by Nikki Sloane
Beneath my hand, the thump of his heart sped up.
My voice was unsteady, but my determination was strong. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before, but I won’t give up. I wasn’t just scared. After Clark, I was fucking terrified, but you didn’t give up on me.” I gained strength and power as I spoke. “You don’t have to believe for both of us. I’m all in with this.” I pressed my hand against his chest, wanting to possess the heart inside. “I’m all in with you.”
Troy stared at me like he was on total overload, and—shit—had I broken him?
“If that’s what you want,” I breathed.
His focus drifted beyond me and he cleared his throat. “Mom? Bill? Can y’all give us a minute?”
Every muscle inside me went tense. As soon as I’d seen him, everything else had faded away, and then I’d been in a mad rush to get it all out. I hadn’t paid any attention to the rest of the room, or the alcove beside the door where his parents had been sitting.
I stood as a statue in Troy’s arms, unable to turn and look at Jenna, who’d basically overheard me tell her son I was in love with him. There was shuffling as they stood.
“We’ll just . . . go take some pictures of the stage,” Bill said.
I shut my eyes tightly, not opening them until the door clicked closed behind them.
My eyelids were only open for a fraction of a second before they fell closed under the power of Troy’s kiss. It was so passionate, new tears stung at the corners of my eyes. He cupped the back of my head and adjusted the angle so he could part my lips with his and slip his tongue against mine.
A noise of satisfaction came from deep in my throat, and he increased the intensity of the kiss. I hadn’t said I loved him using those exact words, but it was implied, and he was implying the same thing through this connection.
The world was spinning when his kiss ended. Our lips remained so close, they brushed over each other as we spoke, tasting and sampling like we couldn’t get enough.
“In case that didn’t make it clear,” he whispered, “I want this.”
“I thought you were in here alone.” I smiled softly. “I might have waited to say all that if I’d known they were on the other side of the room.”
“I made them because they were freaking me the fuck out.”
The whiskers of his scruff bristled against my fingers as I touched his face. “Are you okay?”
He turned so he could drop a kiss in the center of my palm and gave me a sexy smirk. “I’m much better now.” As if I were one hundred percent the reason for it. “You have this power over me. When I get nervous, I tell myself I’m singing only to you, and then I’m good.”
Lord, he was killing me. “You can’t just say stuff like that.” My tone was teasing, even though I was serious. “You’re going to make me cry again and my makeup is probably already a mess.”
He brushed the pad of his thumb under my eye, probably wiping away a mascara darkened tear track. “Nope. Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
His gaze skimmed down over my black blouse and black leather pants before landing on my hot pink heels.
“Your lucky shoes,” he said.
“Yeah.” I grinned. “I wore them for you.”
“For us,” he corrected.
TWENTY-FOUR
Troy
Black curtains hung across the stage, sectioning off what was already set for Stella’s show. The stadium was buzzing with fans. We could hear the crowd from behind the wings, but also see some of them too. The stage was placed at one end of the bowl of the arena, meaning there were cheap seats that only had a view from the sides.
They could see Erika and me waiting together for the show to begin, as well as the stage manager, plus the guitar bay and other equipment. I had her hand wrapped in mine, and she hadn’t let go of me since she’d grabbed on, so I figured it was all right. My nerves were getting to me, but I did my best to play it off like it was no big deal. Like I was totally cool with walking onstage and performing for thousands of people, and it wasn’t giving me cold sweats.
It’d been a little over an hour since I’d completed my rehearsal walkthrough. I’d carried my guitar to my mark on center stage, strummed a few chords, and tested the beginning of my opening song. It was surreal. The seats were empty, but they’d spread out for miles in all directions, and I’d struggled to catch my breath.
There’d been hardly anyone around to listen to my soundcheck, and those few people who were in the arena had been too busy working to pay much attention to me.
Other than Erika.
She’d been out in the front row because she’d wanted to see what I’d look like up on the stage and give me some feedback. I was glad she’d done it, because it meant she was here in the wings with me now, right before I was set to go on. It also meant she’d be the first one to congratulate me when I was done.
Would she sugarcoat things and tell me I’d done a good job, even if I bombed? Hopefully, I wouldn’t find out. The clock was ticking down to showtime, and my stomach was lined with lead. It was a strange fucking feeling to want something so bad, yet also dread it.
I reminded myself how she’d said she was all in with me. No matter what, I’d walk away from tonight with her, so wasn’t everything else just a bonus? Didn’t I already have exactly what I wanted?
The clock continued to tick.
“Where the hell did the last ninety minutes go?” I grumbled, mostly to myself as I stared at the vacant stage ahead of us.
I thought time had flown by, but Erika had an expression like it had dragged. It probably had for her. There were sections of ‘hurry up and wait,’ plus, after we’d returned from the soundcheck, my parents were in the suite, and it’d been fucking awkward.
My mom pretended not to notice the tension. She spent twenty minutes FaceTiming with my grandmother, the first five minutes of which made it clear Mimi had no clue how to use FaceTime.
