Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  “Yeah,” I growl.

  “Keep things orderly.” He looks me up and down. “But these are her fans who paid good money to meet her, so don’t terrorize them.”

  “Thin line, Greg.” I slap his back and brush past him into the room.

  Shelby’s smile falters when I walk into the room alone. She focuses on the open door and hallway beyond. “Where the heck’s he off to?”

  “Said he needs to help Dawson.” I shrug. “I’m supposed to keep order tonight.”

  “Darn it.” She gathers the skirt of her dress in her hand and actually stomps her foot like she’s about to charge after her manager.

  “Easy, chickadee.” I touch her elbow. “Might as well put my big, growly ass to good use tonight.”

  “You’re my guest, not free labor. I’m so sorry.”

  I curl one hand over her shoulder and brush my fingers under her chin, tipping her head back. “I’m more worried about who looks out for you when I’m not here.”

  “Greg. Or Trent. Sometimes one of Dawson’s guys. Or security for the venue. Whoever’s around.”

  In other words, no one makes sure Shelby’s safety is their top priority. If I’d known, I probably would’ve asked Jigsaw to join us. If that scary son of a bitch doesn’t scare people, no one will.

  “It’ll be fine,” she assures me. “I’m not that big of a deal to have people here to watch me. We usually have a few kids. Some radio station winners. Everyone’s super nice.” She shrugs. “But once in a while…”

  “I’ll be right here.” I nod to the fans being let into the room by a local security guard in a black and yellow T-shirt. “Don’t worry about anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stand next to the banner with Shelby’s name and image splashed over it, where I can watch her but not be in the way.

  A little girl runs up and throws her arms around Shelby’s legs, chattering a mile a minute. Shelby squats so she’s eye level with the tyke and scrawls her signature over a poster. After a quick photo, the girl’s mother nudges her along.

  Not that I expected her to be anything but sweet and kind to everyone but the more I watch her, the more that foreign L word keeps pulsing in my chest.

  Chapter Eight

  Shelby

  Having Rooster at my back gives me a certain amount of peace I don’t want to get too comfortable with. Normally, Greg or Trent stand guard, but I can’t count on them to stay focused on me one hundred percent of the time. With Rooster, I’m confident he’s concentrating on me. I’m completely safe under his watchful eyes.

  Security manages the line of people at the door, only allowing a few fans into the room at a time.

  “Hi, Shelby!” Another little girl screams and throws her arms around my legs.

  “Is this your first concert?” I ask.

  “Yes! You’re my fav-o-rite.” I lean over to hug her, listening to her excited high-pitched chatter with a smile stretched across my face.

  Her mother nervously chuckles. “She’s a big fan.” In a lower voice, she adds, “I’m here for Dawson Roads.”

  Gee, thanks, lady.

  I smile thinly and return my attention to the girl, signing her poster and ticket stub. “Have an awesome time tonight.”

  After that, it’s a blur of people. A couple who just got engaged. A girl who won tickets off the local radio show. A little boy who’s too tongue-tied to say anything, no matter how hard I try to play it cool and normal.

  I smile for so many pictures, my cheeks ache. The last group the guard allows into the room appear to be college-aged guys.

  “Hello, Miss Morgan.” One of them holds out his hand. He’s shy and polite. Cute too, with freckles and an intense farmer’s tan. His two rowdier buddies obviously and openly stare at my tits without saying a word. But I’m used to that and my tits are pretty fabulous, so I try to ignore their stares.

  The four of us turn to face the camera for a picture. Someone’s hand strays to my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me yelp.

  A short scream barely passes my lips.

  The offender drops to his knees next to me, howling in pain.

  “Hands to yourself, motherfucker,” Rooster growls, bending the guy’s arm back at an unnatural angle. “Apologize. Right fucking now.”

  “S…sorry, Shelby.”

  Two security guards bumble over and Rooster releases the ass-grabber with a hard shove.

  Grabby hands is escorted away from me.

  One of the guards reaches for Rooster next.

  Oh hell no. I slap my hand on the guy’s chest, stopping him. “Whatdaya think you’re doin’? He’s with me. Maybe pay better attention next time.”

  The guard’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, Miss Morgan.”

  I turn to thank Rooster, but his steely gaze is trained on the three guys as security pushes them out the door.

  “Hey.” I tap his arm. “Thank you.”

  “That happen often?”

  “Not really.”

  He growls an unhappy noise and wraps an arm around my waist. “What’s next?”

  I flick my gaze at the clock. My heart thunders. Time’s ticking down. I gulp in some air and try to settle my nerves.

  “Shelby?” he questions.

  “T-minus thirty. I need to get ready.”

  He walks me back to my small dressing room.

  Once we’re inside, I strip off my dress and shake out the blue one. Rooster presses his back to the door so at least I don’t have to worry about anyone popping in for a free peep show.

  What’s left of my cup of tea has long gone cold, but I take a quick sip anyway.

  “Do you want me to get you a fresh one?” Rooster asks.

  “Nah, I don’t want to have to pee when I’m on stage.”

  He chuckles. “Okay.”

