by B. B. Miller
And then, Kennedy appears from the darkness, triggering a spike in the cheering. He confidently struts to center stage, looking like sex incarnate and triumphantly holding my scarf aloft in his clenched fist. He punches the air over his head in rapid succession, the red silk looking like a ribbon of fire in the spotlight. The crowd goes nuts, and I’m on my feet with the rest of them, cheering like crazy.
Stalking to his mic stand, he’s in complete command of the crowd. With a deliberate glance in my direction that almost stops my heart, he grins lasciviously as he carefully ties my scarf around his microphone. The women sitting next to me go wild, while a disbelieving laugh bubbles up from my throat. I can’t believe that, barely twenty minutes ago, he was inside me. The licentious thought makes my cheeks heat and my thighs clench, and I laugh again, this time in sheer delight.
A familiar driving bass guitar riff begins and the excitement increases tenfold, as the crowd recognizes one of the group’s most famous songs. Kennedy picks up his waiting guitar, slings the strap over his head, and begins belting out the lyrics.
The lights pulse and swirl, and the crowd sways and surges. Song after song, the energy never flags. If I thought I’d had a hard time fighting Kennedy’s allure before, it’s nowhere near the pull I’m fighting now. He prowls around the stage as if it’s his personal property. There are no lavish set pieces, no choreographed teams of half-clad dancers, and no showy costume changes, unless you count Sean taking his shirt off halfway through the first set. It’s sheer musical talent—genius, actually—and I can’t remember when I’ve been this captivated by a show. Or by a man.
Even when they move into a couple acoustic pieces and the pace slows, the audience remains riveted. An excited buzz rushes through the crowd when a gorgeous concert grand is illuminated on stage, and Kennedy strolls over and takes a seat.
“I realize that this isn’t part of our standard fare,” he explains in a throaty purr, giving the audience a smirk. “But I’ve recently found myself drawn more and more to my roots, so I beg your indulgence.” The buzz becomes an enthusiastic roar of approval. I’m mesmerized as Kennedy’s fingers dance over the keys, his powerful voice soaring through the air, singing about a sky full of stars.
It’s my song! Okay, not my song, but the one he sent me after I met him for the first time in San Francisco. I rub absently at the sudden ache in my chest, regret flooding me over the words I’d hurled at him then. The music surrounds me, filling me with a deep longing that I can’t explain. Then he looks up from the keys—almost straight at me—and it’s as if he can feel it, too. This intense, poignant craving for something more. More than lust, more than a physical connection. A craving for the kind of security, confidence, and serenity that only comes with the absolute knowledge that someone would be there to catch me, who would never let me fall, and who would keep me, and my heart, safe.
I suck in a ragged breath, shaken by the intensity of my emotions. Sinking back into my seat, I’m almost relieved when the band resumes its hard-driving electric rhythms, exhorting the crowd to join in. Don’t get carried away, Abby. It’s just a beautiful song, not a personal manifesto. Keep it light and fun.
Enjoy the moment. Right.
Equilibrium restored, I stand and let myself go. I am one with the crowd as I clap, sing, and stomp my way through the rest of the show and two encores. It’s one of those perfect moments where the artists and the audience are in sync, feeding off each other’s energy, and urging each other on. When the lights finally come up, I feel drained, but elated. I can’t wait to see Kennedy—all I want is to throw my arms around him and never let go. And for once, I’m not questioning it.
Kennedy
I’M BLINDED BY another series of flashes as we pose for more photos in the green room. Mayhem is a good word to describe the circus that greeted us once Tucker led us through the winding hallways to the interview space.
Our latest album blares through the speakers as I scan the undulating line of fans with VIP passes that wind through the room, snaking into the hallway.
These meet-and-greets are grueling, particularly this one where I’m amped up more than normal with just the thought of Abby waiting for me. Still, there is a science to it all, according to Brodie. Try not to get into an actual conversation with anyone; you’ll end up off schedule. Sign whatever is put in front of you, and always agree to the photo. There’s no such thing as too much publicity in Brodie’s world.
