by Emily Childs
“Miss Knight,” Quinn says again. He’s leading us up a narrow staircase that’ll lead to the wings of the stage.
Truth be told, I’m glad Quinn is here. Alone, navigating this maze would’ve been a trip.
Quinn takes us to a small room built on the upper level and opens the door. The moment I walk in my stomach squeezes and I grin. Teenage dirtbags, once. Now I can’t even hide it when I reconnect with Parker’s old friends. My old friends who all became extended big brothers.
“Chatty Kathy!” Tate says at once, dropping his drumsticks and hurrying across the room.
He scoops me up and spins me around.
“Tater tot!” I’m not even embarrassed that I squeal and squeeze his neck. Tate is built like a football player, has dark wavy hair that falls in his face, is a total playboy, but underneath it all he’s loyal and kind. “It’s been so long! What the heck is this?”
My finger flicks the new Kings tattoo on the side of his bicep.
“Blame your brother.”
“Nah, don’t toss Park under the bus. You had one too many to drink, made the bet, and lost.” Adam stands from his cozy spot with his fiancée Becca and steals a hug from me next. “Hey, Lex.”
“Hey, yourself. And, uh, what’s this bet?”
“Tate has no faith in Parker’s pitching abilities,” Adam starts.
“Not true,” Tate says as he stretches his wrists. “I bet that he couldn’t strike out three innings in a row. Statistically, do you know how difficult that is?”
“Ah, but you should know Parker. He’d rise to the challenge. Speaking of the guy, has anyone seen that brother of mine? I don’t get good reception in here and don’t know if he’s made it yet.”
“No, but he’ll show,” Tate says. “Now that he’s not here for the wed . . .” He pauses and sweeps a glance at me. My cheeks fill with hot sparks of embarrassment. Tate clears his throat. “Anyway, he’ll be here.”
I nod and give Becca a quick hug. I like Adam’s fiancée. We’ve hung out a few times when Parker is in town. She didn’t grow up with us and he met her when she was interning at the production studio. She’s solid, though. The way she looks at Adam is made of the kind of love everyone dreams of.
Lance is in the corner, hanging over two girls, and hardly notices us. I don’t care. I don’t know him. He was an addition later in their success.
But when Bridger slips out of the shadows, his green eyes on me, my insides turn inside out. It’s a kind of visceral betrayal of my own body. His hair has been mussed, his jeans are tight in the best ways, the black leather wristbands are in place, and the T-shirt with the black vest stretches seductively over his broad chest.
He’s delicious, has a weird control over me, and I really don’t like him right now.
“Finally made it,” he says lazily.
“Ah, it’s adorable that you noticed I was gone.”
“Nope.”
A guy with a headset pokes his head in, breathless. “Five minutes guys.”
“That’s the cue,” Tate says. “Bring it in.”
Bridger keeps his eyes on me as he huddles up with his band like a football team. Another breath, and Bridger drops his eyes from me and drapes his arms around Adam and Tate on either side. Lance fits in there, too, but I smile at the guys I’ve known my entire life as they shout together, “Break it down!”
A long-standing joke from when Bridger’s grandma tried to tell them to bring down the house when they were starting to get bigger gigs. I miss Mae and love the tribute.
“Good luck guys!”
Tate blows out his lips. “Luck. Come on, girl. We haven’t needed any of that for a long time.”
Tate is all smiles until he opens the door and practically smashes into Ellie Walker. She looks incredible. Her purple hair is wild, her eyeliner dark and smokey.
“Hey, princess,” Tate says in a dark tone. “Mind stepping aside? The rockstars need to hit the stage.”
“Really, Hawkins? Do you ever listen in our meetings?”
“No.”
“I’m singing the first set with you.” Ellie rolls her eyes, but catches sight of me. “Oh, you got the pass! Good. I need you to tell me all the dirty secrets about Bridger Cole. I had no idea we were talking over two decades of information on this guy.”
Tate groans and shoves past. I laugh, then swoon a little when Adam kisses Becca and she whispers something in his ear that lights up his eyes.
