Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  Is that a note of sadness or disappointment in his voice? I’ve always wondered if he and Shelby were ever more than bandmates or if he has feelings for her. What better way to have her jump in his lap than by scaring the shit out of her while she’s away from home and everything familiar—except him?

  “You’re the one who found the letter this morning, Trent?” My mind’s spinning in a hundred different directions. Gut instinct says it’s not Trent but I can’t help asking the question.

  He widens his stance and places his hands on his hips. “Yeah, why? Kenny and Eric were with me.”

  The whole band could be in on it. Maybe they resent being no-name touring musicians. Shelby doesn’t interact with anyone besides Trent that much. What if they decided to fuck with her?

  “Everyone’s concerned about this, Logan,” Greg says, clearly reading my thoughts. “We all need Shelby to succeed.”

  “How long you known Shelby, Trent?” I ask.

  “Years. Why?”

  “She got any psycho ex-boyfriends? Maybe one who’s jealous she’s gaining some fame?”

  “Shoot.” He rubs his hand over his jaw. “Uh, she’s dated a lot of assholes. Like, a lot. Swear the girl’s an asshole magnet.”

  “All right,” I growl. “Get to the point.”

  “I wasn’t exactly privy to details and such. We don’t discuss our love lives unless we’re writing a song about it, ya know?” He scratches at his chin again. “Cheaters, cheapskates, fuckboys, but none of ’em stick out as psycho enough to write those disturbing letters.”

  I chew on that information for a few seconds.

  Jigsaw taps my arm. “It’s gotta be an older dude. No one her age writes letters. Fuck, half of ’em don’t even know how to handwrite anymore.”

  “Okay, Grandpa,” Trent mutters.

  Jigsaw turns his scary eyes Trent’s way. “Your guardian angel must day drink.”

  Trent, wisely, backs up.

  “All right,” Greg cuts in. “Logan, let’s get you set up.”

  An hour and a half later, my viewing both looks pretty damn good for something thrown together in less than twenty-four hours.

  “What’s up with you?” Jigsaw asks on the way back to Shelby’s dressing room. “You think Trent’s got a thing for her?”

  “Don’t know. His explanation of her dating history sure shed some light on her trust issues, though.”

  He stops walking and slaps his arm against my chest. “Trust. Issues. Where the fuck did you even hear a phrase like that?”

  “Shut up.”

  “So you’ve had the relationship ‘talk?’ You’re all committed and shit now?”

  “No, I’m down here spending my morning cobbling together an Inspector Gadget spy booth for funsies. What the fuck do you think?”

  “You never talked about her past?”

  “You met her last boyfriend. The one who let her fall in the river and laughed about it.”

  “Riiiight. Shelby in her wet dress was a lovely sight.” He closes his eyes and grins like a puppy laying in the sunshine.

  “Knock it off.” I slam my fist into his shoulder.

  He scowls at me and rubs his arm. “She wasn’t your girlfriend then. I can maintain that image in my whack album.”

  “I’m gonna whack every image out of your head if you don’t knock it the fuck off.”

  “Fine. Fine.”

  We continue moving through the arena. The doors haven’t opened yet, so the only people we pass are employees in their black and yellow shirts.

  Shelby’s sitting cross-legged on her yoga mat with her eyes closed when we enter her dressing room.

  I close the door quietly behind us.

  “Is she trying to float?” Jigsaw whispers loud enough to shake leaves off a tree.

  “No, Jiggy.” Shelby opens her eyes and smiles at us. “Just getting myself centered. How’d it go?”

  “Good. I’m gonna have you come back out with me, and we’ll film a few short videos to post online to let people know about it.” I set the laptop Ice loaned us on the table and check that the video feed is working. “I sent Ice the video Greg had. He’s going to monitor tonight’s feed from his location while you’re onstage to see if he notices anyone familiar.”

  “Really?” Shelby stretches and stands, bending over to roll up her mat.

  “Eyes over here, fuckface,” I growl at Jigsaw.