There’s a difference however, between real fans, die-hards like the ones I’m currently taking a picture with, and the women dressed in next to nothing who just want a chance to fuck a rock star.
There’s way too much skin showing in the next group. Tight, fake leather scraps of material and sky-high stilettos make up the groupie Fashion 101. I wouldn’t have cared about it, in fact, I would have welcomed it in the not-too-distant past, but everything is different now.
Brodie shoots me a grin as he ushers forward the giggling pair of women as if they’re some prize he’s personally handpicked for us. The leer he offers them doesn’t escape me. Tucker looks on, menacing and steadfast as ever. If given the opportunity, I think he’d love to take Brodie down.
There’s something simmering just under the surface between Brodie and I that I don’t like. We’ve managed to keep a lid on it, but I have a feeling it won’t be long until it boils over. With a smirk in my direction, Brodie turns back to the crowd, disappearing into the fold.
“I got a special pass,” the vapid dyed-blonde wearing way too much makeup breathes against my ear. She reeks of cheap perfume and desperation. She swings the Redfall lanyard around her neck, waving the gold pass in front of my face.
“Did you, now? Lucky you.”
“You were brilliant!” she squeals, practically vibrating beside me. “That last song was amazing,” her tag-along friend chimes in, and while I appreciate her purchasing one of our concert tanks, I think this one came from the children’s section.
“It’s a classic.”
“I love when you play your new songs just for us. You know, like before anyone else hears them.” She bats her eyes at me, pushing her tits forward and pressing against my arm. I take a step back.
“It’s not a new song.” I wait for some glimmer of recognition of the ‘Live and Let Die’ cover we did, but she looks at me like I have six heads. “Never mind.”
Cam slides in beside her, casting his gaze down her outfit, lingering over her too-tight top. “Did you have something you wanted us to sign, sweetheart?” he croons.
She giggles, sticking her chest out, pointing to her tits.
“Maybe something that will last longer?” I suggest.
Cam snorts, uncapping his marker, and scrawling his signature across the ample swell of her left breast.
“Did you get a picture of that?” she shrieks at her blond partner in crime.
The blonde titters a response. “It looks so good!” She feels the need to tug the fabric of the tank away from her chest, revealing a black push-up bra.
I shake my head, looking away as Cameron grins at me. “You know what else would look good?” He slides his hand down her back. “You on top of me.” Her eyes widen to about the size of dinner plates, and she nods so fast I think she might do some damage.
“Can Jade come?” the brunette blinks up at Cam in an attempt to appear innocent. I wonder how many times they’ve done this. It’s probably not a question I want to explore too much. Hits a little too close to home. “Sweetheart, I thought you’d never ask.” Cam slides his arm around her waist, and she melts into his side.
A round of squeals just about does my eardrums in, and the blonde, Jade, tugs on my arm. “Come on, handsome.”
“Nah, I’m good. I have a few more people to see. But you go have fun.” She’s disappointed for about a nanosecond, and then Cam pulls her against his other side, aiming a smirk in my direction.
“You’re missing out, man.”
“I’m not missing a damn thing
.”
Tucker’s arms have taken a beating getting us through the worst of the crowd. Arms flailing, ear-shattering screams, hands reaching out to grab at my T-shirt. It reminds me of the outdoor concert we played in Minnesota after our first Grammy win. Sheer insanity that only serves to fuel my amped-up state.
The anticipation of seeing Abby again is tangible. The way she looked at me during our last set is burned in my memory. Desire, hot and thick, but something deeper too. Something I never really thought I’d find. It feels like she truly cares about me, that we’re connected. That this isn’t just some fling with a rock star she wants to get out of her system. I need to keep reminding myself to take it slow. Someone like Abby can’t and shouldn’t be rushed, and I intend on savoring every single minute I get with her.
