David prowled around the concert venue, passing each entrance, each pathway that led anywhere, and inspected them all. He had time—a couple of hours. Sure, there’d be the VIP event, but he’d already checked out that area thoroughly.
He’d also inspected backstage and grilled the head of venue security. Marcella had been there, and between the two of them, they’d imparted how tight security needed to be tonight.
And it was, too. Thank god. Venue security had shooed away the groupies. There’d been a few people who’d tried to sneak in, but they’d all been caught quickly. He should have been able to relax.
He couldn’t. Not after watching Mish run through her emotions that morning, not after the fans and then the way the band came together. They would shake this venue down tonight. Give their fans one to remember. All of them were pumped and raring to go.
It was an infinitely better use for their energy than anger. That emotion had run through them all. It still flowed through David, which in turn made him both sloppy and sharp. Stomping around the venue was also about clearing his mind, letting go of the worry and fear for Mish. He doubted the stalker would strike again today—he’d want to see Mish’s response first—but they couldn’t let down their guard.
David wanted this concert to be a success. While he could be strength and support for Mish, right now Twisted Wishes needed each other. Even Adrian was letting the band hole up in their greenroom.
So of course David ran into that reporter again. No idea how she’d gotten early access to the venue, but it didn’t matter, since she was wearing the paper wristband that marked her as someone allowed in before the official gate opening time.
Fuck.
He veered away, but she caught up with him easily. “Mr. Altet!”
He kept the sigh inside, slowed and turned. “Ms.... It is Ms., yes?”
That question brought her up short. “Well, yes. What else would it be?” She paused. “I suppose Mrs.”
He shrugged, glad to have the upper hand. “Could be Mx. if you’re non-binary. Or Mr.”
Her mouth hung open for a moment. “That’s true.” Her gaze turned inward for a moment. “Thank you for asking, but it is Ms.”
“All right. Then what can I do for you, Ms. Heydel?
The whole exchange about honorifics seemed to have taken the wind from her sails. She studied him. “Still security for Twisted Wishes? After those photos of you and Mish?”
“Still security, yes.” He paused. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Maybe the key to throwing reporters off was asking his own questions.
“I mean, you and Mish seem to be much closer.”
He gave another shrug. “I’m not going to comment, you know that.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then tell me this, does Mish Sullivan have a stalker? Was that why you were hired?”
Oh, the effort to keep his face schooled and his hands still. At least he had his sunglasses on this time. “I’m not commenting on that, either.”
Marcella wanted to put out some kind of statement. Mish had vetoed that. They still hadn’t come to a consensus on how to handle the situation from a PR perspective, and probably wouldn’t until after this concert. There’d be time on the drive to Boston, but not before.
“I don’t think you have to,” Heydel said. “It’s obvious you’re here for her, and not the rest of the band. I’m just wondering how professional it is for a security guard to be sleeping with his charge.”
David tensed, then cursed inwardly. This time he didn’t hide his exasperation. “I really don’t have time for this nonsense, Ms. Heydel. I hope you enjoy the show.” He turned on his heels and strode down the pavilion, toward the stage where the techs for Two Times Strong were setting up for their sound check.
He could at least inspect the pit and the space between it and the stage. He ignored the fact that Heydel was entirely correct—it wasn’t professional to be sleeping with Mish. Getting close—being her boyfriend.
By the time he’d surveyed the pit, Heydel was nowhere to be found. “Shit,” he muttered, and headed backstage to find Marcella.
He found her with Adrian in a room adjacent the one the band had retreated into. When he relayed the conversation he’d had with Heydel, Marcella patted his arm. “We’ll work out a statement. Don’t let her get to you.”
“Also,” Adrian said, “general consensus is that you’re smoking hot and the only bad thing about you dating Mish is that it means you’re off the market.”
Embarrassment wove through David. “Smoking hot?”
“Mmmhmm.” Adrian flipped through his phone, then held it out to him. On it was a photo of him from their evening outing.
He looked like a movie star. Or rock star. “This is—Well, shit.”
“Yeah, I know,” Adrian said. “I’m not used to it, to be honest.” His shoulders dropped. “I mean, I’m a nerd at heart, but everyone treats me like some kind of heartthrob.”
“You guys need to fucking look at yourselves in the mirror sometime.” Marcella went back to scrolling through her own phone.
David bit back his reply, because it sounded suspiciously like something Adrian might dissemble—which proved both their points. So he shifted gears. “Band doing all right?”
“Oh yeah.” Adrian tucked his phone away. “They’re a bunch of little matches next to a can of kerosene, just waiting to burst into flame.”
David laughed from the absurdity and accuracy of that image. “Well, I suppose that’s good.”
“As long as they don’t burn anything down for real, or burn themselves out,” Marcella said.
“I don’t think they could ever burn themselves out.” Adrian looked rueful. “They’ve a ton of energy and I have a feeling they’re only starting to use it.”
Good. Something fantastic needed to come from this damn mess.
* * *
For the concert, Mish chose to wear her neon-pink fishnets again, and her short black leather skirt with a fuchsia corset and a jacket that matched the skirt. She also pulled out heels that made her two inches taller. She applied makeup that curled her toes and made her feel fantastic about herself, and added silver jewelry to remind her of the stars and her mom.
