Just For Now, page 5
Looking out at the audience from the wings, it’s worse than I would’ve thought. The venue is on the smaller side compared to what I’m used to these days—something that Cataclysm might’ve played when they were just starting rather than the arenas they play now. Which is depressing enough, considering this is a Beckett Stone tour. And while one could make the argument that his show with its stripped-down stage sets and minus the flashy light effects and smoke lends itself better to more intimate venues, it’s maaaaybe half full. Which means the small venues are more about poor ticket sales than artistic choices.
I mean, I knew ticket sales weren’t great. I saw the numbers last week. But seeing the reality of it …
It’s depressing. And I want to fix it. Yeah, it’s my job. Fixing it is why he hired me.
But I want to fix this tour because I want to make it better for him. While I get glimpses of his moody, bitter, jaded side, most of the time he’s a likable guy. He laughs at my jokes, works hard when I demand it, and is generally easy to be around. The fact that I’m still coming down off my giddy rock star crush doesn’t hurt anything, either.
It’s a bad habit I have of attaching to people around me and trying to fix all their problems. That’s one of the reasons I’m fantastic at my job—whether it’s as the PA for Cataclysm or the tour manager for Beckett Stone. I want to make everything better, and not just for the paycheck.
I’m just not sure my wanting it will be enough if this is what I have to work with. No amount of social media videos and guerrilla marketing tactics can overcome this.
Beckett changes to another song, this one slower and more soulful, but still … blah. Narrowing my eyes, I peer at him perched on a stool and playing his guitar while he sings, trying to catalogue all the ways this is missing the mark.
This is my first Beckett Stone concert, but I’ve seen videos of live performances from his past tours. There’s something missing now that was there in the old videos, that even communicated through the camera, which doesn’t always pick up the magnetism of a live show. But this performance doesn’t even have a fraction of the star power I saw in those recordings.
I know that magnetism is in there somewhere. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. But it’s banked right now, like someone trying to keep a fire going overnight so they can stoke it in the morning. But how can I stoke it? And when is it morning?
Dropping the curtain I’ve been holding back to peek at the stage and the audience, I tamp down my dismay and head into the bowels of the backstage area, my mind whirring, searching for a solution.
I stay busy after the show, involving myself more than necessary in the teardown and loading of the set, such as it is, before we leave Dallas and head to Houston. I need to do something, make sure something goes right, and this is what’s available right now.
These guys obviously aren’t used to this much of a hands-on approach, because after they stop leering at my tits long enough to hear me ask for a drill so I can help take it apart, they give me looks of surprise. After standing back and watching me handle the drill like a pro—because I followed around the roadies in high school while traveling with my parents, and they put me to work—their expressions turn from surprise to respect, and they jump back in to help.
I know they don’t need this much direct management from me. These guys have been with Beckett through the last three failed tour managers, and they’re not the fuckups, but it’s an easy excuse to avoid Beckett. And give me some time to think. I’ve always thought best when my hands are busy.
The fact that it also gives me more credibility with the crew is an added bonus.
When I eventually bump into Beckett after the set is dismantled and loaded onto the equipment bus and I’m supervising the handling of the instruments and expensive electronics, he gives me a wide smile. “So what’d you think?”
Returning his smile is easy, at least at first, because he has that gorgeous glow that comes with the adrenaline high of performing. I want to bask in that glow like a cat sits in a sunny window. It doesn’t matter that the house was only half full. Not to him. The audience that was here got more into it by the end, and that’s carrying him right now. He’s also just gorgeous anyway, even broody and stressed out like that first night at his apartment, and whenever he’s in a room, I’m polarized to his presence. Wanting to stop what I’m doing and turn in his direction, savor whatever attention he’ll send my way.
But my smile freezes on my face when I process his question, because I can’t tell him the truth. He’s happy and relaxed, and telling him what I really think right now will only pop that glorious bubble. I’ve worked with rock stars long enough to know better than to do that. Even if I had concrete suggestions to turn things around—which I don’t, not yet anyway—I wouldn’t mention them tonight.
Turning to watch the roadies loading out, I run my hand over my hair and give my ponytail a little tug while I figure out a diplomatic answer. “You sounded great,” I say, giving him another smile. “I’ve always loved your voice.”