  Embarrassed I blurted that out, I duck into the bathroom to empty my bladder. My nerves are already so jangled, I’ll be peeing twenty times tonight.

  When I return to the dressing room, Rooster’s waiting patiently by the door. “Need help with the dress?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He holds it out for me, and I step into it the same way I did with the earlier outfit. “Careful, or I’m going to hire you. . .as soon as I have money for a personal assistant.”

  “I’d never take your money, Shelby,” he answers in a low, serious tone that makes my belly quiver. He slides the zipper into place and after adjusting the girls in my long-line strapless bra, I turn to face him.

  He runs his finger over the tops of my breasts, following the bodice of the dress. “This is pretty on you. Did your mom make it?”

  I slide my hands over the smooth royal blue leather top and adjust the layers of teal, blue, purple, and green ruffles that end right above my knees. “Yes.” I kick out my feet in the electric teal boots Rooster bought me in San Antonio. “She made it to match these.”

  A smile flickers over his mouth.

  “Hey.” I reach up and grab a fistful of his T-shirt. “I didn’t thank you properly.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “For?”

  I tug him a little closer and whisper against his ear. “The earlier orgasm.”

  We’re so close, his beard tickles my cheek when he smiles. “Pleasure was mine.”

  “Well, I plan to repay the favor later.”

  Heat races across my skin as his gaze roams over my bare shoulders. He reaches out and tucks a wild sprig of hair behind my ear. “Looking forward to it.”

  I glance down. “And rescuing me. Again.” I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Thank you for reacting so quick.”

  The line of his jaw tightens. “What would you have done if I wasn’t there?”

  “Slapped him? Yelled for security?” I shrug and force a smile on my face. “I’m going to dedicate ‘White Knight’ to you tonight.” I tickle my fingers through his beard. “You won’t be embarrassed, will you?”

  His serious expression doesn’t change. “Not at all.”r />
  Someone knocks and before I answer, Greg pushes inside. “How’re you feeling, Shelby?”

  I clutch my stomach, willing the flock of two-stepping butterflies to settle down. “About to puke.”

  Sympathy shines in his eyes. “You’ve got this. I saw you put ‘Empty Room’ back on the set list?”

  My shoulders jerk up. Greg knows the origin of “Empty Room.” I don’t understand why I’m so uncomfortable discussing the song in front of Rooster.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “I think so.”

  “Hey, Shelbs.” Trent pokes his head inside the room. “Let’s go knock ’em on their asses.” He lifts his chin at Rooster. “Thanks for having her back in the meet-n-greet.”

  Guess word spread.

  Greg turns his questioning gaze on Rooster. “What happened?”

  “Some dude-bro thought he’d grab a handful of my ass,” I answer before Rooster has a chance.

  “Fuck all.” Greg stabs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t—” His gaze flicks to Rooster. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Dawson spoke to you?” Greg asks me. “You know the lyrics?”

  “Not now, Greg.” I flap my hands in the air. “Let me survive my own show, first.”

  He chuckles and holds up his hands in surrender.

  Before I know it, my band and our crew circle around me. Together, we walk down the long corridor to the entrance for the stage. Instinctively, I reach for Rooster’s hand and he squeezes me back. Having him as part of my posse tonight reassures me more than anything else.

  Don’t get used to it.

  Day after tomorrow, I’ll be on my own again.

  Chapter Nine

  Rooster

  Even my cynical nature can’t ignore the current of excitement in the air as we walk Shelby to the stage.

  It’s still daylight so the flashing lights don’t have the same effect they would have if it was dark out. But the announcer loudly welcoming Shelby to the stage can’t be ignored.

  A much-needed breeze blows through the hallway, cooling the air.

  Shelby huddles with her band and they share a few quick words, chant some upbeat lines, then pile their hands together, whooping as they break.

  Two guys swarm around her. One hands her a microphone before rigging a small wireless box to the belt of her dress. Someone else hands her a smaller piece for her ear.

  The band swaggers out onto the stage first.

  Shelby stands a few feet from the entrance, eyes closed, back against a stack of equipment. One hand’s in a white-knuckled death-grip around her mic and the other is balled into a fist at her side. I want to wish her luck, kiss her, or do something to encourage her but I don’t want to take her out of whatever headspace she’s trying to achieve.

  Finally, she opens her eyes, staring straight at me. She takes a few steps closer, goes up on tiptoes, and plants a quick kiss on my cheek before darting away.

  “Good evening, Wellspring, New York!” she shouts as she struts onto the stage, one hand in the air, waving to the audience. She’s completely confident—regal almost. No one would ever guess minutes ago she claimed to be jittery and ready to hurl.

  “Y’all ready to have a good time?” she shouts.

  The crowd’s reaction is weak at best. They’re still not quite paying attention. One excited voice and a shrill whistle stands out, though. I move closer, peering into the crowd, laughing when I see Heidi, arms up, hooting for Shelby. Right next to her, Murphy’s standing and whistling. Out on the lawn, the rest of the club makes even more noise. People waiting in line at the food stands turn and look. More people roam over the grass, slowly wandering closer, curiously staring at the stage.

  That’s right, assholes. Best part of the show’s about to start.