Fuck that damn man. She would dress sexy and sharp and use every ounce of that on stage. If Ray could prance around topless in leather pants that left nothing to the imagination, then she could wear her damn tights. No one got on their cases for their stage clothing choices—or lack of clothing.
Besides, she felt good in her outfits. That was the point of clothing—an expression of who you were and a way to confront the world with power and love. That’s who she’d always been on stage, both for herself and the fans.
Two Times Strong kicked ass during their performance, getting the crowd on its feet and dancing. The vibe was already incredible, but when Twisted Wishes ran out on stage, the audience erupted into sound and movement. They’d shaken up their entire concert set, this time starting off with “Your Only Shot”—a loud, hard-pumping anthem about the ecstasy of being your own person. They were all near the front of the stage, even Zavier on a set of standing drums he somehow managed to play while bouncing around nearly as much as Ray.
Mish flew across the stage, dancing, wheeling, and playing, pausing at a mic to lend her voice to Ray’s during the chorus. From that song, they slid straight into “Dreams unto You,” a fan favorite that had everyone screaming.
Outstretched hands waved at Mish as she stalked up to the edge. She glimpsed smiles, even tears from some of the folks in the front row.
It was fucking heaven, and they were only two songs in.
By the time they made it to “Finding Light,” Mish had stripped off her jacket and was flush with joy and excitement, soaking up the energy of the crowed, then throwing it right back at them.
She grinned at Ray, then unslung the bass
from her shoulder.
Oh, the confusion in the crowd, the absolute sense of anticipation, as if they were all holding their breaths.
Ray always claimed he couldn’t play their instruments, which wasn’t true. He’d taught himself over time. He wasn’t quite as good at their parts as they were or as versed. But he could play pretty darn well if he needed to.
And tonight, he’d need to, at least for this one. They’d decided during the bus ride that Ray and Mish would switch places.
When she handed off her bass to Ray, she leveled a look at him. “You take good care of her, kiddo.”
Ray laughed. “If I don’t, have Zav beat me later.”
There wasn’t any time for a snappy comeback. The audience reaction overwhelmed them, even through their ear protection.
In theory, he should’ve had his own bass, but part of the exchange was theatrics. Thankfully, he could play hers comfortably without adjusting the strap, making the switch easy. The techs had just about had a heart attack when they’d popped the idea on them. But they were rolling with it.
Mish strode up to Ray’s mic stand, claimed the microphone, and spoke. “Hey, Boston. How you all doing out there?”
God, she felt the response vibrate through her. “We figured since I’ve been singing on this tour, it’s only fair to give Ray a shot at bass. You think he’s up for it?”
More shouts. Ray bounced on his toes and gave a shrug. But his fingers picked out a few chords expertly—and the bass was still in tune.
Good. “Yeah, I think he is, too. So here we go.”
Zavier led into the song, and they were off. When the bass line came in, Mish’s head spun, even as her hands twitched—one on the mic and the other at her side—with the need to play. The notes weren’t hers. They didn’t sound like hers, which she’d expected but hadn’t been prepared for. She glanced over at Ray, and while he was moving with the beat, he was focused inward, his fingers flying like hers usually did.
A moment later, she was belting out lyrics, this time entirely by herself. Even when the chorus came around, Ray stayed off the mic. His grin was tremendous, though, and she sang a few words to him before leaping down the stage to serenade the left side of the pit, then back up. She waved out at everyone she couldn’t see through the stage lighting.
Domino took over with his guitar solo, playing near Ray, and god, that was amazing to see. Those two best friends, grinning like only the music existed and they were back in high school. Then Zavier’s drumming picked up and rolled over them all. Ray closed his eyes in ecstasy while Domino yelled and ran up onto Zav’s kit, hovered there for a moment before leaping off to the right side of the stage.
Mish put the mic up again and sang her soul out. When they finally struck the last chords of the song, the applause and screams went straight to her heart. Everything felt light and magical and her eyes misted.
She looked out over the crowd. “Thank you all! Do you think Ray did a good job?”
Of course, they approved. He’d played well. Maybe with less flourish than she did, but Ray was a fucking genius, so everything he touched turned to gold.
Ray strode up to her mic, the one she used to sing backup vocals, and winked at her. “Totally not as good as you play,” he said. “But I think you’re gonna give me a run for my money singing.” He turned to the audience. “What do you think? Should we write a song together?”
The fans reacted as if Ray had asked each and every one of them to marry him. The response was furious, and she felt the stage vibrating.
“Well, okay then!” His smile was a million dollars.
“I can’t fucking wait.” She said it to Ray more than the crowd, but it didn’t matter. They were all there. Zavier laughed and Dom pirouetted, which was pretty impressive for someone in the boots he wore. Mish set the mic back in its stand, then claimed her bass from Ray.
“You were incredible.” Unvarnished, open truth in his face. “Seriously. You could head your own band.”
“I don’t want to be anywhere but here with you guys.” She set the strap of her bass back on her shoulder. “You know that!”