He returns my smile and reaches out to give my arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”
My skin tingles when he takes his hand away, and I suck in an involuntary breath. His gaze drops to my lips and stays there for longer than appropriate, and his tongue slicks over his lower lip. God, those lips … I’ve always thought they were gorgeous. Full. Kissable. And combined with his strong jawline and angular cheekbones …
Well, if he hadn’t done so well as a rock star, he could’ve gone into modeling and made a killing.
I tear my eyes away from him, trying to stifle the heat sizzling along my skin.
This would be a terrible idea, right? I mean, I’ve been down this road before with Aaron and Mason. Look how that turned out. Mason hurt and me hurt and running away. My name’s been out of circulation with the gossip news lately, and I’d like to keep it that way for a while if I can. Even entertaining the idea of starting something with Beckett is a first-class ticket right back to gossip town. I’ve enjoyed the time away too much to end it for no good reason.
And anyway, there’s a roomful of groupies waiting for him. According to Kelsey, that’s what he’s into.
Last week she’d caught me staring at him for too long, I guess. It’s hard not to. When he left the room for a minute, she’d patted my arm with a sympathetic smile on her face and said, “I know. He’s beautiful. But he has a strict no-touching rule with women he works with.”
I shook my head, pasting on a confused look like I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“He only fucks groupies,” she said succinctly.
And with those words echoing in my mind, I turn back to Beckett and give him a smile, though this one is more forced than my first one. “I better get back to work. I think there are people waiting for you in the greenroom.”
He grimaces, taking a step back and rubbing his jaw. His eyes track down over my body and back to my face. “Yeah. I’m sure there are. Thanks. Don’t work too hard. It’s a long tour. Better pace yourself.”
He turns and walks away before I can remind him that my spot here is only temporary. My contract might have the option of extending for the entire tour, but I have another band to get back to in a few months.
I watch him pick his way over the coiled cables and around the team of roadies hard at work, enjoying the way his worn T-shirt clings to the long columns of muscle in his back and the faded denim caresses his ass.
With a shake of my head I remind myself that nothing can come of my attraction to him. I’d banked on him being an asshole to quell my years-long fangirl crush on him, but so far he’s been great. Vulnerable and kind and interested in everything I have to say. He’s given me full access to the financials, even though I know his poor performance embarrasses him. When I tell him he needs to do something, he furrows his brows and listens, doing his best even though I know the live videos and slice-of-life posts I’m asking for make him uncomfortable. And when he smiles, it’s like the clouds clearing after a storm, the sun taking over to make everything beautiful again.
Which only makes me want to curl up in his lap and promise to make everything better.
Sighing at the way I’m starting to care about him as more than just my employer combined with my own need to fix all the people I care about, I stride away in the opposite direction to find something else to do.
Speaking of fixing things for people I care about, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t checked up on my friends’ exes. Better do that tonight. Those two shitheads deserve as much retribution as I can dish out.
Once that’s done, I’ll dig up as many old videos of Beckett performing as the internet can give me so I can figure out exactly what’s missing from his current shows, and hopefully how to get it back.
Chapter Eight
Beckett
Getting back on the road again feels good. Right. Like things are starting to turn around after being forced to take too many breaks and cancel too many shows from my piss-poor tour managers fucking around and fucking things up. With Blaire in charge, everything’s going smoothly. Sure, we’re only two shows in, but problems had already started popping up by this point with both of the last two. And for some reason, I always had to step in to sort things out. If anything’s gone other than according to plan, I’m blissfully unaware. As far as I know, there are no problems at all. Ticket sales could still be better, but I feel like this show was better than the one before, and both are better than the ones prior to the forced break. And we’ve only just started to implement the changes Blaire suggested.
The giveaways are getting traction. People are sharing and commenting and posting videos telling me how much they hope they win. And we’ll have more lead time with the rest of the shows, so we’ll be able to involve the local media and not just my social media following. I’ve also been making more videos like Blaire suggested. Giving more behind the scenes looks at life on tour and at sound checks and things.
I’ve never paid much attention to the metrics on that kind of thing, so I don’t know what the experts would say, but my videos are getting likes and shares and comments, so I think that’s good. And Blaire was right that it isn’t overly intrusive—just a few minutes here and there, and it’s more like talking to fans on stage than it is slicing myself open for dissection like the reality show shtick would’ve been.
