“I don’t have it.” The guy sat up to kneeling and shook out his hands. “Gave it to some other dude.”
Fuck. This had been coordinated.
The venue security guards looked confused.
“To who?” Adrian asked. Standing there, uphill from the ring snatcher, he looked like the broad, intimidatingly big guy he was.
The thief shook his head. “Called himself Stan, but that can’t be a real name, can it?” Dude spread his hands out. “Said he collected souvenirs from stars. Shit they leave around. Paid me to stand in the line and snatch something of that chick’s. Anything she left unguarded.”
“You’re not even a fan.” Adrian raked his hand through his hair and looked at the venue security people. “You ever hear of anything like that before?”
One of them, a woman, shrugged. “People try to steal shit from the bands, sure. But they’re usually super-collectors or overenthusiastic fans.” She rubbed her chin and looked at the thief. “Not some random guy.”
“Tell me about this Stan.” David folded his hands over his chest. But it was too late, because from the entrance strolled in two uniformed police officers.
Dude saw them and shook his head. “I didn’t do a damn thing. I don’t have anything. You can’t keep me.”
He was, as it turned out, right about that. Once the cops took over, the thief clammed up. Even though plenty of people saw the ring being snatched and could point at the dude as the perpetrator, the actual cost of the ring was minimal. Maybe thirty bucks, if that. Petty theft, if Mish wanted to press charges. The guy got a ride to the station from the cops for the night.
No more about Stan, the man who’d bought the guy’s services. And no ring to return to Mish.
Fucking shit.
And now that the cops were here, that meant a mountain of paperwork. Going over the event only drove home how David had screwed up, how much he should have seen and didn’t. The man’s nervousness, the way he didn’t fit into the scene. Everything.
This was the first concert and he’d been too damn wrapped up with the client, too willing to be her friend and fall into this group of wonderfully supportive queer people. He longed for community, and they’d sucked him right in where he didn’t—shouldn’t belong.
That was bad for business. They weren’t his friends, they were his job, and the sooner he got that through his head, the better for all of them.
* * *
The tale of the ring snatching must have been passed down the line or over social media, because by the time the signing was over, Mish’s insides were scrambled, her mind a mess, her eyes way the fuck too wet—and she had a pile of beautiful rings of all sizes, shapes, and materials from so many fans, she couldn’t keep count.
One of the crew collected them up. “We’ll take care of these.”
It was Zavier who touched her shoulder and helped her out of her chair—she hated how much her legs shook. “I need a fucking drink,” she said.
“I think we all do. Let’s get on the bus and I’ll get you a glass of wine,” Zavier said. He fell in step next to her.
“Fucking want something stronger.” Because she would not break down, not at the loss, not at the incredible generosity of their fans. Even though it hurt and hurt and hurt and all she wanted to do was rage and scream and let the tears fall.
“I’ll find something stronger,” Zavier said.
The trip to the bus was a blur, but true to Zavier’s word, he brought her something other than wine. Into her hand, he placed a white Twisted Wishes coffee mug with at least an inch and a half of amber liquid that smelled gloriously like the lack of regret with a hint of oblivion.
She blinked down at it. “It’s the color of Ray’s eyes.”
Zavier huffed a laugh and did something so uncharacteristic that it froze Mish into place: he kissed her on the forehead. When she met his gaze, his smile was full of depth and affection. “We care for you, too, Mish.”
Fucking Zav was gonna make her cry, that asshole. She took a sip of the booze—bourbon, it turned out—and let the warmth slide down her throat. Zavier fell onto the couch across from her, next to Ray.
Tears still pricked at Mish’s eyes, but they were contained. “Adrian back yet?”
Dom answered. “No. There was some paperwork to do with the police.” He stood close to the bus entrance, clutching his phone, still in most of his makeup and leather, though he had thrown a clean geeky T-shirt on.
She had no idea what that meant—not in terms of catching the guy or finding her ring. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”
Dom turned his phone over in his hand. “They caught the guy, but he didn’t have the ring anymore. Said he give it to another dude.”
Her stalker. So he was here. Mish shuddered and took another swig from the mug.
Ray’s question was soft. “What can we do to help?”
God bless that boy. He always tried to protect them. Lead them. Take the brunt of whatever the world threw at them. Ray Van Zeller was their soul and their heart, and tried to be their shield. His bourbon-colored eyes were intent and open, staring back at her.
Her shoulder finally unlocked, the booze doing what it did best—making her not hurt for a little while. “Kiddo, you’re already doing it.” The tears she despised suddenly were there and she shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Shit.”
Ray moved in an instant, taking the mug from her and handing it off before he pulled her into his arms.
That was the end of every effort to not let the pain, hurt, and rage bubble to the surface. ’Cause Ray Van Zeller held her tight and said nothing as she buried her face into his shoulder and let the tears and the sobs go.
She hated crying, but if she had to do it anywhere—here with her family was the safest place. And maybe, just maybe, she could let them take care of her tonight.
* * *
Once David and Adrian had finally finished with the police, the venue was calm and quiet, with only the cleaning staff and security left in the public areas. On the walk back to the tour buses, David raked both hands through his hair, recalling the evening and every wrong move he’d made, every thought and action that had led to failure.
