by Zoey Oliver
She’s not at all what I expected—okay, so the light blonde hair was probably what I expected, but she’s got it in an understated braid draped over her shoulder. She’s cute as hell with that wide smile and big blue eyes, but there’s something sultry about her, too. The way her jeans hug her hips and those five-inch heels shape her ass so perfectly I know I’m never going to be able to forget it. She waves at the crowd, smiling big and bright, and then steps right up to me, nudging me with her shoulder.
“You ready for this?”
I swallow, my mouth dry as the Sahara in summer, but manage to nod. “You?”
Then she turns that smile on me and my knees nearly buckle. “Always.”
I’ve barely got a second to get my wits about me before she starts the band up and opens the first song with this captivating crystal-clear voice that shakes me to my core. I’m so lost wondering who the hell this girl is and how I’ve never met her that I nearly miss my cue. But I don’t, jumping in on my spot on autopilot.
Instantly, we’re harmonizing perfectly like we’ve practiced this a million times. Her clear high melodies mesh perfectly with my deeper growliness, and there’s something building in the air. I think I might be going crazy, but after the first song, I finally look out over the audience and realize, no, they feel it too. Something special is happening here with the two of us. One of those rare moments of music magic.
She looks over at me positively beaming, her face flushed in a way that makes me want to drag her backstage and do terribly dirty things to her. But I can’t think about that right now. We’ve still got another song to sing before I can totally lose my shit over this girl I’m suddenly obsessed with. I tilt my head to the side and she nods, counting off the band to start in on the second song.
It seems impossible, but the second song goes even better than the first. We’re a little more comfortable with each other’s styles and manage to pull off some awesome improvisations. I already know I have to work with this girl again. More than work with her, but I’ve gotta start somewhere.
At the end of the song, Chelsea dips back into this adorable little curtsy and without thinking, I grab her hand and lift our arms up high.
The crowd’s on their feet, a standing ovation sweeping through in a blink. But I hardly notice that because Chelsea’s hand in mine is like a hot coal, and it’s lighting a fire in me that only more of her can quench.
Chapter 2
Chelsea
After our second song together, Ian walks off stage and I’m still shaking. What was that? It definitely felt like something. I wasn’t worried about the impromptu substitution into his lineup, but I didn’t have high hopes for an unrehearsed performance either. But damn, performing with Ian was something else.
My heart’s still hammering and I can’t seem to catch my breath, my eyes still drifting toward the wings hoping to catch a glimpse of the sexy rocker. But I’ve got my own show to put on. I had a later slot in the show before Julia Venn’s unfortunate accident on the way to the theater. When Rosa threw my hat in the ring to fill in during the duets, she also angled to get me a slot right after the headliner. She’s a pretty good manager like that.
Luckily for me, the standing ovation is still going on and it gives me time to compose myself. I conjure up memories of Mariah, the reason I’m at this event tonight. Remembering the way she always lit up when I’d sing for her, even when the chemo made her so sick she could barely stay awake… Well, that’s all the motivation to focus I need. Wish Givers helped my sister when she was at her weakest and most vulnerable, and even though she’s doing so much better these days, I’ll never forget how happy their program made her. If I can do that for even just one other sick kid here tonight, then by golly, I’m going to do it. Thoughts of Ian Monroe will just have to wait.
The band waits for my signal and I tumble into the first song, singing totally by rote. The moment I start singing, thoughts of Ian come crashing back in. The way the spotlight caressed his sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw. The way his T-shirt clung to his sculpted chest and abs with the sweat of an energetic performance. It doesn’t seem fair for anyone to be that attractive. It doesn’t seem possible.
While I’m lost thinking about how much I’d like to spend more time with Ian, I manage to sing my first song, a peppy upbeat pop hybrid that was my first single to hit the top-forty charts. I could probably perform it while doing complicated math in my head, I know the lyrics and choreography so well.
For the second song, a stagehand brings out a stool and I sit in front of the mic, lowering it down to my level. The first guitar chord strums behind me and I close my eyes, grasping the microphone, trying not to think about the way Ian’s hand practically burned in mine and left it still tingling even now. The second song is as automatic as the first, and I’d feel bad, but I’m not sure anyone even notices. They’re having a great time and that’s what really matters.
Somehow, and I know it sounds crazy, the stage feels empty without Ian’s larger-than-life presence. I’m not sure how I’ve never noticed it was missing before, but now that I’ve performed with him, I feel this undeniable need to do it again.
The crowd’s cheering for me, but not as much as they cheered for us. I give them a quick bow, a big smile, and a wave as the emcee comes out and announces the next performer. The moment I’m backstage, before my eyes have even adjusted to the contrast from the bright stage lights, someone’s shoving something in my face and talking fast at me. Typical reporter move.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say over the crowd cheering for the next person on stage.
“What’s it been like working with Ian Monroe? Have you spent much time with him? Is he behaving as much as he says he is?” she fires the questions off so fast it nearly makes my head spin. I’m so caught off guard by it and I wasn’t expecting to be bombarded the moment I’m backstage. I look up over her shoulder, trying to find Rosa with my eyes. It’s her job to save me from people like this.