Blaire’s right seems to be the mantra I’ve adopted since she came on board two weeks ago. Too bad she didn’t take my job offer seriously at Savage Sound. I could’ve started this upward trajectory then instead of suffering through multiple bumbling idiots fucking everything up.
And that’s what has me seeking her out once again to ask her opinion on the show. Usually my tour manager finds me in my dressing room after the show to go over ticket sales and review what comes next. It’s a bit of a buzzkill, to be honest, so when Blaire hadn’t shown up in my dressing room after that first concert to tell me that attendance still sucked and that I need to do my job better, I’d been pleasantly surprised, thinking maybe she was giving me a little time to decompress before raking me over the coals.
And I’d waited.
And waited.
Finally, I went looking for her, needing to know her take on things. Instead of poring over sales data, I found her jumping in to help with teardown. I didn’t realize I could respect her more than I already did, but that did the trick. Plus, she’d already won over the roadies by the time I found her.
And more than wanting to hear about attendance and ticket sales and what we need to do before the next show, I wanted her opinion about my performance. I’ve long since grown used to everyone around me blowing smoke up my ass, telling me I’m amazing and wonderful and all the over-the-top compliments they can dream up. Blaire doesn’t do that, though, and I thought I’d get an honest answer out of her.
Instead I got a vague compliment on my sound and that she’s always loved my voice.
At the time it had warmed my cold, shriveled heart, puffed up my ego a bit that this young, gorgeous woman who doesn’t deal in bullshit would pay me any kind of compliment.
But later, after the rush of performing had worn off and I was alone in my hotel room, I realized what a cop-out of an answer that was.
Tonight, since she’s had the chance to see the show a second time, I’m determined to get more out of her.
I’ve waited, doing my duty of signing autographs, taking endless selfies with fans, and making time for the winners of the giveaway for this show. I know I have to smile and make nice, and usually I enjoy meeting fans. They’re always so excited and they’ll tell me stories about how they’ve been following my career for years or how they used one of my songs as part of their proposal, but tonight it’s just another hurdle keeping me from seeking out Blaire, sitting her down, and making her talk to me.
When I caught her watching from the wings both tonight and the last show, I couldn’t glean anything from her expression. She has a formidable poker face.
My imagination immediately conjures up an image of the two of us playing poker. Strip poker. With me down to my boxers and her in shorts and a bra. Because with a poker face like hers, of course I’d be losing.
Shaking my head, I clear the image. Not going there. It doesn’t matter that she’s the only one around here I really want to talk to. She doesn’t treat me like a delicate, fragile creature who needs to be handled with kid gloves—which is how everyone, including Chet and Kelsey, started treating me after my mom passed. While my latest rash of firings has stopped that to some degree, I know it’s still there, still lurking in the backs of their minds—oh, we have to be careful with Beckett, he’s going through shit right now.
Blaire treats me like a normal person. She tells me what I need to hear when I need to hear it, with the shining exception of her pallid compliment after the last show. She’s equal parts smart, funny, and sexy, and while I see the heat occasionally spark in her eyes, she never acts on it. Never throws herself at me.
In fact, being attracted to her mind as well as her body only makes it a worse idea to think of her naked. Because talking plus sex equals a relationship, and even if I didn’t have a firm rule about dating people who work for me, I swore off relationships a long time ago. I learned my lesson after Malea, and I hate repeating mistakes. Especially mistakes of that caliber.
When I find Blaire, she once again has a drill in hand, and she’s helping the roadies dismantle the stage. She doesn’t notice me at first, her focus on her squealing drill, and I take advantage of the opportunity to look her over. Her black leggings and matching tank top cling to her curves, which does nothing to strengthen my resolve to not think of her in a sexual way.
Catching the screw and passing it to Joey, the lead roadie, she straightens and gives him a smile.
I take advantage of the moment to clear my throat and say, “Hey.”
She turns, her smile fading for a second, then hitching higher again, though it seems strained at the edges. “Hey. Did you need something?”
Stepping forward, I reach for her elbow to guide her away. It’s a stupid thing to do, because every time I touch her, I feel a sizzle at the contact, like our chemistry is a physical reaction. But I can’t help it. I crave that zing. It feels like the first time I realized I sounded good on the guitar. Like the universe is a happy place full of endless possibilities and all I have to do is reach out and grab them.
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t protest, silently passing off the drill to Joey and following me off to one side.