  “Jiggy’s just trying to inject some humor into our tense day, right?” Shelby tiptoes over to me and leans up for a kiss.

  “No.” I wrap my arms around her and tug her against me. “He’s begging me to invert his fucking ribcage.”

  She tilts her head, peering at him over her shoulder. “You’re a good friend for trying to take Rooster’s mind off things.”

  “Suuure, you busted me.” Jigsaw holds up his hands. “That’s exactly what I was doing. It had nothing at all to do with those shorts tattooed to your perfect—”

  “Do you want me to skin you alive?” I reach past Shelby and smack his shoulder.

  He grins at me.

  “If we get anything promising, I’m sending it to Z,” I say, ignoring Jigsaw. “He has…access to a few databases.”

  “I don’t want to know, do I?” Shelby asks.

  “Probably not.” The less details she has, the better.

  Because as soon as I find this fucker, he’s dead.

  Chapter Sixty

  Rooster

  Laptop is all set in her dressing room. I’m bummed that I’ll have to watch it instead of Shelby’s performance tonight. Jigsaw’s at the table, already fiddling with the tablet he’ll use to keep track of things.

  “I’m sorry I’m gonna miss your show.” I hug Shelby around her waist and lean down to kiss her forehead.

  “You’ll be able to hear me.” She lowers her voice. “There’s no one else I trust more to help me end this.”

  “I’m gonna try my damnedest. I can’t guarantee he’ll show up. But if he does—”

  “I’m gonna boil his fucking teeth for scaring you, girl,” Jigsaw promises, not even glancing away from his screen.

  “That’s…macabre.” Shelby wrinkles her nose. “But thank you.”

  The doors to the arena opened an hour ago. I’ve been studying footage of fans popping in to view the video ever since. The camera’s motion-activated and only records for a short time. But it’s enough to get what I think we need.

  We capture a lot of kids and teenagers. Mostly girls. I delete those clips right away. Our stalker has to be a guy, so any male eighteen to sixty-five who sticks his head in that booth is getting added to our files. The rest don’t matter.

  It’s time for her to go.

  “Stick with Bane after the show,” I remind her. “I’ll tear down the booth and meet you back here, okay?”

  “All right.”

  I curl my hand around her neck, guide her head up, and slide my mouth over hers, tasting her and torturing myself in the process.

  By the time she pulls away, I’m hard enough to pound nails through concrete. I lean down and brush my lips against her ear. “We skipped your pre-show orgasm. Tonight, I’ll owe you double.”

  She slicks her tongue over her bottom lip. “I can’t wait to collect.”

  I hate letting her go, but I release her with one final kiss on her cheek. “You’ll be awesome tonight. I know it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Kick ass, Shelby.” Jigsaw barely glances up.

  She throws us one last “thank you” before slipping out the door.

  Feels like my heart went along with her, leaving me behind.

  “Did I miss anything good?”

  Jigsaw studies his screen. “Bro, there are a lot of hot moms here. I never suspected this would be such a—”

  Here I am thinking he’s taking this seriously. “Focus, please.”

  We’re both quiet after that. The roar of the crowd and echo of music along with Shelby’s muffled voice filters down
to us, and my lips twitch.

  “You want to go watch her? I can keep an eye on this,” Jigsaw offers.

  “Not tonight. Once we work out a system, I’ll feel more comfortable.”

  “Shit, Rooster. I hope this isn’t gonna go on much longer. She can’t deal with that stress on top of the pressure of the tour and performing every night.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have threatened to skin him earlier. “I know.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, I’m seriously doubting this “genius” idea of mine. Kids. Parents. Teenagers. College kids. A bunch of frat-boy-looking types who whoop it up, high-five each other and make jerk-off hand motions about Shelby’s yoga video. Clearly, the yoga was a terrible idea. How did I not see that coming? Makeup tutorials and music sessions, it is from now on. Thank fuck there’s no sound, or I’d probably be out there on a murder spree.