I could tell Erika was still embarrassed my parents had overheard our conversation earlier, but she tried not to show it. She was nothing but a professional, ready to answer any question I had, and focus on helping me prepare. She’d seen both sides as a performer and a manager, and I couldn’t imagine anyone being better than her.
Thirty minutes before the show, things got a little easier because there was more to do. She had me practice putting in and taking out my in-ear monitor while playing.
“In case it comes out,” she said, “or the sound’s too flat.”
I pushed the earpiece in, which felt weird and unnatural, and went back to strumming. “Too flat?”
“It cancels everything out, so all you’ll hear is your guitar. It might sound like you’re performing in an empty room, and if you don’t like that, then dump one side.”
Even though it’d be dark and the stage lights would be bright, there was no way I’d feel like I was performing to an empty room when I was onstage—because no matter what, she was there. I’d picture Erika in front of me and everything would be okay.
She had me warm up my voice and then I put on the plaid shirt and leather cuff that was my signature look.
During all of this, my parents sat quietly off to the side.
They didn’t approve of our relationship, but they understood she was my stand-in manager tonight because Ardy was with Stella, so my parents let Erika do her thing. Fifteen minutes ago, they’d hugged me and left the suite to go find their seats at the front of the house, giving Erika and me a few seconds alone.
If she’d planned to deliver a pep talk to me, I derailed it because I spent our final private moments together kissing her. It was what I wanted, and when I claimed it was the best way to distract me from my nerves, she allowed it.
It worked too.
As soon as I had my mouth on hers, she was all I could think about.
Then, we’d climbed aboard the cart, were transported down the tunnel, and unloaded into the backstage area.
Shit got real as I climbed the sho
rt staircase onto the side of the stage.
“Erika,” my voice filled with panic, “I don’t remember the lyrics.”
She paused. “For which song?”
My heart was pounding. “Any of them.”
But rather than look alarmed, she smiled. Her warm hands grabbed mine and she pulled me close enough to set her forehead against mine.
“I have climbed,” she sang softly, “the highest mountains.”
Hearing the opening line in her amazing voice was all I needed, and the rest of the lyrics flooded back in a wave of relief. “Okay,” I whispered. “I got it.”
The guy in charge of equipment appeared and handed me my acoustic guitar, but I kept one hand tangled with Erika’s. I wasn’t ready to let go of her just yet. The guy’s gaze dropped to our linked hands, but his expression didn’t change. He didn’t care, and disappeared back to his seat beside the guitar bay.
We didn’t have to wait long for the stage manager to show up. He was an older, grizzled-looking guy, and had been the one to explain where my marks were during my soundchecks.
He gave me a once-over and a smile. “You all set, man?”
“Yeah.” Despite my warmup, my voice was tight, and I cleared my throat.
“Awesome.” He pressed the button to his radio, and I heard his voice echo in Erika’s earpiece. “We go in one minute.”
“Oh, fucking shit,” I muttered under my breath. I probably looked pale and clammy, but once I stepped on the stage, I’d be fine.
Erika’s hand squeezed mine. “You’re going to be incredible,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
It was hard to focus. Inside, I was being pulled in a million different directions, but at her voice, everything snapped into place. I didn’t want her to be happy for me . . .
I wanted her to be happy for us.
I turned to stare at her. She looked so beautiful tonight. Sexy and powerful, and it wasn’t lost on me that this woman was the entire reason I was here. “This is all because of you.”
She laughed. “You are giving me way too much credit.”
“I’m serious, Erika. I don’t just mean the audition. The whole reason I learned to play was to impress you.”
“House lights down,” the stage manager announced.
My heart continued to beat furiously and blood roared through my ears, but I couldn’t hear it. Only the excitement sweeping through the crowd when the arena suddenly darkened, signaling the concert was about to begin.
A smile grew on Erika’s lips until she was grinning wildly. “Well, then . . . go out there and impress me.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear. “Yes, ma’am.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Erika
Troy took a deep breath, and then he was moving forward in the darkness, carrying his guitar.
Did he know I was right there with him, breath hung painfully in my lungs? I’d done my best to be his strength, and now that he was on stage, the anxiety I’d held at bay ripped through me as an electrical current. It magnetized me in place. I wouldn’t be able to move an inch for the next fifteen minutes.
In the low light, I saw his shadowy figure come to the microphone, put the guitar strap over his head, and settle into playing position. The swell of the crowd had faded, the initial excitement over the lights going down had dwindled nearly to a hush.
Troy struck the opening chord in the dark, and as it reverberated through the arena, the audience rose to their feet. The center spotlight burst onto him, bathing him in silvery light, and illuminated the enormous smile on his face. Gone was the boy who’d been nervous moments ago.
This man was a star.
And for the first time, it looked like he knew it.
His fingers moved deftly against the strings as he began the song that had started it all. His stripped-down version of U2’s ‘Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,’ and as soon as the crowd recognized the song, they roared their approval.
God, the sound of it.
The way his rich voice rang through the space, rebounding off the balcony level. He crooned into the microphone, singing and playing as if it were the sole purpose he’d been put on this earth to do. But I wasn’t sure if that was true.
