Staged (Exodus End World Tour, #3)

by Cunning, Olivia

  “I wasn’t following you!” she shouted.

  “Then you were following Zach.”

  “No, I was just going in the same direction you are.”

  Seeing as he’d been wandering aimlessly, that seemed unlikely. “I want to talk to you for a few minutes,” he said. “In private.”

  She licked her lips. “If this is about last night . . .”

  He had no idea what she was referring to. “What about it?”

  Tamara bit her lip. “You were pretty drunk.”

  He supposed that had been obvious even before he’d passed out, and she’d seen him just before he’d returned to his room. “This isn’t about last night,” he said. Why would it be?

  “It isn’t?” She met his eyes. “Is it about your new girlfriend?”

  Not directly, but . . . “Did Sam tell you her name?”

  She lowered her gaze and nodded. “He wants me to write a story about the two of you.”

  Steve threw his hands in the air. “Of course he does. What other stories does he want you to write?”

  “I just do what he tells me.”

  “But why?” He was shouting, he realized, but couldn’t help himself. “Why do you do what he tells you?”

  She glanced around as if worried someone would overhear. “I have to go.” She darted around the fans surrounding a group of musicians making their way either to or from a stage. He started after her, but was rudely poked in the shoulder by an angry-looking man.

  “I came all the way from Dublin to see Twisted Element, you gobshite! Where d’you get off sendin’ ’em packin’, ay?”

  “Um . . .” He wasn’t sure what a gobshite was, but he knew a pissed-off, drunk Irishman when he saw one. Luckily, Zach hurried over.

  “You let her get away,” Zach said to Steve.

  “You still speakin’ to this geebag, Zachary Mercier?” the disgruntled fan spat in Zach’s direction. “Are you bleedin’ daft?

  Zach scowled at the Twisted Element defender. Maybe Zach knew what a geebag was. Steve had no clue, but he was pretty sure it was an insult.

  “He came all the way from Dublin to see Twisted Element,” Steve explained.

  “Is that right?” Zach said, brightening at once and wrapping an arm around the fan’s shoulders. The man immediately went soft, his hostility toward Steve apparently forgotten. “Let’s go grab a drink with my friend here.” Zach jerked a thumb in Steve’s direction. “Unless you have something better to do.”

  “Something better to do than drink?” Zach’s fan broke into obnoxious peals of laughter. “With you?” He doubled over and slapped his knee.

  Steve thought the guy might pass out, either from lack of air or because he was extremely drunk.

  “Nah, ain’t got a thing pressin’ at the moment.”

  Once Steve was surrounded by booze, old friends, and a crowd of drunks in full revelry, it was a bit too easy to fall into old habits. He stayed away from the fucking whiskey, though, and stuck to beer all night. By the time Sinners took the stage, he’d forgotten why he’d sworn off alcohol in the first place. It sure made it easier to pass the time when he had nothing better to do than party. Especially since he had no desire to engage in his favorite pastime—fucking—unless Roux showed up, but he hadn’t seen her since he’d left her at the tent.

  Zach’s fanboy, who was still hanging with them, patted Steve on the chest as they headed for the main stage to watch Sinners. “You’re not the wanker I thought you were.”

  “Uh . . . thanks?”

  “I’ll be spreading the word that it’s that other band—the one with the chicks—that’s responsible for getting Twisted canned.”

  Steve cringed. That would be worse than laying the blame on him. Exodus End could weather the upset, but he wasn’t sure if Baroquen could.

  “Actually, it’s not their fault at all.”

  “It was the tour manager,” Zach said. “He made the decision on his own. Didn’t consult anyone.”

  “You should fire that feckin’ idiot!”

  “Hell yeah, we should,” Steve said, lifting his near empty glass of beer and downing its contents. As was the norm, his empty glass was immediately replaced with a full one courtesy of the next dude who wanted to buy him a beer. The fans loved that he’d hung around with them all evening instead of hiding out with the rest of the bands in areas inaccessible to them. If Steve had had a show tonight, he would have kept his distance, but since he didn’t have to perform until the next night, he was just a music fan—who everyone happened to know by name—like the rest of them. There were always a couple of Exodus End’s security team around when he did this kind of thing, but they seldom had to intervene. These were his people, and he didn’t get to be around them as one of them very often these days. He missed being a part of the group.

  “Are you going to watch the show from the pit or backstage?” Zach asked, his own perpetually refilled beer in one hand.

  “Do you think we can make it to the pit?” Steve said, eyeing the enormous crowd already assembled before the main stage. The fans that were in the pit in front of the stage had probably gotten there several hours before the show began, not halfway through the first song. Sinners looked like ants on a miniature stage from where he and Zach stood. Still, the pyrotechnics were awe-inspiring, and as usual, the band sounded amazing. They had a great front of house sound board operator who rivaled Exodus End’s renowned Mad Dog. Their drummer, Eric Sticks, had married her, if Steve remembered correctly. His brain wasn’t working so well this far into drink.

  “I’ll get you to the pit!” shouted a nearby fan who happened to be built like a linebacker.