Bridger slings his guitar over his shoulder and adjusts the earpiece in his ear, staring at me as the others head out.
“What?” I ask. “Are you wanting me to wish you good luck?”
He scoffs. “We’re nominated for best rock album. I don’t need your half-hearted luck.”
“You’re miserable,” I say.
Bridger flicks his brows and turns to the doorway. Too slowly, as if he expects something. I’m not giving it to him. I’m not.
“Hey, Bridge.”
“Yeah, Al?” A smile quivers in his voice.
I let out a long sigh, pinch my lips as if I’m utterly put out, then hold up the rock on sign with my fingers.
It takes another heartbeat, but Bridger laughs like he always used to when I’d give him the sign. I know it’s because I’m a book nerd and totally not a rocker, but I always do it.
Bridger shakes his head and steps out into the hallway. “Thanks, Al. Didn’t know you cared so much.”
When he’s gone, I glance at my fingers and groan. Great. I did it again. Two fingers, Alexis. Parker has told me this a hundred times. Tuck the thumb. The thumb leads to squirmy insides and thudding hearts.
Everything I’ve learned to expertly hide around Bridger Cole.
Chapter 15
Alexis
The same guy with the headset ushers Becca and me to a comfortable place to watch the show from the left wing.
Bridger takes his place at the center mic, Ellie next to him, Adam on his left, Lance on his right. Tate stretches his wrists once more, then sits on his raised drum set and spins his drum sticks once.
I hold my breath as the crowd quiets. Anticipation is heady. Lights around the arena dim. My stomach flutters, I can’t bite back the smile. I love this part. For a dozen breathless moments Perfectly Broken holds the crowd in suspense, then Bridger nods his head to a soundless beat and together they explode.
The white curtain shielding them from the crowd falls at the same time sparks erupt on the sides of the stage; the same time Bridger and Adam and Lance ignite their guitars; the same time Tate transforms into a new person. His sticks reaching his snare, his foot on the pedal. He does so many things at once.
The arena is deafening.
I bounce on my toes, cup my hands around my mouth, and scream. I’ve never been able to hold back.
Becca laughs and leans into my ear. “I turn into a total fangirl at every show, too.”
“I love to see their faces,” I scream over Bridger’s voice. “It’s like those instruments, those lyrics, that stage is their home.”
Becca tosses her head back and laughs again, swaying to the beat, but she nods.
Bridger lights up the stage. He presses his lips close to the microphone, belts out the deep, dark rumble. His raspy voice fills the night. His fingers slide over his fretboard on instinct now.
Lights, flames, heat. It builds with the energy of their song. When Ellie takes over, Bridger stands back, claiming the stage. He wears a ferocious kind of grin as he plays his guitar, leaning into Adam. Then, holding a fist up for Tate when the drummer tosses a drum stick over his head, catching it at the next beat.
I close my eyes and absorb it all.
At the end of the song, I can’t hear a thing over the shrieks of the audience. They cheer Ellie off. Once she’s in the wing she accepts a towel and water bottle, grinning at the stage.
“That was so good,” I say.
“Thanks. They’re on fire tonight, aren’t they? I haven’t felt this kind of energy from PB f
or a while. You might be a good luck charm.”
I snort. “Doubt that.”
Ellie takes a drink with a smile before she’s ushered to prepare for her solo set.
I grin when Tate begins a harder song. I might be a librarian, but something about the deep, throaty rock songs, the ones that rattle the heart, stirs me. The emotion in the rough edges is intoxicating.
Bridger and Adam bang and nod their heads in unison. I don’t know how they don’t get lightheaded, but more and more people in the audience pulse those rock on signs, some with tongues out, screaming when Bridger belts his lyrics.
A break in the song comes where the word yeah is repeated. Tate pounds a beat, Bridger holds out the mic toward the crowd as they shout: Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
Adam, Lance, and Tate bleed their energy into the crowd with the beat and Bridger steps to the microphone, arms wide, foot propped on an amp.
My stomach tightens.
He’s going to do his thing. The thing his grandma hated. The thing that shoots my heart into my throat.
He screams.