Beside him Adrian let out a long breath. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
David glanced over to find Adrian regarding him. “Do what?”
That got him an eye-roll. “Beat yourself up because you didn’t see that fucker coming,” Adrian said. “No one did.”
“I’m not no one. I’m trained. I’m usually careful, and yes, I should have picked him out as a threat before he got close to Mish.” Sharp, angry words.
Adrian grunted. “The fans are always agitated in the signing line. He could have been perfectly fine. It’s not your fault.”
David came to an abrupt halt and Adrian followed suit, staring back at him.
“It is my fault,” David said, wrapping each word in disgust. “I fucking failed at my job.”
In reality, Ray should fire him. Or he should resign. But that would leave Mish even more exposed, and fuck it all, he wouldn’t do that to her.
Adrian closed the distance between them to less than shouting length. “David—”
“Adrian.” David’s jaw tightened, but he worked hard to keep from grinding out each syllable. “I’m the professional here. I know when I fail.”
Rather than be defensive, Adrian sighed. “Look, I get that it feels that way—”
“It is that way,” David snapped.
Adrian held up his hands. “But I know the band. I know them. No one is going to blame you for not spotting that guy.”
God, these people. “You don’t get it. In this, I don’t care what you—what the band thinks. I know the mistakes I made.” Got too close, too fast, which led to distraction. That would change. It had to.
Adrian looked like
he was fishing around for words. “I can’t stop you from taking the blame. I get that you think you should have caught that guy. That’s not the important bit.”
“Not doing my job isn’t the important bit? Jesus Christ.” David stomped away. The sooner he got back on the crew bus, the sooner he could get his head on straight.
Adrian and his fucking long legs caught up with him. “The important bit is not treating Mish any differently now.”
David slowed and his heart flipped around. He had to treat Mish differently. That was exactly what he had to do. Why didn’t Adrian see that?
Adrian’s chuckle was a bitter thing. “Yes, I know it’s easier to push her—push us away. I understand the reasons behind it.”
“I have to do it to protect the band.” Protect himself, too.
“Yeah, well, here’s the thing.” Adrian’s voice took on the sharpness that David’s had. “Nothing matters more than the band. Not you, not me, despite my relationship with Dominic. The whole name of the game is to keep the band playing every night with the intensity and love that they need. It’s what they want and what the fans deserve.”
“Fuck,” David said under his breath. He saw the way Adrian’s argument was going, saw it clear as day.
“You cut Mish off now, she’ll blame herself for the whole thing, even more than she already has been.” Adrian waved at the path in front of them. “I love every single one of them, but they’re all primed to shoulder blame and misfortune onto their backs, even Zavier, and he’s level-headed.”
“That guy’s got a sore spot?”
“You wanna see Zavier flip his shit? Hurt Ray. You wanna hurt Ray? Hurt anyone else in the band.” Adrian let out a breath. “Just...don’t back away. Not like I know you want to.”
“I got distracted.” By Mish. By the band, the excitement of the concert, and the love the fans poured out onto Twisted Wishes. He wanted to be a part of that.
“You can’t see everyone in a crowd,” Adrian countered. “I mean, I was standing right by that guy and I didn’t see him, either.”
“It’s not your job.” But it was David’s. He looked up at the bus and stopped. “I don’t know if I should go in or not.”
Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, I’m kinda wondering that myself, and I’m on that bus.” He gave David’s shoulder a squeeze. “Let me see what’s going on.”
The litany of curses wound its way through David’s brain. He needed to step away at the same time the band needed him to remain exactly where he was. Adrian was right—Mish would blame herself if he gave her the cold shoulder.
His shoes crunched on the gravel as he turned to gaze back at the venue. The concert had been astounding, Mish’s singing transcendent. A wild crowd, singing and dancing to every one of Twisted Wishes’s songs—and open with who they were, too. Rainbow flags in the audience. A multitude of queer people in the crews.
He didn’t want to turn his back on that, or freeze out the people who’d made that dream come to life for so many of the fans—a dream he’d have loved to have back when he’d been younger.
He rubbed his forehead, anger finally abating. Yeah, this wasn’t going to be an easy job. Was rapidly starting to feel like more than a job, too.
Behind him the thud and crunch of gravel sounded as someone exited the bus. David turned to see Ray Van Zeller heading his direction, exhaustion draped over him like a cloak.
David swallowed. “How’s Mish?”
“Shattered. Though if you asked her, she’d say she’s fine.” Ray scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’d be tempted to believe her, if she hadn’t spent a half hour crying in my arms.”
David couldn’t help the wince or the deep, deep stab of guilt. “Sorry. This is my fault.”
“Adrian said you’d say that.” Ray waved the words away. “It’s bullshit.”
“I—” But the shrewd look he gave David stopped the words in his throat.
“The only people responsible for the theft of Mish’s ring are the guy who took it and the stalker.”
So Adrian had told them that much. “The thief said that the guy’s name was Stan, but I doubt that’s a real name, especially considering the fan meaning.” He paused. “I should have noticed the thief, though.”