  Surprisingly, the man didn’t barrel through the crowd like he was carrying a Steve Aimes football to the end zone. He merely tapped people on the shoulder and introduced Steve and Zach, which made the exuberant and friendly fans insist that they move in front of them after claiming a handshake or a hug or a slap on the back. Eventually the crowd was crammed together too tightly to offer them the space to move forward. They were close enough now that Steve could make out which miniature member of Sinners was which. Sed Lionheart had the crowd jumping up and down to the beat of their rock anthem “Twisted.”

  “Do you think they wrote this song about you?” Steve shouted at Zach as they jumped in unison with the people around them.

  Zach laughed. “They don’t even know who I am.”

  “You’re being modest. Let’s get closer.”

  They both knew there was only one way to get closer and that was by surfing over the crowd rather than moving forward through it.

  Their linebacker-esque companion agreed to give Steve a boost up, and soon he was being passed hand over hand above the crowd. He hadn’t crowd-surfed for ages and was truly having the time of his life. He caught sight of Zach moving over the crowd near him. The song ended, and he could hear Sed talking to the audience.

  “It seems there’s a surplus of drummers in the crowd tonight,” he said.

  A camera captured the moment Steve thrust his arm—topped by a devil-horns fist—into the air and displayed it on the huge screen. The crowd screamed in approval. Steve grinned when he noticed how many of the arms waving on the screen had Baroquen written across them—his arm included. They showed Zach onscreen next; he got an equally loud shout of approval from the crowd, and more matching Baroquen forearms waved when Zach thrust his fist into the air.

  “What are you guys doing down in the pit?” Sed shouted into his microphone.

  “Everybody’s gone surfing, surfing U-effing-K.” Trey sang into his mic as if it were a Beach Boys song.

  “I wonder if we can keep those two surfing for the entire next song,” Sed said. “What do you say, Download? Are you up to the challenge?”

  The crowd screamed its answer, and Steve’s body suddenly changed trajectory. Instead of being passed toward the stage, he was now being passed perpendicular to it.

  “Yes!” he shouted, thrusting his devil ho
rns into the air again.

  Lights flickered from the stage, signaling the beginning of “Shattered,” a crowd favorite. The music was electrifying. Steve and Zach high-fived each other when they passed near enough atop the crowd to touch. Even Brian Sinclair got into the spirit of their extended surf, tripling the length of his guitar solo. His fingers must be on fucking fire, Steve thought as the crowd around and beneath him screamed in excitement.

  When the song ended, Steve was passed directly toward the barrier. Several security guards assisted him to his feet in front of the stage. Several yards away, Zach was also being pulled to safety.

  “You two are completely insane,” Sed said into the mic.

  Steve lifted both arms in the air and yelled at the top of his lungs to prove him right. He was far drunker on adrenaline than on alcohol.

  “Get up here.” Sed extended a hand over the stage and helped boost him up. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Steve snatched the mic from Sed’s outstretched hand. The audience screamed and whistled, stomped and clapped. Many smartphones were out and recording the scene. He pointed at the crowd and shouted, “I can’t wait to perform for you crazy awesome motherfuckers tomorrow night! I love each and every one of you.”

  They cheered so loud that Sed covered his ears with both hands.

  “And I’m completely in love with my Red,” he said. “Do you hear me in that tent, Roux Williams? I love you!”

  Yeah, he never would have announced that to the world if he hadn’t been drunk, but he’d never spoken truer words.

  Twenty-Eight

  While Steve had been surfing the crowd, Roux had been watching it all on the big screen from just outside the signing tent. The entire time she’d held her bullet tight in one hand, one part amused, ten parts terrified that he’d be injured. When she heard his very public love confession, her heart swelled, and she cupped her hands around her mouth to yell, “I love you too, babe!” There wasn’t a chance that he heard her from that distance, but her sisters sure did.

  She was soon crushed in one of their breath-stealing group hugs. Even Iona seemed okay with how the situation was turning out. Let the world think what they would—Roux was in love, and not only did she not care who knew she’d fallen for the over-exuberant man jogging off the stage with his arm around his best friend’s neck, she hoped everyone knew.

  “You know the best part about this?” Iona asked.

  “More publicity for the band.” Azura rolled her eyes at their very predictable leader.

  Iona rolled her eyes right back at her. “No. Roux and Steve beat that stupid tabloid to the punch. So now whatever ridiculous story they come up with won’t hold water.”

  “I hope it’s already been printed, so they look like fools,” Sage said.

  Roux was still flying high from Steve’s exhibition. “Number of fucks I give about that tabloid?” She peered at their smiling faces through the circle she made with her fingers and thumb. “Zero.”

  “Back to work, ladies,” Sam said, and for the first time that evening he didn’t look pleased. “You have fans waiting to meet you.”

  There were exactly two people in front of the table, but they went inside and dutifully signed the couple’s forearms.

  “Are you the one Steve Aimes is in love with?” the woman asked as Roux signed her name in red.

  Roux smiled. “Lucky me.”

  “You do know he’s a notorious womanizer, right?”

  Always someone whose goal was to burst bubbles and rain on parades.

  “Not when he’s with the right woman,” Sage said in his defense before Roux could respond.