  A sweaty, older man pops onto the screen. Finally, the demographic I’ve been looking for all night. The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

  “Jiggy, come here.”

  He stands behind my chair, leaning over to see better.

  “Bring up the other video.” Without taking my eyes off the screen, I tap my phone, sitting on the table next to the computer.

  He pulls up the video Greg sent me earlier and examines it for a few seconds before studying my screen. “Could be.”

  I trace the image of the guy on my screen with my finger. “Height’s about right. Set and size of his shoulders. I wish I had set this up to capture people walking away.”

  “What’s he doing?” Jigsaw taps the screen. “Is that an envelope he’s taking out of that…bag? What is that? Is he leaving a fucking letter right now?”

  “No,” I mutter, concentrating on the images. The lighting isn’t the best. It’s dark around the edges and the booth itself is black so I can’t tell if it’s one of those black envelopes in his hand or something less sinister.

  The guy finally leaves, and a twenty-something couple takes his place.

  “She’s almost done. Let’s get up there and break it down.” I stand and close the laptop just in case any of the venue staff come into the room. We never asked the arena’s permission. The camera will continue recording clips and storing them online.

  “What if he visits the booth during Dawson’s set?”

  While I considered that, I also want to get Shelby out of here as soon as possible. Going forward, Jiggy or I should probably monitor things until the end of the show.

  The asshole probably has front-row seats and ran straight for them when the doors opened. With Trent’s help, we secured a small camera to Shelby’s mic stand. I’ll be able to get some video of her audience but it’s not like she can swing the damn thing around, David Lee Roth style. I’ll look over that once we’re at the clubhouse.

  We stalk through the mostly empty corridors. A few of Dawson’s people nod as we walk by. I pull the pass around my neck out so it’s clearly visible and check to make sure Jiggy has his. Last thing I need is some rent-a-bouncer giving me shit. I’m so worked up, I’m liable to knock a motherfucker out.

  I hit the bar across the door that opens into the left side of the arena. The sound triples in intensity. I glance toward the front of the room, catching a glimpse of Shelby. So tiny on that wide stage. So powerful the way she has the audience’s full attention tonight.

  Pride and love curl together in my chest.

  I scan the crowd from where we’re standing, the rows and rows of packed seats. There are fans on their feet, hands over their heads. Little girls sitting on their father’s shoulders waving glitter-heart-sprinkled signs bearing Shelby’s name.

  Determination to protect my girl fuels me.

  Anger burns through every other emotion. Someone out there wants to ruin all of this for Shelby.

  “Like looking for salt in a pickle jar!” Jigsaw shouts.

  “What? Never mind. Come on.”

  The merchandise area is busier than I expected. As usual, Dawson’s table has the most activity. The stacks of T-shirts at Shelby’s station are much lower than they were a few hours ago, though. That’s a good sign.

  I nod to the girls behind the table before we start dismantling the booth.

  Jigsaw secures the screen and other equipment in a cushioned crate while I break down the three-sided box and fold the black curtain.

  “We should Lysol this all down.” Jigsaw lifts his chin at the box he’s carrying. “Probably crawling with germs now.”

  “Great observation. Add Clorox wipes to the list of improvements for next time, ya fuck nugget.” I jerk my head toward the corridor leading backstage. “Can we get moving now?”

  I want to make it to her dressing room before she does, and the last notes of Shelby’s final song are already floating through the air.

  “Hey! You two. Stop right there.”

  The command rubs against my awareness but they can’t possibly be talking to us, so I keep moving.

  Something heavy slams into my back, shoving me into the wall. Everything I’m carrying clatters to the floor.

  “What the fuck!” My shout ends up muffled as my face is smooshed against the cold, filthy, white, cinderblock wall.

  “You better start praying to your gods, motherfucker!” Jigsaw snarls as he gets the same face-into-the-wall treatment.

  The need to get to my girl, to protect her, crawls down my spine.