“Thanks, man,” I say once we’re clear of the crowd, and winding down a back hallway.
“These Brits are a rowdy bunch tonight.” He laughs, slowing the pace slightly, checking over his shoulder once more. “Looks like we’re clear.”
The sound of footfalls echoing ahead wipes the grin off his face quickly, and he immediately resumes the all-consuming, protective gait I’m used to. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath as Colin comes into view.
My stomach takes an immediate dive when I don’t see Abby with him. I feel my jaw clench. “Why aren’t you with her?” Tucker asks, his voice edgy.
“Brodie said you wanted help with the crowd,” Colin explains hesitantly. “I tried to get you.” He motions to his earpiece. “I think we’re in a dead zone.”
“You were told to stay with her,” Tucker grinds out.
“He said you needed me. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest of the explanation. Panic has set in, washing over me and igniting something dangerously raw. I trust Brodie about as far as I can throw him right now. Fuck knows what bullshit he’ll try to fill her head with. With a muttered, “Fuck,” I bolt down the hallway, hearing Tucker following on my heels.
“Kennedy, wait!” I feel Tucker fist my shirt, tugging me from the door. “Brodie’s an idiot, but he’d never—”
“Take a step back.” Even through the door, I can hear the disdain in Abby’s voice. It chills me to the bone, and I’m reminded of our first meeting at the Fairmont. Tucker frowns, glancing at Colin, his expression grim.
I try the door, meeting resistance, and slam my fist against the surface over and over. “Open up, Brodie!” Tucker moves in front of me and twists the handle. “Why is the fucking door locked?”
“You really think he gives a shit about you?” Brodie’s voice is loud and laced with irritation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s high already, jacked up on some lethal cocktail.
In a blur, Tucker is shouldering his sheer muscle into the door with brute force. The man is a machine, bursting into the room; the door swings open, and I take a step around him, autopilot engaged, my one and only thought to get to her.
I scan the room, frantically seeking them out, until my eyes land on Abby, backed up against the counter in front of the mirror and staring Brodie down in defiance. His hand is wrapped firmly around her arm in a way that can only be aggressive, and that’s all I need to see. I’m launching across the room, both hands gripping his shoulders, hauling him away from her.
“You son of a bitch.” I slam him against a nearby table, sending the glasses that line it shattering across the surface and down to the floor. Brodie’s back hits the table, a rough grunt escaping him as he takes a swing at me, his fist landing squarely on my chin.
The table buckles under the force of our impact, and we crash to the floor as pain radiates against my jaw, blurring my vision slightly, but it only serves to spur me on. I’m firing on instinct alone, sheer protective mode the likes of which I’ve never experienced before driving me forward.
“Kennedy, no!” Through the haze of rage, I register Tucker’s booming voice from across the room, but it’s too late. I’m past the point of no return, my fist pounding against Brodie’s face over and over until blood oozes between my fingers.
“Your hand . . . Tucker stop him!” I blink at the sound of sheer terror in Abby’s voice, and Brodie seizes the moment of hesitation, pushing his arm up in an attempt to block his face. A cut splits open above his bloodshot, sunken right eye, the distinct scent of whiskey heavy through his ragged breaths.
With a sneer, and powered by his own rage, Brodie juts his arm forward, his hand clawing at my throat before Tucker’s muscular arm drives between us. With my chest heaving, I push back as Brodie closes his hand around a stray shard of glass. “Don’t even think about it,” Tucker hisses, lifting me away as Colin heaves Brodie up from the floor and wrenches his arms behind his back.
The glass in his hand falls to the floor. His face is blotchy red with blood dripping from his temple, the coppery scent lingering in the air. I open and close my hand, aware of the searing pain that shoots through me. “Get the fuck out.”
“This is me, man,” Brodie starts, a look of panic on his face, his nostrils flaring. “Come on . . .”
“You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.”