But I don’t spot her anywhere nearby and I know this reporter’s not going to leave me alone until I give her some kind of answer.
“You know, we haven’t spent much time together, but it’s been a joy working with him. I think the crowd really felt that tonight. Please excuse me,” I say, pushing past her as she shouts more questions at my back.
In the dressing room, I press against the door and take a deep breath. Why am I so shaken up? A good performance always leaves me a little lightheaded and dizzy, but I don’t think this is that. I think this is all Ian, and that’s freaking me out. A cute boy should not make my thoughts turn to Jell-O, and his warm hand in mine should not leave me tingling all over for this long. It had to just be the crazy nerves of the moment, of not knowing what to expect and being pleasantly surprised.
Yeah, that’s all it was. Had to be. It’s the only real explanation that makes any sense.
Relieved, I sink into the couch and start to undo the braid in my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders in soft waves.
The door opens and Rosa waltzes in without knocking or hesitating. That’s just how she is. And she’s smiling so wide I think her face might break.
“What. A. Show! Am I right? You were perfect out there!”
I shrug. I know that’s not true. Maybe Ian and I were perfect together, but my solo set? No way. It was robotic and distracted at best.
“I didn’t know any reporters had backstage passes,” I snap, my tone harsh at the memory of that woman with her recorder shoved in my face. Is it so hard to say, “Miss Garten, can I ask you a few questions?” It just rubs me the wrong way.
Rosa frowns. I rarely go all pop-star diva on her, so if I’m complaining about something, she generally takes note. “There’s only one that I know of. But she’s writing a piece on Ian so I didn’t think… Oh, of course,” she says, shaking her head. “I should have realized she’d want to talk to you after we changed the lineup.”
“I don’t mind answering questions, but I didn’t a
ppreciate the ambush,” I say, sounding almost petulant even to myself. Am I really mad about the reporter, or about the way my body reacted to Ian?
“I’ll talk to her,” Rosa says. “But don’t worry about that right now; the audience is clamoring for an encore! They want to see the two of you together again!”
A frown turns my lips down and I hesitate. “Rosa… We’re lucky it went as well as it did without any practice. Going out there again seems like pushing it.”
Rosa grabs my hand and starts trying to pull me to my feet. “Nonsense. You were perfect and the audience loved you. You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”
I sigh, thinking about Mariah in her hospital bed smiling in her sleep as I played my guitar. “No,” I mumble, annoyed that she’s won again. Rosa always seems to win. But I guess that’s what managers do.
“That’s my girl!” she says cheerily. “Come on, no time to waste. Ian’s waiting for you!”
That’s enough to make my stomach somersault. The thought of him waiting in the wings for me makes my heart race, and I can’t help but wonder if he’d take my hand again as we walked out on stage.
Keep it together, Chelsea.
Maybe it won’t be like it was. Maybe I won’t feel anything at all when I see him, and singing with him won’t feel like magic. If it was really just nerves and being pleasantly surprised, then this time I shouldn’t feel anything.
As much as I tell that to myself for reassurance, it actually makes me feel a little deflated. The feeling I got performing with Ian earlier was unlike anything else I’d ever experienced, and thinking that it might not happen again was worse than thinking it would.
By the time Rosa drags me to the stage, Ian’s already out there talking to the crowd. He’s singled out one little girl in the front row and she’s telling him how much she loves ponies when Rosa shoves me out of the wings.
The crowd instantly reacts and Ian flashes me a grin that turns my legs to jelly. “There she is! Come on everyone, let’s give a big round of applause for Chelsea Garten.”
My face warms up and I’m glad I’ve always got a pound of makeup on for the stage or everyone would know that Ian Monroe just made me blush.
He hands me the other mic on stage and I smile at the crowd, switching into performer mode without thinking about it. “Well, I hope you weren’t waiting for me too long,” I tease.
“You’re worth the wait,” Ian says, sending me a wink. Does he know he’s making my stomach tie itself in knots? If he does, that wink was just plain cruel.
“Well aren’t you the charmer,” I say, playing into the flirtatious banter. The crowd’s eating it up and I know how to take a cue. I’ve been on stage most of my life and being a little flustered isn’t going to negate all of that.
“I try,” Ian says with a chuckle. “But it’s hard when a pretty girl leaves you tongue-tied.”
I roll my eyes, making sure I exaggerate it for the audience, even though it’s a genuine reaction.
“Well, I’m pretty sure these folks out here wanted another song, didn’t they?”
The crowd roars in response to my question and Ian actually manages to look sheepish when he turns his attention to them.
“Thing is, we didn’t really prepare anything for this,” he says. “And I’m embarrassed to say it, but I don’t know any of your songs.”
As humble as I try to stay, I’m legitimately surprised Ian doesn’t know any of my songs. I’ve been on and off the Billboard charts for nearly a decade. What musician is that oblivious? But I’m not going to take it personally, and I chastise myself for even being upset about it for a moment. I am not the “do you have any idea who I am” girl.
“That’s all right, Ian. I don’t know many of yours, either.”
I watch the same emotions I just felt flicker through his eyes and feel an unwarranted thrill of satisfaction. Yeah, two can play that fame game, buddy.