I lean in close, pitching my voice low. “What did you think of the show?” As I wait for her answer, my eyes dart around, taking in all the activity around us—the roadies still at work dismantling the set and the techies carting cables and sound equipment past us—and I wish we could do this without an audience. But she’s working, and I don’t want to drag her all the way back to my dressing room, besides the fact that being alone with her when all I want to do is keep touching her is probably a terrible idea.
She opens her mouth and draws in a breath, and I refocus on her. From the look on her face, I know she’s going to give me the same crap as last time.
I hold up a hand to forestall her answer. “For real. Not just that I have a nice voice. I’ve known that since I was a kid. I want to know what you think.”
Her eyes narrow, and she closes her mouth, tilting her head to really look at me. “Honestly?”
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I shrug, apprehension tightening my shoulders at her words. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want honesty. I have enough people around telling me what they think I want to hear. I didn’t hire you to do that.” But now I’m wondering if I really want her to tell me the truth. Because this chick isn’t going to pull any punches.
She crosses her arms and looks all around, focusing for a moment on some point behind me. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose that makes her tits strain against her arms in ways I have no right to be noticing, she returns her gaze to my face. A smile pulls at her lips when I drag my eyes away from her tits and back up to her eyes. “It’s missing something.”
“Huh?” I say dumbly. Because from where I stand, her tits are absolutely not missing a damn thing. Except for maybe my hands on them.
“Your show.” She pronounces the words slowly and evenly, the way you do to someone who’s not too sharp.
And that’s sufficient to make me stop thinking about her tits. “My show’s missing something? What does that mean? What’s it missing?”
Her mouth clamps shut, and she shakes her head, her nostrils flaring in an exasperated sigh. “Trust me, I’ve been trying to piece it together. I’ve been digging up old videos of you to see what I can come up with.” She lifts her hands and drops them in a show of frustrated defeat. “I can’t explain it with words. But you’re not the same on stage as you used to be. There’s a spark of … something. Life. Energy. That you used to bring to the stage, and it’s … dulled. Dimmed. Less. It’s not gone entirely. It still shows up here and there. But it’s like …” She looks all around again, searching for the right words in the rafters and the buzzing fluorescent lights. “It’s like you don’t really like the songs. Or you don’t care about them. You’re just going through the motions.” She says the words to the vaulted ceiling, and when she looks back at me again, her blue eyes are solemn, the stiffness of her posture relaxing as mine tenses up.
I mean, I knew ticket sales weren’t great. I saw the numbers last week. But seeing the reality of it …
It’s depressing. And I want to fix it. Yeah, it’s my job. Fixing it is why he hired me.
But I want to fix this tour because I want to make it better for him. While I get glimpses of his moody, bitter, jaded side, most of the time he’s a likable guy. He laughs at my jokes, works hard when I demand it, and is generally easy to be around. The fact that I’m still coming down off my giddy rock star crush doesn’t hurt anything, either.
It’s a bad habit I have of attaching to people around me and trying to fix all their problems. That’s one of the reasons I’m fantastic at my job—whether it’s as the PA for Cataclysm or the tour manager for Beckett Stone. I want to make everything better, and not just for the paycheck.
I’m just not sure my wanting it will be enough if this is what I have to work with. No amount of social media videos and guerrilla marketing tactics can overcome this.
Beckett changes to another song, this one slower and more soulful, but still … blah. Narrowing my eyes, I peer at him perched on a stool and playing his guitar while he sings, trying to catalogue all the ways this is missing the mark.
This is my first Beckett Stone concert, but I’ve seen videos of live performances from his past tours. There’s something missing now that was there in the old videos, that even communicated through the camera, which doesn’t always pick up the magnetism of a live show. But this performance doesn’t even have a fraction of the star power I saw in those recordings.
I know that magnetism is in there somewhere. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. But it’s banked right now, like someone trying to keep a fire going overnight so they can stoke it in the morning. But how can I stoke it? And when is it morning?
Dropping the curtain I’ve been holding back to peek at the stage and the audience, I tamp down my dismay and head into the bowels of the backstage area, my mind whirring, searching for a solution.
I stay busy after the show, involving myself more than necessary in the teardown and loading of the set, such as it is, before we leave Dallas and head to Houston. I need to do something, make sure something goes right, and this is what’s available right now.