“Let me explain,” Brodie pants, trying to break from Colin’s firm hold. Colin, while not as big as Tucker, has the advantage here. Brodie’s not going anywhere.
“You’re fired, and if you so much as look in her direction, so help me, I’ll—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Tucker says, his voice calm as his arm tightens around my shoulder, pulling me further away from Brodie.
“You can’t fire me. I have a contract!”
“Fuck the contract!”
“She slapped me.” He lifts his chin in Abby’s direction. “Across the face,” he adds, sounding like a petulant child. I turn to take her in finally, my heart thundering as her worried gaze cuts to mine.
“He said some things . . .” Her voice shakes. “I know how to take care of myself.” Her chin juts out in defiance.
“Isn’t that interesting? I know some things too, Kennedy,” Brodie sputters, contempt dripping in his voice. “Things the media would love to get their hands on.” That smug look I’m so used to seeing makes a reappearance, and Tucker’s arms tightens around my torso as I lunge toward him.
“Don’t you dare threaten me. You have a confidentiality agreement, so try me. I’ll look forward to suing your sorry ass.”
The tension hangs thick and heavy in the air, and I see the moment Brodie knows he’s lost this round. His haggard frame sags back against Colin.
“This isn’t over,” he growls.
“Get him out of my sight.” Colin drags Brodie to the door that’s hanging off its hinges, out to the hallway.
Taking a shaky breath in, I try to get a grip as Tucker turns me around to face him. “Get him out of here. I mean it, Tucker.”
He holds my gaze, his expression worried as he nods slowly. “I’ll take care of it. You stay put until I’m back. Colin will be here.”
“Like he was supposed to be, you mean? Before he left her?” I snap.
“It’s not his fault.” Abby’s voice is quiet, but douses my anger quickly, and Tucker takes a step back, giving us some room.
I slowly step toward her, and she gently cradles my face between her hands, the soft pads of her fingers tracing my jaw. I can feel her tremble as I slide my hand down her back, resting my forehead to hers.
“I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry.” I lean into her touch, closing my eyes, the blood still rushing violently in my veins.
“It’s not your fault either,” she whispers. “Don’t blame yourself. Please.”
The look of worry and fear in her eyes when I lean back just about brings me to my knees. “Did he . . .” I can barely handle the thought of something happening to her. “Did he hurt you?” I finally manage.
She shakes her head. “No.” Gently, I press my lips to her forehead.
“Did you really slap him across the face?”
&nb
sp; She lets out a half-laugh. “I really did.”
“Badass.” She offers me a hint of smile, shaking her head.
I ignore the steady throb in my knuckles. She lifts my bloody hand. “We need to get you to a hospital. It might be broken,” she says softly.
I shake my head, my free hand pressing her against me, needing to feel she’s safe. “It’s not. I’m fine.”
“When did you become a doctor, hmm?” She leans back with a forced grin.
She’s putting on a good front for my benefit, but I can see right through her. “Please tell me, you’re okay. No bullshit.”
Her eyes search mine and gloss over with unshed tears. “He scared me, but I’m okay, really.”
“I could kill him for touching you like that.”
She places her fingers over my lips. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”
“If I had just . . .” Her fingers press harder over my lips.
“Don’t go there either. If I had just done this or I should have done that. Believe me; it’s not going to help.”
I can see the torment as she lightly traces the bruise on my jaw. “This brought it all back, didn’t it? What happened with your ex?”
Her eyes widen at my question, her lips parting slightly. “Let’s just get out of here. I want to take care of you.”
Right now, that’s all I want her to do.
Abigail
“Fuck! Watch it, will you?”
With a soft sigh, I watch the doctor gingerly examine Kennedy’s hand. Tucker made a call on our way back to the Corinthia Hotel, and the bespeckled gentleman met us here. He’d first cleaned the scraped knuckles and rinsed the blood off, and was now gently probing and flexing those long, talented fingers that I love. Although Kennedy winces several times, the doctor seems satisfied.