Not high pitched. No, it’s the rocker scream. Deep, guttural. Raw. He holds it while the others go wild and the lights spin like a storm.
Bridger breaks, takes the fastest breath I’ve ever seen, and is right back at the mic with his guitar. I’m about to combust and have to shriek and dance as they play. Two more songs are much the same.
Before the start of their fifth song, Bridger steps back from the mic. His eyes are bright. He’s made for this. I forget to breathe when he steals a glance at the wing. Our eyes lock and he winks.
Is it betraying my status as nemesis if I admit I’d really like to kiss this man?
The crowd quiets as the band sets up to do another song. But the mellow moment is broken by a bellowing shout.
“Marry me, Bridger Cole!”
Bridger glances at the crowd. Frankly, I do too because, although, there have been plenty of women screaming the same thing, that was certainly not a female voice.
Bridger and I must see him at the same time because he laughs when I snort.
Five rows from the stage, Parker holds up a handmade sign that says, Bridger Cole is my true love. He’s trying to throw him off, and the way Bridger is laughing, I’d say my brother won this one.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, our local baseball hero, Parker Knight!”
The lights flash to my brother and he recoils a bit, but he’s just cocky enough he doesn’t completely shy away from the spotlight. And the spotlight is certainly on him. Now, there are screams for the untamed ball player. Parker is a mystery to the public and he’s made it that way intentionally. The most people know is he’s obsessed with baseball, never wants to get married, and is best friends with a rock band.
But mystery means challenge. Countless reporters have tried to earn personal interviews. Even more women have tried to be ‘the one’ who heals his heart.
Bridger crouches at the edge of the stage. “Park, I thought you’d never ask me.”
With a quick signal, security helps part the crowd and Parker comes forward. Bridger helps him on stage. They do their weird back clap hug, Bridger mutters something no one can hear, my brother greets Tate and Adam, then Parker waves at the cheering crowd before rushing out of the way so the band can finish.
I roll my eyes and open my arms when he hurries to me in the shadows. “You know some magazine somewhere is going to print that Bridger Cole and Parker Knight are happily engaged, now.”
He laughs and hugs me. “He deserved it. Last game he arranged a kissing line outside the clubhouse. He promised each woman I’d give them ten minutes, Lex. Ten. Minutes. Do you know how hard that swarm was to avoid?”
My eyes widen. “Okay. He deserved it.”
Parker and Becca share a few greetings, but we all quiet down when Bridger goes to the mic again.
“This last one is for you.” He points at the crowd, then holds up his left arm where a fire badge with his dad’s ladder number is inked on his inner bicep. “Your sacrifice means everything. To your families, we thank you for your sacrifice, too.” He pauses. Readies his guitar. “This is for you, Dad.”
The song is melancholy, a slow beat. A soft beat. It’s what I love about Perfectly Broken. They rock hard, then have the most beautiful somber songs. Bridger’s deep, smooth voice can sing a love song as well as he can scream.
The crowd responds. Lights from cell phones are a sea of stars in the stands as they hear Bridger’s tribute to them. To Garett. A sad story about running in when everyone else runs out. About loss and love.
It’s one of my favorite songs.
Thought time could heal the broken side
Time goes on, but leaves me behind.
It cut you out the inside.
So, far away.
You’re so far away.
At the final chord there is a heartbeat or two before the audience roars its applause. I’m wiping my eyes, too.
Forget Nadia. After that heart-wrenching love letter, who could ever believe Bridger would harm a fly? The white fluttering curtain goes up again and it’s time to make space for Blackthorne.
The guys hurry off, all grinning, all sweaty, and breathless.
Becca squeals and wraps Adam in her arms. “Babe! What was that? You guys were on fire.”
He kisses her long and thorough, grinning against her mouth. “I know. Energy was up and it was epic.”
He sort of growls and kisses her again.
“That was wild! Way to bring it, B,” Tate says and hooks his arm around Bridger’s neck, causing them to stumble a bit.
Bridger’s eyes fall to me and I have my role to play. In truth, falling into his voice after so long, it’s really, really hard to play the indifferent nemesis.
I smirk, and shrug. “It was okay.”