These guys obviously aren’t used to this much of a hands-on approach, because after they stop leering at my tits long enough to hear me ask for a drill so I can help take it apart, they give me looks of surprise. After standing back and watching me handle the drill like a pro—because I followed around the roadies in high school while traveling with my parents, and they put me to work—their expressions turn from surprise to respect, and they jump back in to help.
I know they don’t need this much direct management from me. These guys have been with Beckett through the last three failed tour managers, and they’re not the fuckups, but it’s an easy excuse to avoid Beckett. And give me some time to think. I’ve always thought best when my hands are busy.
The fact that it also gives me more credibility with the crew is an added bonus.
When I eventually bump into Beckett after the set is dismantled and loaded onto the equipment bus and I’m supervising the handling of the instruments and expensive electronics, he gives me a wide smile. “So what’d you think?”
Returning his smile is easy, at least at first, because he has that gorgeous glow that comes with the adrenaline high of performing. I want to bask in that glow like a cat sits in a sunny window. It doesn’t matter that the house was only half full. Not to him. The audience that was here got more into it by the end, and that’s carrying him right now. He’s also just gorgeous anyway, even broody and stressed out like that first night at his apartment, and whenever he’s in a room, I’m polarized to his presence. Wanting to stop what I’m doing and turn in his direction, savor whatever attention he’ll send my way.
But my smile freezes on my face when I process his question, because I can’t tell him the truth. He’s happy and relaxed, and telling him what I really think right now will only pop that glorious bubble. I’ve worked with rock stars long enough to know better than to do that. Even if I had concrete suggestions to turn things around—which I don’t, not yet anyway—I wouldn’t mention them tonight.
Turning to watch the roadies loading out, I run my hand over my hair and give my ponytail a little tug while I figure out a diplomatic answer. “You sounded great,” I say, giving him another smile. “I’ve always loved your voice.”
He returns my smile and reaches out to give my arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”
My skin tingles when he takes his hand away, and I suck in an involuntary breath. His gaze drops to my lips and stays there for longer than appropriate, and his tongue slicks over his lower lip. God, those lips … I’ve always thought they were gorgeous. Full. Kissable. And combined with his strong jawline and angular cheekbones …
Well, if he hadn’t done so well as a rock star, he could’ve gone into modeling and made a killing.
I tear my eyes away from him, trying to stifle the heat sizzling along my skin.
This would be a terrible idea, right? I mean, I’ve been down this road before with Aaron and Mason. Look how that turned out. Mason hurt and me hurt and running away. My name’s been out of circulation with the gossip news lately, and I’d like to keep it that way for a while if I can. Even entertaining the idea of starting something with Beckett is a first-class ticket right back to gossip town. I’ve enjoyed the time away too much to end it for no good reason.
And anyway, there’s a roomful of groupies waiting for him. According to Kelsey, that’s what he’s into.
Last week she’d caught me staring at him for too long, I guess. It’s hard not to. When he left the room for a minute, she’d patted my arm with a sympathetic smile on her face and said, “I know. He’s beautiful. But he has a strict no-touching rule with women he works with.”
I shook my head, pasting on a confused look like I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“He only fucks groupies,” she said succinctly.
And with those words echoing in my mind, I turn back to Beckett and give him a smile, though this one is more forced than my first one. “I better get back to work. I think there are people waiting for you in the greenroom.”
He grimaces, taking a step back and rubbing his jaw. His eyes track down over my body and back to my face. “Yeah. I’m sure there are. Thanks. Don’t work too hard. It’s a long tour. Better pace yourself.”
He turns and walks away before I can remind him that my spot here is only temporary. My contract might have the option of extending for the entire tour, but I have another band to get back to in a few months.
I watch him pick his way over the coiled cables and around the team of roadies hard at work, enjoying the way his worn T-shirt clings to the long columns of muscle in his back and the faded denim caresses his ass.
With a shake of my head I remind myself that nothing can come of my attraction to him. I’d banked on him being an asshole to quell my years-long fangirl crush on him, but so far he’s been great. Vulnerable and kind and interested in everything I have to say. He’s given me full access to the financials, even though I know his poor performance embarrasses him. When I tell him he needs to do something, he furrows his brows and listens, doing his best even though I know the live videos and slice-of-life posts I’m asking for make him uncomfortable. And when he smiles, it’s like the clouds clearing after a storm, the sun taking over to make everything beautiful again.