Maybe his purpose was to be the man I fell in love with.
It wasn’t until he finished the last note that I came out of my trance. One song down, two to go.
But this was the part he’d confessed he was most nervous about. Warming up the crowd and showing off his personality.
“How y’all doing tonight, Nashville?” he said.
I’d snuck a peek at the crowd when we’d first gotten backstage. Most of the floor seats were full and the rest of the seats in the arena were dotted with people, and it sounded like every one of them answered his question with a scream of excitement.
“My name’s Troy Osbourne, and I’m a local boy from right here in the Music City. For those of you who don’t know, Stella gave me this amazing opportunity to come out and perform for y’all. Tonight’s a special night, and not just for me. It’s the last night of her tour, so I want make sure I do both her and our hometown proud.” He had the pick in his hand, and it glinted as he used the back of his palm to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “So, what do you say we kick it up a notch? Sing along if you know it. This is ‘Midnight Train to Memphis.’”
The song seized me in its grip like the first time I’d heard him preform. The gravel in his low notes was perfectly juxtaposed against the clear beauty on the high ones. His fingers flowed perfectly against the fretboard, and although I could only see a sliver of the audience, the people in it were moving to his music. He easily won them over.
When he finished the song, the crowd cheered much louder and longer.
“I love you, Pool Boy!” a female voice screamed from somewhere near the front.
The sound picked up Troy’s nervous laugh, but it came off like he was bashful and not uncomfortable, which only added to his appeal. He put his hand around the microphone, and there was something surprisingly intimate about it. As if he wanted to invite the audience closer.
Only, he turned to look directly at me offstage.
“This final song was written by someone very special to me. I hope y’all enjoy it as much as I do.”
Heat tingled across my skin, drawing goosebumps.
I’d written ‘Power’ for him, but also about us, so this was the moment I’d longed for, ever since telling him I was all in with our relationship. I couldn’t wait for him to put our music out into the world.
When he played the opening chords, the key was wrong. The tempo was still slow, but faster than I’d intended it to be.
Wait a minute.
My anticipation had made my brain slow, and as I listened to the music, my mouth hung open in disbelief. Troy was playing a song I’d written all right . . . but it wasn’t ‘Power.’
“Only with you can I be reckless . . .” he sang.
I wrapped my arms around my body, holding in all my confusion and disappointment. Troy’s set list had been confirmed soon after he’d gotten the opening spot. When had it been changed? And, why? Had Ardy decided it was better if Troy didn’t perform an original and stuck to a song the audience would recognize?
Although this version of ‘Reckless’ was strikingly different from the one that had been a hit years ago. Alan’s single had been upbeat and backed by a band, and he didn’t have the vocal range Troy possessed.
Despite my surprise at the song change, my heart still warmed and fluttered at hearing Troy sing my lyrics and play the music I’d written. And his arrangement was so unique, so fresh, it felt like an entirely new song. The vocal runs he put at the end of his phrases gave me chills.
I couldn’t tell if he had the rest of the crowd in the palm of his hand like he did me, but I had to assume. How could they witness this and not want to burst inside? It was like he’d boiled the song down to its essence, giving it ten times the power of the origin
al.
Or maybe it sounded so incredible to me because he’d told me he imagined he was singing it just for me. As the song entered the final refrain, my body filled with so much emotion, it couldn’t be contained, and tears welled in my eyes.
He stroked the strings one final time, like a musical exhale, and the crowd breathed right along with it, before breaking out into thunderous applause.
“Thank you so much,” he said, sounding in awe. “I’m Troy Osbourne, and it’s been a pleasure. Stick around. The Red Door Band will be up here in a few minutes and they’re going to keep y’all entertained.”
The stage lights faded to black to more applause, and Troy’s shadowy figure remained at the microphone until it was over, soaking it all in. Then he turned toward me, took off his guitar, and strode slowly in the dim light to the edge of the curtain. He handed off his guitar to an equipment tech, passing it with care, but also urgency.
It was because as soon as his hands were clear, he scooped me up into them, lifting and spinning me in a half-circle, making me squeak with delighted surprise. He was high from his performance, and he planted his lips over mine long before setting me back on my feet.
“I don’t want to wake up from this dream,” I whispered.
“Me neither.” God, his smile. He kissed me again, threw his arm around my shoulder, and started walking us toward the stairs. “Did you like it?”
I laughed at his ridiculous question, and I wasn’t sure if he meant his rendition of ‘Reckless’ or the performance in general, but the answer was the same for both. “It was incredible.”
His chest rose as he took in a satisfied breath and the arm around me squeezed me closer.
When the cart delivered us back to the bunker hallway, Ardy stood in the open doorway to the suite at the other end, and waved at us to come in. As I walked toward the room that was undoubtedly Stella’s dressing room, Troy wove his hand through mine.
Ardy watched this, but his expression didn’t change, as if he wasn’t bothered in the slightest. The stage manager hadn’t been fazed by our hand holding earlier, either. Maybe it was because music folks had seen it all and generally were easy-going. It wasn’t their business how the music got made; all that mattered was the show went on.