  The band launches into “Big Lies” and by the time they’re finished and headed into the second song, the inside seats have filled with more people.

  “That one always draws them in,” Greg shouts near my ear.

  “I see that.”

  “She’s really got something special. Dawson’s been fantastic exposure for her, but I need to get her a tour with a later time slot.”

  Unsure why he’s bothering to explain any of this to me, I nod along.

  After three songs, Shelby slows things down. Someone brings her an acoustic guitar and slips it over her head. She turns away, plucking a few strings and signaling to her drummer, then Trent, before turning back to the microphone.

  “This song’s real special to me.” Her husky voice comes through the speakers tinged with sadness. “I wrote it about my baby sister. It’s called ‘Empty Room.’”

  She closes her eyes for a moment.

  Sister?

  Shelby’s never mentioned a sister. I’ve spent time at the house she shares with her mom outside San Antonio. Never saw any indication anyone aside from the two of them lived there. Hell, no one else could fit in that place.

  Front and center on the stage, she strums a chord or two. A few seconds later, her voice pours from her soul, firm and heartbreakingly clear.

  Everyone says remember the good times,

  Hold them in your heart

  Bright memories,

  Funny days,

  The good times.

  But all I see is solitude,

  The broken hearts,

  Your empty room.”

  A brick of understanding lands in my gut.

  Oh, Shelby. Why didn’t you ever tell me?

  * * *

  All that’s left is an echo,

  Of a little girl’s laughter

  Dry your tears in the sun,

  Hold the family tighter

  Every word pierces what little soul I have left.

  * * *

  But all I see is solitude,

  The broken hearts

  Your empty room.

  When she finishes, she closes her eyes and drops her head for a moment. The hush over the crowd only lasts a minute. People whistle and demand more.

  Someone shouts “White Knight!” which wipes the sadness off her face. She smiles and turns her head my way. The cute eyebrow wiggle she sends me lifts the heavy cloud that settled over the stage during “Empty Room.” I can’t help laughing.

  Greg’s face screws up. “You’re the one she wrote this about?”

  “Apparently,” I growl, hoping he’ll shut up so I can concentrate on Shelby.

  “Y’all wanna hear ‘White Knight?’” she shouts.

  The audience responds with a loud and enthusiastic, “Yes!”

  “All right.” She nods and strums her guitar a few times. “It’s a good time to play it. The person who inspired this song is here with me tonight. My very own white knight.”

  Sometimes your white knight rides a Harley,

  And he doesn’t need an army,

  To save you from drowning,

  In three feet of water…

  Her clear, emotional voice throws me right back to the day we met. The soggy jeans and boots clinging to my skin as I fished her out of the San Antonio River. Shelby’s mom catching us in the shower and wondering if I was about to get a shotgun blast to the chest…all of it.

  She’s embellished the song, added to it since the first time she played it in Texas. It’s much more polished now. Again, I’m in awe of this woman. Her talent, sweetness, and beauty smack me in the face every time I’m around her.

  “This is already tearing up the charts,” Greg says. “We stopped and recorded it in Tennessee. I was able to get special placement on a few of the streaming services.”

  “That’s good.” Now, shut up, Greg.

  Uncomfortable, since she’s singing about me and I’m the farthest thing from a white knight, I focus on the audience. The seats aren’t filled yet but the people who are here appear to be huge Shelby Morgan fans. She keeps saying she’s just the opening act, downplaying her role on this tour. Or maybe it’s hard for She
lby to see it from the inside. But she’s a way bigger deal than she realizes.

  My gaze strays to a guy hanging over the balcony with a huge, “Will you marry me, Shelby Morgan?” sign.

  No, she won’t, asshole.

  She’s mine.

  At least for the next two days.

  I don’t want to think about what happens after we have to say goodbye.

  Chapter Ten

  Shelby

  “Phew!” I hurry off the stage and grab the towel Greg hands me, quickly dabbing beads of sweat from my forehead. All the stage makeup feels heavier than ever and I wish I could wash it off now instead of sitting through the next band’s set while I wait to go onstage with Dawson.

  Holy shit, I’m going to sing with Dawson Roads!

  I turn, scanning the area for Rooster. The man must be my good-luck charm. This is the first night of the tour Dawson’s asked me to sing with him. And Rooster’s here to see one of the biggest moments of my life.

  Lordy, I better not screw it up.

  My heart skips when I find him leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  Did I freak him out by playing “White Knight?” I didn’t mention him by name, but he knows the song is about him. Is he mad I played it since his club brothers are out in the audience tonight? Will they razz him about it later? Maybe he’s embarrassed that some silly girl wrote a corny country song about him.

  As I’m spiraling into my freak-out, he pushes away from the wall and through the crush of people around us. “You were phenomenal.”

  Before I have a chance to answer, he picks me up and plants a kiss on my lips.

  Manager, band—heck, everything around us is forgotten the second our mouths meet. I keep my eyes open, staring straight into his. I’m consumed by the taste and feel of him. Reckless, I close my eyes and deepen our kiss, unconcerned that we’re making out backstage where lots of spectators are sure to get an eyeful.