Which only makes me want to curl up in his lap and promise to make everything better.
Sighing at the way I’m starting to care about him as more than just my employer combined with my own need to fix all the people I care about, I stride away in the opposite direction to find something else to do.
Speaking of fixing things for people I care about, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t checked up on my friends’ exes. Better do that tonight. Those two shitheads deserve as much retribution as I can dish out.
Once that’s done, I’ll dig up as many old videos of Beckett performing as the internet can give me so I can figure out exactly what’s missing from his current shows, and hopefully how to get it back.
Chapter Eight
Beckett
Getting back on the road again feels good. Right. Like things are starting to turn around after being forced to take too many breaks and cancel too many shows from my piss-poor tour managers fucking around and fucking things up. With Blaire in charge, everything’s going smoothly. Sure, we’re only two shows in, but problems had already started popping up by this point with both of the last two. And for some reason, I always had to step in to sort things out. If anything’s gone other than according to plan, I’m blissfully unaware. As far as I know, there are no problems at all. Ticket sales could still be better, but I feel like this show was better than the one before, and both are better than the ones prior to the forced break. And we’ve only just started to implement the changes Blaire suggested.
The giveaways are getting traction. People are sharing and commenting and posting videos telling me how much they hope they win. And we’ll have more lead time with the rest of the shows, so we’ll be able to involve the local media and not just my social media following. I’ve also been making more videos like Blaire suggested. Giving more behind the scenes looks at life on tour and at sound checks and things.
I’ve never paid much attention to the metrics on that kind of thing, so I don’t know what the experts would say, but my videos are getting likes and shares and comments, so I think that’s good. And Blaire was right that it isn’t overly intrusive—just a few minutes here and there, and it’s more like talking to fans on stage than it is slicing myself open for dissection like the reality show shtick would’ve been.
Blaire’s right seems to be the mantra I’ve adopted since she came on board two weeks ago. Too bad she didn’t take my job offer seriously at Savage Sound. I could’ve started this upward trajectory then instead of suffering through multiple bumbling idiots fucking everything up.
And that’s what has me seeking her out once again to ask her opinion on the show. Usually my tour manager finds me in my dressing room after the show to go over ticket sales and review what comes next. It’s a bit of a buzzkill, to be honest, so when Blaire hadn’t shown up in my dressing room after that first concert to tell me that attendance still sucked and that I need to do my job better, I’d been pleasantly surprised, thinking maybe she was giving me a little time to decompress before raking me over the coals.
And I’d waited.
And waited.
Finally, I went looking for her, needing to know her take on things. Instead of poring over sales data, I found her jumping in to help with teardown. I didn’t realize I could respect her more than I already did, but that did the trick. Plus, she’d already won over the roadies by the time I found her.
And more than wanting to hear about attendance and ticket sales and what we need to do before the next show, I wanted her opinion about my performance. I’ve long since grown used to everyone around me blowing smoke up my ass, telling me I’m amazing and wonderful and all the over-the-top compliments they can dream up. Blaire doesn’t do that, though, and I thought I’d get an honest answer out of her.
Instead I got a vague compliment on my sound and that she’s always loved my voice.
At the time it had warmed my cold, shriveled heart, puffed up my ego a bit that this young, gorgeous woman who doesn’t deal in bullshit would pay me any kind of compliment.
But later, after the rush of performing had worn off and I was alone in my hotel room, I realized what a cop-out of an answer that was.
Tonight, since she’s had the chance to see the show a second time, I’m determined to get more out of her.
I’ve waited, doing my duty of signing autographs, taking endless selfies with fans, and making time for the winners of the giveaway for this show. I know I have to smile and make nice, and usually I enjoy meeting fans. They’re always so excited and they’ll tell me stories about how they’ve been following my career for years or how they used one of my songs as part of their proposal, but tonight it’s just another hurdle keeping me from seeking out Blaire, sitting her down, and making her talk to me.
When I caught her watching from the wings both tonight and the last show, I couldn’t glean anything from her expression. She has a formidable poker face.
My imagination immediately conjures up an image of the two of us playing poker. Strip poker. With me down to my boxers and her in shorts and a bra. Because with a poker face like hers, of course I’d be losing.