“Do you know any country?” I ask him, already knowing the answer. He pulls a face and the crowd laughs.
“Do you know any rock?”
I grin, holding in a laugh. Is this guy for real? Half of country music these days is influenced by rock. And people in our genre don’t have those stuck-up notions of being “too good” to like rock. Rockers almost never listen to country.
“You know what, I think I know the song,” I say, gesturing toward the wings. A stagehand springs into action and runs out on stage with my guitar. Ian’s eyes go wide and I shake my head at him, chuckling softly. He probably thought I was some glorified pop singer that can’t play an instrument. Joke’s on him; I can play two. Three if you count tambourine.
He jerks his head to someone in the opposite wing and another stagehand runs out with his guitar. They couldn’t be more different; mine light and acoustic with pastel flowers painted on the body, his is electric and black as night. The stagehand runs out again with an amp cord and then Ian looks to me.
I start strumming the song. I know he’ll know it. Everyone knows it. One of those songs that somehow gets played at just about every bar and every sporting event I’ve ever been to. I hit the third chord and Ian jumps in, grinning at me like a loon.
And then we’re singing and playing and everything in the world slips into the background until it’s just the two of us, the music we’re pouring from our souls, and the unbearable heat sizzling between us.
Yeah, my reaction to him the first time clearly wasn’t a fluke.
All too soon the song’s over and the crowd is pin-drop silent. For a heartbeat I almost think we somehow bombed by the stunned hush, but then the theater erupts and relief washes through me.
“Thank you,” we both say in unison, bowing to the cheering crowd. He smiles at me, but I don’t return it before darting off backstage and handing my guitar to some faceless person. The things I’m feeling about him are unsettling. I don’t even know him! It’s just the rush of a good show, the pull of a magnetic rockstar personality.
I may not know Ian Monroe, but I know of him. I know a little bit about him, but before I can stop myself, I’ve dug out my cell phone and Googled him.
My stomach plummets through the floor.
Ian Monroe to Visit Rehab After Bandmate’s Close Call
Ian Monroe on Cleaning Up His Image
Ian Monroe Says He’s Clean, but Friends Say He’s Back to His Partying Ways
I turn the screen off and lay my phone on the vanity facedown. It doesn’t stop the headlines from racing through my head. I knew his name stuck with me for some reason, and that was it. He’s an addict.
Some people might say “former” addict, but I know the truth. There’s no such thing as a former addict. Once an addict, always an addict. I learned that the hard way with Eric and it nearly broke me.
Ian Monroe is pure trouble and it’s for the best that I probably won’t ever see him again after tonight, even if it does make something deep down inside of me ache. Onstage chemistry is no replacement for self-control and stability. A man like that is only going to rip my life apart and I don’t need that. Not at this point in my career.
Maybe if things were different, if our lives had gone different ways, I might go poking around backstage to find him, to tell him I want to sing with him again more than I want to wake up tomorrow, but I don’t do that. I just pack up my stuff, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out to the tour bus without seeing anyone on the way. I text Rosa to let her know where I’m at, and then I turn my phone off before I’m tempted to do more Googling.
Chapter 3
Ian
Ever since the Wish Givers’ show the press has been nuts. Apparently, Chelsea and I were more of a hit than I even realized. I knew when I was up on that stage with her that something special was happening with the two of us, but I never expected this much attention. Especially since I never got a chance to talk to her after the show.
Sure, I’d wandered around the theater like a lost puppy dog looking for her, desperate to catch another
glimpse of that smile after our encore, but she was nowhere to be found. I was left with this empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m only now realizing that there’s always been something missing, because when I sang with her, I felt whole.
That might sound crazy, but we musicians are a passionate bunch, and when we find something we truly want, we don’t rest until we’ve got it. I’d asked Merrill about getting in contact with her people, but he brushed me off, saying he was too busy dealing with the record label. Whatever that meant.
The record label’s been up my ass for a couple of years now for not putting anything new out. In the five years since I got clean, I’ve produced one new album—and it didn’t go over well. Fans didn’t like the new sound, critics theorized that maybe the drugs were the key to my success—and believe me, that kind of comment in Rolling Stone is enough to make anyone reconsider picking up the needle. But I never did, and I won’t.
Still, I can’t help but think that Chelsea Garten is the key to my career’s resuscitation. Her sweet melodies are still in my ears days later. Though that might be because I keep rewatching the YouTube video of our performance. Our little encore banter, the flirtatiousness in her eyes, and I know it’s all just for show. I know the way she sizes me up in that video is for the audience’s benefit, but it still makes my cock hard every time I watch it.
This is fucked. I know I can’t just sit at home pining over something that’s never going to happen again. Whatever magic happened that night was a one-time thing and I just need to accept it. But a junkie can never quit at one hit and I need more. More of her. More of us.
I growl at the screen and toss the phone across the couch, raking my hand over my face like I can erase her memory as easily as cleaning a whiteboard. It’s useless and I know it is.
Just to taunt me the phone starts vibrating, and I lunge across the couch to snatch it up. I don’t know what I’m hoping for, but it isn’t Merrill, even though that’s what I get.