Another hand wave from Ray, but no words.
“And I didn’t get her ring back.” He regretted that so much. “Police are gonna want to know if she wants to press charges against the dude who stole it.”
“She won’t want to.” Despite the large parking lot lights that illuminated the area, Ray’s eyes were weirdly shadowed and unreadable. “That’s not the part that broke her down, you know, losing the ring.” He kicked a piece of gravel and sent it flying toward the grass at the edge of the lot. “The ring was important to her, don’t get me wrong. But what tore her heart out was the fans giving her their rings. Like—she’s got dozens now. Maybe even a hundred.” He tipped his head up, and now David saw the sadness there. “We don’t deserve the fans we have,” he whispered.
“Now, that’s bullshit,” David said.
Ray huffed. “Stalemate.”
Maybe. But not really. “We should talk about all of this tomorrow, when we’re not so tired.”
Ray gripped David by both arms and gave him a little shake. “Don’t you dare think of leaving us now. You’re too important.”
“But not good enough to protect you.”
An odd smile lifted Ray’s lips for a moment before it vanished. “There’s all kinds of protection.” He let him go, then nodded. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
David could only answer one way. “Okay. Tomorrow.”
“Night, David. Try to get some sleep.”
He doubted he would, but it was a nice sentiment. “Thanks, Ray. You, too.” He turned away and headed to the crew bus, the shifting of the gravel under his feet an echo of Ray’s steps back toward the band’s bus. Where Mish was.
He shook his head and climbed onto the bus. The soft murmurs of the crew halted when he boarded, and they all looked at him.
“Hey,” he said, and slipped past the folks who hadn’t yet crawled into their berths, intent on his own.
“David.” It was Faith, and she held out a mug. “Take this.”
He did, and peered down into it—but it was the scent that gave the whiskey away. “God.” He breathed in the fumes, then swallowed a huge mouthful, both wincing at the burn and loving every painful second as the heat slid down his throat and the alcohol into his bloodstream. “Thank you.”
“No problem. You did good tonight.”
Why did everyone keep thinking that?
“I did shitty tonight.” His next swallow wasn’t quite so large. He leaned against the wall close to his berth.
“You chased down and caught that dude.”
“I should have never let him near Mish.”
Faith shrugged. “He had a wristband. Not like you could have stopped him.”
David blinked at the booze in his mug and then at Faith. “He had a wristband?”
She nodded, confusion in her eyes. “Yeah, you know. For the signing event. You had to buy them in advance, kinda like the VIP encounter—but a lot cheaper.”
Despite the alcohol seeping into his system, David’s brain processed that information. He knew the dude’s name. “Is it like with the VIP—the person who orders needs to pick up the wristband?”
“Yeah. Name on the ID needs to match.”
Maybe they could figure out who bought him the ticket. Follow the money.
David drank down the rest of the whiskey and handed the mug back to Faith. “Thank you. I needed that. And not just the booze.”
She gave him a lopsided grin. “Go to bed, hotshot. That lead will be there in the morning.”
Despite not thinking he’d be able to sleep, as soon as David’s head hit
the pillow, the warmth of the booze and the rhythmic swaying of the bus on the highway dropped him straight into darkness and oblivion.
Chapter Eight
Crusty morning eyes were the worst. Mish spent a couple of minutes lying in her berth blinking and rubbing the gunk out of her eyes so she wouldn’t look like she’d spent a good portion of the night crying into her pillow. Fucking tears. Once they started, they were so hard to turn off. Damn Ray for being so understanding and giving her the affection she needed.
She loved the man, inside and out—a brother from another mother, as the saying went.
It was early, but the others were moving around the bus, given the murmurs, the clink of ceramic, and the wonderful smell of Adrian’s coffee. When she was sure she only looked like death half warmed over and not completely, she crawled out of her berth and stumbled to the bathroom. Emotional hangovers were worse than alcoholic ones. She didn’t get drunk that often, but when she did, she could blame the nausea and headache on being foolish.
This wasn’t foolishness, but her life. Emotions she couldn’t bottle up and some dude doing what they so often did—made her life hell because they thought she was public property. Or worse, their property.
When she returned to the front of the bus, Adrian handed her a steaming hot mug of black coffee, and she could have kissed him for that. Whatever magic he wove with those beans of his, he’d taken their tour bus coffee from fine to transcendent. “Thanks.”
His smile was sleepy. “No problem.” He claimed Dom’s seat, since Dom hadn’t emerged from his berth.
Zavier and Ray were in their usual spots—opposite ends of the same bench, legs twined with each other. They had similar expressions, but it was Ray who asked the inevitable question. “How do you feel?”
Mish pursed her lips and stared into the depths of her coffee. Shaken. Unbalanced. It wasn’t a good place to be, especially since they had a concert tonight. She didn’t want to tell them that, but they’d vowed to be honest with each other.
She took a sip of coffee and sat next to Adrian. “Fragile. It’s—” She shook her head, trying to sweep the dust bunnies from her mind. “I think once we get to the next place and I can get on stage, I’ll be better.” Too much time to think on the bus.
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