Ray grinned. “We’re fucking lucky to have you.” He waved at the bass. “You make that sing as gloriously as you do.” With that, he turned and snagged a water bottle from the side of Zavier’s kit, then bounced up to his mic. She grabbed a bottle, too, and downed half of it before setting it by her mic stand. She checked her chords, caught Domino’s eye, and they made sure they were still tuned. Then, with the tapping of Zav’s sticks, they were into another song.
Mish danced across the stage, playing with the band she loved more than anything else. This was her home.
By the end of the show, she was soaked with sweat and absolutely flying high. They’d done exactly what they’d set out to do. During the bows at the end, she tossed her guitar pick to a young woman in the front row, who burst into tears when she caught it.
There were tears in Mish’s eyes, too, and for once, she wasn’t that bothered by them.
Chapter Sixteen
After the show, in the chaos of cleaning up and changing for fan signing, David found himself grabbed by a sweaty, beaming Mish. She pulled him to her and claimed a kiss that nearly had him on his knees. “Ride with us tonight,” she murmured. “Please. I need you there.”
He hadn’t been planning to. He’d traveled from the hotel to the venue with the band, but despite what she’d said when they’d been in bed together, he wasn’t sure that was the right move, especially after his run-in with the reporter. But with Mish kissing him like that, and her breathless plea, he would be on that bus. “Sure.”
She stole another kiss, then sprinted off to change. He found Marcella and let her know about the travel plans. Oh, the twitch of her lips when she tried not to smile. “I figured that would happen.”
David could only rub his forehead. “Should I? I mean, there’s a world of trouble lurking there.”
Marcella sighed in an exaggerated way. “David. Go get your damn bag from the crew bus and put it on the band bus. Mish and the guys are safe and sound, but they need to clean up enough not to kill their fans with body odor.”
He nearly choked on his laugh, then he went. Most of the crew was breaking down the sets and loading the truck, but a couple of folks were hauling instruments to the buses. “Hey, I’m heading that way, too. Need an extra set of hands?”
Travis nodded and handed him two guitar cases. “Those are Domino’s. Don’t drop them, and follow me.”
He did as instructed, and Travis stowed them in the crew bus. “They don’t ride with their instruments?”
“Nah. Domino’s got an acoustic on the band bus. That’s what they use when they’re writing new songs. I hear Mish tends to sing the bass part, and Zavier can drum on any damn thing and make it sound sweet.” He shook his head, then eyed David. “You hooking up with Mish?”
The parking lot was bright enough David had no doubt Travis saw him blanch. “Yeah. She asked me to ride with them to Philly.”
Travis smiled and held up his fist for a bump. “Good. She needs someone to make her happy.” He paused. “And to look after her.” He waved a hand at the band bus. “She takes care of the whole damn band, you know? Those guys are like her brothers, and she’ll stand against the world for ’em.”
“It’s all pretty mutual.” David stared at the band bus.
“Still. Good that she wants you there.”
He considered that. “Does that happen a lot?”
Travis cackled. “God, no. Mish fooled around with people, don’t get me wrong. But you’re the first she’s ever asked to ride with her and the band.” He sobered. “I’ve seen her watching you, my man. There’s no mistaking that look.”
“What look?”
He shrugged. “The same look she gets every time she’s on a stage.”
Oh
shit. “I better get my bag.”
Travis nodded solemnly, then headed back toward the venue.
David bounded up the stairs of the bus, greeted the driver, threw together his bag, and headed to the other bus. That driver regarded him. “Joining us?”
“Yeah, looks like.”
She grunted as if that had been expected. Which seemed like it had, for everyone but him.
When he got back to the venue, it was time for the signing. That was a whirlwind. David stood near Mish and kept a sharp eye on the fans, but nothing bad happened—only good. Fans sharing their stories. Beaming. Some crying. All the joy in the world.
The band was in that giddy stage of tired by the time they boarded the buses. David sank down onto a couch. They were all wiped out from the Boston show. Band, crew, Adrian. Even Marcella had the glassy-eyed look they all shared. Too much adrenaline, plus the stress of the morning, coupled with the absolute joy that had been that show.
“I need a fucking beer,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
Domino—Dom—rooted around in the fridge and pulled out several beers. “Mish, you doing beer or wine tonight?”
“I could really use a shot of whiskey. But a beer will do.” She leaned against David, her hand on his thigh.
Adrian rose from his seat, reached into his berth and pulled out a hip flask. “Why not both?”
“Adrian, you brilliant man, you.” Mish held out both hands, and he tossed the flask. “Got a shot glass?”
“Nah. I figure if one of you gets sick, we’re all getting it anyway.”
“Shut your mouth, Adrian Doran,” Dom said. “No one is getting sick.”
Ray laughed. “I wouldn’t worry. No one’s ever gotten sick on our tours!”
“Shut it, Ray,” Dom said. “You know that’s not true.”
“Eh.” He waved Dom’s words away. “Nothing more than a small cold.”
God, these people. “Are they always like this?”
Zavier took one of the offered beers. “After a show like this? Yup.”
Cold glass touched David’s arm. “Endorphins,” Dom said. “An hour after we’re on the road, we’ll all be crashed out and snoring.”
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