audrey tilted her head back and smiled in a way that suggested she knew what effect she had on him. Fortunately, Jack was stronger than his testosterone and winked. “Later, twinkle toes,” he said, and walked away, aware that she was gaping at his back with surprise and, knowing her, righteous indignation. He chuckled to himself.
But that blushing smile of hers stayed in his mind’s eye the rest of the night and long after.
Jack had learned long ago that when a woman started to slip under your skin, the best remedy for getting her out was work. He’d stayed up to oversee the loading of the tour buses, and the ten semis that hauled the stage and equipment, and in doing so, saw Courtney and Randy engaged in a very passionate good-bye in the parking lot just before dawn.
He got only a couple of hours of sleep before he was back again the next morning with Ted, inspecting the bags to go into the cargo hold of Audrey’s bus, when Courtney came looking for him, dressed in a racy halter dress she’d worn all night.
“Hey, handsome,” she said, pressing up against his side.
“Good morning, Courtney. You’re up early this morning,” he said as he moved away from her.
“What makes you think I got up instead of got in?” she asked with a wink. “Hey, you disappeared last night!” she said, playfully punching him on the shoulder. “Where’d you go?”
“I had work to do. Is there something you need?”
“No . . . but there is something I want,” she purred, then frowned a little. “But right now, Audrey wants you, too,” she said as she slyly touched his hip. “She’s at the hotel.”
He sighed and shifted his weight away from her hand. “Please tell Audrey I’m busy at the moment but I will talk to her before we leave for Minneapolis.”
“I think you need to come,” Courtney said with a subtle wink.
“Courtney—”
“There was a delivery for her this morning,” Courtney continued. “She got another letter. And a bad review,” she added with a slight roll of her eyes. “You would think the world had ended.”
“Another letter?” Jack asked, missing the remark about the review.
“Mmm-hmm,” Courtney said as her gaze skirted over him. “With a box of chocolates.”
“Tell her I’ll be right up.”
“Right up? Can’t entice you to a detour?” Courtney asked with a seductive smile.
Jack put his hand firmly on her shoulder and turned her around. “No detours,” he said, and gave her a nudge instead of a boot, which, for a moment, he seriously contemplated doing.
He felt a rumble of concern. “I’ll check in with you later,” he said to Ted, and started for the hotel.
Nine
In the hotel, Audrey had surrounded herself with Lucas and anyone else who could form a shield between her and any lunatics lurking in the halls at that very moment.
She was seated at a table, mindlessly autographing a stack of photos to be mailed out through her fan club, but her mind was on the chocolates and the note that the bellboy had delivered early this morning. As Lucas was digging through the box in search of truffles, Audrey had opened the note and read a horribly vile wish to see her dead. She stopped Lucas before he bit into a chocolate.
Now the police had come, taking away the box of chocolates to be tested, reading the note, asking her the same questions she’d been asked in New York when she received the last letter. Did she know anyone who would want to harm her? Any problems with the family?
The boyfriend? The lover? She hated the questions—hated even worse that they seemed to believe there was a never-ending well of people who hated her. Worse, they didn’t seem to think there was much they could do about it. “These things are almost impossible to trace,” one officer said.
And to add insult to injury, one of the policemen had left a newspaper on her table. She’d made the mistake of opening it while they waited for someone to make some calls—she’d forgotten who or where—and had happened upon the review of her show.
Unfortunately, the reviewer was perhaps the one person in the arena who hadn’t enjoyed the show last night. He said her music was derivative of Mariah and Kelly, that the lighting was intentionally dark to cover up the fact that she was a little too old to be embarking on a career in pop, and that the only song that had stood out was the ballad she sang and played on acoustical guitar, backed only by a violin.
That was an old song of hers, the only one Lucas and her label had allowed her to keep on the new album.
“I’m only twenty-eight!” she said when she read the paper and tossed it across the table. “They make it sound like I’m forty-eight.”
“It’s Omaha,” Lucas said absently. “Who cares what Omaha thinks?”
Well . . . she did. And so did the cop standing next to Lucas, judging by the way he was looking at Lucas. The review wouldn’t have stung quite so bad if Audrey didn’t believe she’d done really well last night.
She groaned, paused in the autographing to push her hands through her hair. She just wanted to leave Omaha for Minneapolis, just get the hell out of here and move on, move forward. With a sigh, she began to autograph again as Lucas, wearing his distressed jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that said ROLLING STONES FORTY LICKS on it, ranted to one of the officers in the room.