Shaking my head, I clear the image. Not going there. It doesn’t matter that she’s the only one around here I really want to talk to. She doesn’t treat me like a delicate, fragile creature who needs to be handled with kid gloves—which is how everyone, including Chet and Kelsey, started treating me after my mom passed. While my latest rash of firings has stopped that to some degree, I know it’s still there, still lurking in the backs of their minds—oh, we have to be careful with Beckett, he’s going through shit right now.
Blaire treats me like a normal person. She tells me what I need to hear when I need to hear it, with the shining exception of her pallid compliment after the last show. She’s equal parts smart, funny, and sexy, and while I see the heat occasionally spark in her eyes, she never acts on it. Never throws herself at me.
In fact, being attracted to her mind as well as her body only makes it a worse idea to think of her naked. Because talking plus sex equals a relationship, and even if I didn’t have a firm rule about dating people who work for me, I swore off relationships a long time ago. I learned my lesson after Malea, and I hate repeating mistakes. Especially mistakes of that caliber.
When I find Blaire, she once again has a drill in hand, and she’s helping the roadies dismantle the stage. She doesn’t notice me at first, her focus on her squealing drill, and I take advantage of the opportunity to look her over. Her black leggings and matching tank top cling to her curves, which does nothing to strengthen my resolve to not think of her in a sexual way.
Catching the screw and passing it to Joey, the lead roadie, she straightens and gives him a smile.
I take advantage of the moment to clear my throat and say, “Hey.”
She turns, her smile fading for a second, then hitching higher again, though it seems strained at the edges. “Hey. Did you need something?”
Stepping forward, I reach for her elbow to guide her away. It’s a stupid thing to do, because every time I touch her, I feel a sizzle at the contact, like our chemistry is a physical reaction. But I can’t help it. I crave that zing. It feels like the first time I realized I sounded good on the guitar. Like the universe is a happy place full of endless possibilities and all I have to do is reach out and grab them.
Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t protest, silently passing off the drill to Joey and following me off to one side.
I lean in close, pitching my voice low. “What did you think of the show?” As I wait for her answer, my eyes dart around, taking in all the activity around us—the roadies still at work dismantling the set and the techies carting cables and sound equipment past us—and I wish we could do this without an audience. But she’s working, and I don’t want to drag her all the way back to my dressing room, besides the fact that being alone with her when all I want to do is keep touching her is probably a terrible idea.
She opens her mouth and draws in a breath, and I refocus on her. From the look on her face, I know she’s going to give me the same crap as last time.
I hold up a hand to forestall her answer. “For real. Not just that I have a nice voice. I’ve known that since I was a kid. I want to know what you think.”
Her eyes narrow, and she closes her mouth, tilting her head to really look at me. “Honestly?”
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I shrug, apprehension tightening my shoulders at her words. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want honesty. I have enough people around telling me what they think I want to hear. I didn’t hire you to do that.” But now I’m wondering if I really want her to tell me the truth. Because this chick isn’t going to pull any punches.
She crosses her arms and looks all around, focusing for a moment on some point behind me. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose that makes her tits strain against her arms in ways I have no right to be noticing, she returns her gaze to my face. A smile pulls at her lips when I drag my eyes away from her tits and back up to her eyes. “It’s missing something.”
“Huh?” I say dumbly. Because from where I stand, her tits are absolutely not missing a damn thing. Except for maybe my hands on them.
“Your show.” She pronounces the words slowly and evenly, the way you do to someone who’s not too sharp.
And that’s sufficient to make me stop thinking about her tits. “My show’s missing something? What does that mean? What’s it missing?”
Her mouth clamps shut, and she shakes her head, her nostrils flaring in an exasperated sigh. “Trust me, I’ve been trying to piece it together. I’ve been digging up old videos of you to see what I can come up with.” She lifts her hands and drops them in a show of frustrated defeat. “I can’t explain it with words. But you’re not the same on stage as you used to be. There’s a spark of … something. Life. Energy. That you used to bring to the stage, and it’s … dulled. Dimmed. Less. It’s not gone entirely. It still shows up here and there. But it’s like …” She looks all around again, searching for the right words in the rafters and the buzzing fluorescent lights. “It’s like you don’t really like the songs. Or you don’t care about them. You’re just going through the motions.” She says the words to the vaulted ceiling, and when she looks back at me again, her blue eyes are solemn, the stiffness of her posture relaxing as mine tenses up.