  “And Roux is the right woman,” Azura added, squeezing Roux’s arm.

  “All we can do is try to make it work, just like every other couple.” Roux’s smile never faltered.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” the woman said. She blew on the ink on her arm as she marched away. The man with her released an annoyed huff at her back, but followed her out of the tent.

  “You know what sucks most about talking to fans?” Iona said, leaning back in her chair and capping her marker. “That you have to be cordial even when they say stupid shit directly to your face.”

  “But ninety-nine percent of them would never be that rude,” Roux pointed out.

  The tent flap behind them burst open, and Steve appeared in the opening, looking completely untamed with his shoulder-length hair in disarray, his eyes wild, and his chest heaving.

  “Roux,” he said when his searching gaze found her.

  She stood and stepped toward him, stunned when he fell to his knees at her feet and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her belly.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  She smoothed his hair with both hands. “You didn’t?”

  “I’m drunk off my ass. I never would have done anything that goddamn stupid—”

  “Shh,” she said. “I liked it.”

  He lifted his head and gazed up at her. “You liked me making a complete fool of myself?”

  “Loved it,” she admitted, knowing she was grinning like a lunatic.

  “Told you so,” Zach said.

  “In that case . . .” He rose to his feet and turned to go. “I’m going to do it again.”

  She laughed and caught his arm, swinging him around. “Once is plenty.”

  He pulled her into his arms. He was sweaty and smelled like beer and the hands of thousands of fans, but she snuggled closer.

  “You’re sure you aren’t mad?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And your sisters?”

  “Are insanely jealous of her and happy for her at the same time,” Iona said.

  “In that case,” Steve said, scooping an arm under Roux’s legs and sweeping her up into his arms, “we have some celebrating to do.”

  Roux expected Sam to refuse to let her leave, but he watched Steve carry her out of the tent with a contemplative look on his face. The crowd near the back of the main stage area cheered and catcalled as Steve carried her away from the festivities. He was more than a little unsteady on his feet from the alcohol he’d consumed or because she was heavier than he’d anticipated. So once the cheering quieted, she asked to be set down.

  “I’m not putting you down until I can spread you out on my bed and show you how glad I am that you’re mine,” he said.

  “You’re going to carry me fifteen miles?”

  “Fifteen miles?”

  “Yeah. The hotel is fifteen miles that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction. “I think. Or maybe it’s that way.” She pointed toward what appeared to be a mostly empty campground. Few people were wandering the grounds since the headliners were performing. “Or over there?”

  “Guess I’d better call Butch,” he said.

  She laughed. “So you’re going to make him carry us fifteen miles?”

  “No, I’m going to make him pick us up in a vehicle.”

  “We could make our way to a shuttle.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “We’d have to go back through there to get behind the main stage, and then . . .”

  “I’m calling Butch.”

  He used his cellphone while continuing to hold her, but when he described their surroundings and Butch said he couldn’t get him a ride for at least half an hour, Steve had to concede defeat and set her down.

  “I should have thought this through a little better,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” Roux said. “Wildly romantic even.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “The ambiance of a roaring crowd, the smell of the porta potties and cooking grease.” She took a deep breath through her nose and wished she hadn’t. “Did you hear me yell at you when you were on stage with Sinners?”

  He cringed. “Did you tell me to shut the fuck up?”

  She shook her head. “I yelled, I love you too, babe, as loud as I could. I just wanted you to
know since everyone on the planet heard you but almost no one heard me.”

  “I hear you now,” he said, finding a dry patch of dirt to sit on. He drew her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder. In the background, the concert had faded to a subdued, rhythmic thumping, with lyrics mumbled and guitars barely audible. “I’m glad I made a fool of myself tonight,” he said, “but I am sorry I drank so much. I know you don’t like me to drink.”

  “You’re going to drink sometimes; it’s okay. There’s booze everywhere, part of the culture. I don’t expect you to abstain. I just don’t want you or anyone else to overdo it like you did last night.”

  “I know several alcoholics who manage to abstain in this environment, so there’s no excuse. I’d give drinking up for you. All you have to do is demand I stop.”

  Because she knew how much it sucked to try to live beneath ultimatums, she refused to give him one. “It’s your decision,” she said. “Not mine.”

  “But it would be easier for me to give it up if you forced me to.”

  “Do you want to give it up?”

  “I want you to be happy, to feel comfortable, to trust me.”

  She plucked at the fabric of her skirt. “I am, and I do.”

  “How can you after everything you’ve been through because of alcohol?”

  She rubbed his arm. “Alcohol might have made a horrible situation worse, but it was the alcoholic who was at fault, not the substance he abused.” It had taken her years to come to terms with that—and she still faltered at times—because it was a lot easier to blame an inanimate liquid than a loved one.

  “When we get home, will you live with me?” he asked. “I don’t care where, just . . . I don’t think I’d survive a day without you, much less weeks.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. When they were apart, she couldn’t get through ten seconds without thoughts of him circling her mind and an ache settling in her chest.

  “We’ll figure out a way to be together.” She kissed his nose. “Let’s just enjoy Europe without further complicating things. Now that we don’t have to hide anything, I can make out with you in public if the mood strikes me.”