  The timing of this can’t be an accident.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Shelby

  Backstage is packed tight after my set. Bane’s waiting for me and tucks me under his arm. Trent flanks my other side.

  “Did Rooster catch anyone?” I ask Bane.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Is Greg with him too?”

  “I think he’s with Dawson,” Bane answers.

  Trent elbows me. “CMA nominations are supposed to be announced tomorrow. Are you excited?”

  A lick of fear twisted with excitement and doubt coils in my stomach. “Maybe.”

  We keep walking. The din from the crowd drowns out most of the conversations around us. The pain in my throat prevents me from keeping up my end of the conversation.

  Is it too much to hope that they find this creep tonight so we can stop this silliness? My heart pitter-patters. Rooster’s going to join me on tour. I want to spend as much time as possible with him. Not force him to monitor boring videos every night.

  Bane opens my dressing room door and waits for me to go inside. Trent quickly searches the space behind the couch. He frowns at an orange handcart in the corner. “Want me to load your trunk now?”

  “Not yet.” I glance down at my dress. I need to change and pull out some clothes for the next two days.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” He lifts his chin toward the makeup table. “Drink some water. You’re soundin’ a little raspy.”

  I rub my fingertips under my chin. “I’m glad we have the next two nights off. My throat’s killing me,” I whisper.

  His mouth turns down. “You’re so good about taking care of your voice. Maybe the tour is too much?”

  I lift my shoulders. “It’ll get better as I get used to it. Just muscles I gotta condition, right?” I force a smile, but tonight, even that hurts.

  “We can talk about it another time. Rest your throat.” He flashes a quick smile. “I’ll be back for your trunk, so keep it decent when Rooster gets here.”

  I mouth “shut up” and push him toward the door.

  After he’s gone, I grab the bottle of water on my dresser and twist off the cap, sucking down almost half of it in deep, greedy swallows.

  A salty tang coats my tongue and I stare at the bottle for a second before setting it down. Have to remember to ask for a different brand from now on.

  I open the door and nod to Bane. “Have you seen Rooster?”

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m going to…” I mime taking off my dress and stepping into a pair of pants. He gives me a half-smi
le and reassuring nod.

  “Thanks.”

  I grab my phone and send Rooster a quick text.

  Me: Where are you?

  No response.

  Me: I’ll be in bathroom changing. Can you grab a bottle of water or Sprite on your way back? Stuff in room is nasty.

  I stare at the phone for a few minutes, waiting for an answer.

  Still nothing.

  Odd.

  Maybe they actually caught Mr. Creepy Letters.

  I hurry into the bathroom to change. Inside, it’s stuffy as hell. I glance up to the bathroom window. It’s wide open, letting in all the evening heat. I slam it shut but unless I stand on the toilet, I can’t latch it.

  “Shelby?” Bane calls out.

  “Yeah?”

  “I gotta run down to Dawson’s. I’m locking the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me or Rooster, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.” The outer door clicks closed. I scurry to check that it’s actually locked.

  I send Rooster another text.

  Me: Door locked. Knock three times.

  I close and lock the bathroom door behind me.

  A wave of dizziness washes over me and I stagger to the sink, bracing myself against the cool porcelain, setting my phone on the edge.

  Can’t breathe.

  Get dress off. I’ll feel better once it’s off.

  I work the zipper as far as I can and squirm-wiggle my way out of the rest of it, allowing the dress to pool at my feet.

  That’s better.

  Beads of sweat roll from my temple, down my cheeks. I flip on the faucet and lean over to splash water on my face.

  Mistake. Now I’ve made a mess of all my stupid stage makeup. Where’s my remover? Out in the other room?

  Fuzziness clouds my mind.

  I splash another handful of water on my face and snag a paper towel to blot my skin.

  Get dressed.

  I yank off my boots, almost falling on my ass.

  What the hell’s wrong with me?

  First, pants. One leg. Then the other. I wobble and bump my butt against the wall, leaning back to fasten my jeans.