Bridger beams and tosses Tate off him. “I’m touched, Al. Reel back the praise.”
He surprises me by doing the same as Tate and curling one arm around my shoulders, drawing me against his side.
I don’t even care if I’m expected to toss out some kind of insult, tell him he’s mediocre, or remind him if I was dancing, it doesn’t mean I like him. My smile is genuine, the thrum of energy is palpable. He rocked tonight.
All of us make our way toward the room. Crew members congratulate the band, and random screams from people who’ve been let backstage rattle our heads.
"Bridger. Bridger Cole! It's Lydia. We dated."
I slow my step. Not because a woman shouted she was an ex of Bridger. That would be ridiculous.
I glance at the crowd of backstage pass holders, now mixed with roadie selected groupies. The kids are cute, and frankly, the most polite. But it's the semi-familiar woman with short hair and too much eyeshadow I'm watching.
I nudge his ribs. "Know her? She looks familiar."
Bridger follows my gaze. This Lydia goes insane, waving her hands once she realizes we're looking at her.
"Remember, Bridger?" she shouts. "We dated."
He squints his eyes. My jaw is tight. Again, not because I'm frustrated Bridger undoubtedly has a long list of ex-lovers, no. I'm perturbed my retreat to food in the greenroom has been halted. Really.
Until Bridger starts to laugh. His arm tightens around my shoulders, urging me to rejoin this conversation. "Al, it's Lydia. The Dr. Pepper-library girl."
The woman frowns. "We dated."
"Is that what you call it?" Bridger chuckles and starts to tug me in the opposite direction.
The women who'd been giving Lydia dagger eyes for catching Bridger's attention are back at it, trying to earn his and the other guys' notice for themselves.
I grin. No wonder she looked familiar. It's been over a decade since we had a childish standoff, but it doesn't make this moment of in-your-face less sweet. I won't descend into the ultimate pettiness, though. At least, not entirely. I simply wiggle my fingers in a wave and say, "Hey there. Band geeks rock, don't they? Thanks for coming."
"Bridger!" She shouts. "We've grown up, come on. Bridger!"
He doesn't turn around before a swarm of backstage crewmen usher the band away. Meet and Greets aren't due to start until after the concert is over.
"That was wickedly satisfying," I mutter.
Bridger winks. He doesn't say it, but I wager he's thinking it. Outside the greenroom, a guy with stylish glasses and a tailored suit waits for us. He’s typing on his cell and only looks up when Tate lets out a loud laugh at something Adam says.
“There they are! Awesome, awesome show. Good call using the last song, Bridge. Wasn’t a dry eye in the place.”
Bridger stiffens, his arm still around my shoulders. “Wasn’t a strategy, Tim. My dad died fifteen years ago. It was a tribute.”
“Right, right.” Tim isn’t listening, his eyes are homed in on me. “Who’s this? We’re not doing the private meet and greets, yet. And frankly, I don’t think with all that’s going on you should be taking, you know, private moments with—”
“Uh, excuse me,” I interrupt, pulling back from Bridger. “I am not a meet and greeter, thank you very much. Do I look like I’m here for funny business?”
The guy scans my outfit. “Is that a serious question?”
Tate snorts but turns away when I glare at him.
“I’ll have you know something, sir, whoever you are—”
“Tim Grant, Perfectly Broken’s manager.” He holds out his hand, shaking mine without skipping a beat.
“Okay, good to meet you. Now let me tell you something, Tim Grant—I am not a groupie. And if I were, I’d definitely be Tate’s, not Bridger’s.”
“Lex,” Parker says in a growl.
Tate nods proudly and puckers his lips at me. Bridger doesn’t think the joke is funny, and his narrowed gaze sort of draws me to a pause, but the tongue has been unleashed, so I barrel on. “I am a librarian who happens to like rock and roll. Seriously, I thought I was dressed pretty conservatively. Do I not look like a librarian?” I tap Bridger’s arm and gesture to my figure. “I’m not even wearing earrings. If I wanted to put the moves on a rockstar, don’t you think I’d wear bright red lipstick, not Vaseline Chapstick?”