“Opal? That’s really unique. I like it. So, Opal, do you like my music.”
“I love it. I mean, I’ve followed your career. I watch all your live shows when they hit YouTube. Wait? Is that okay? Or is that like stealing?”
I laugh, and this time it’s not forced. “No. That’s awesome. I’m glad you could make it to a real show. Do you live close?”
“Just outside of Denison. Texas.”
“Wow, that’s a little drive, isn’t it?”
“’Bout three hours, yeah.”
“Cool. Did you like today’s set?”
“Loved it. Stop the Hurt is probably my most favorite of all your songs anyway, so to hear you play it stripped down like that? Amazing.”
“You play?”
“Guitar, no. I wish. There’s no way my granddaddy would allow a guitar in the house.”
Her words catch me off guard because I guess I’m surprised. I’d say she’s my age or maybe a few years younger. I’ve never met an adult who couldn’t play guitar in fear of her grandparents.
“It’s just that I live with him. He’s a good man. Old fashioned. And well, what with my momma ... Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m nervous. I’m sure you don’t want to hear my life’s story. It’s so great to finally meet you.”
“It’s really great to meet you too, Opal. Do you want to come backstage? I could get you a pass and you can watch—”
“Oh, no.” She glances down and rummages in the worn brown leather bag she has strapped across her chest to produce her car keys, or at least I assume there’s a key beneath her bundle of keychains. “I actually need to get going. I’m not here to see Three Ugly Guys. I came here for you.”
“That’s really cool. I’m glad you made the trip.” I almost feel bad. She came here just to see me but my set is only thirty minutes. I wish I could give her something else. I don’t know what, but I’m overcome with this feeling of responsibility. It’s strange and unfamiliar. Without too much thought I crouch down and pull out one of my cards—the ones Amie made up for me to hand out to industry professionals only—from inside my left boot. She practically threatened my life making me promise to carry them at all times so I found a way to wedge three inside each shoe. I know she’ll be pissed at me for giving one to Opal, but something spurs me to do it anyway. “If you ever find yourself near one of my shows again, shoot me an email. I’ll hook you up with good tickets.”
She nods, takes the card, and ducks her chin with eyes cast down. “Thank you, Lexi. That’s ... That’s really generous of you. Well, I should be going ...”
“Nice to meet you, Opal. And hey, give guitar a try sometime. If it’s something you want to do, don’t let anyone stop you.”
She glances up, those wide brown eyes full of so much emotion and lips parted as if she wants to share more than her mumbled good-bye before she rushes toward the exit.
I shake my head on my walk back to security. I need to hustle if I want to get a shower in before the roadies trickle back to the bus. I don’t know exactly how much longer the guys will play, but I’ve let too much time pass me by with my odd superfan. God, I hope she doesn’t share my contact info all over the internet. I hope my instinct to give it to her was right.
Hot water. Solitude.Did I mention hot water?I love my post-show showers. It’s the only time I have to myself on the road, and while I wouldn’t trade this tour for anything, it makes these minutes even more precious and appreciated. My hair only takes a quick minute to wash but I savor the extra time to shave my legs and armpits before shutting off the glorious stream. I towel off and reach for my pile of clothes. My fitted tank, a big, soft gray sweater, pink lace panties, and—shit. I must have dropped my black joggers in my rush. I finger comb my locks and towel it off once more before gathering up my toiletries.
It’s quiet still, so I’m sure no one is back yet. Not that I’m embarrassed about my body, but the last thing I need is some roadie getting an eyeful of ass. They’re a rowdy, raunchy crew and I’ve caught more than one perving my way. I search the carpet and spot my pants, just outside my sleeping cubie. I skip over but stop short.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Skimpin’ ’round in your undies during the show? Boy, am I glad I cut out early.”
“Sorry, I thought I was alone,” I say, eyeing my pants on the floor but not willing to move any closer to this roadie. He’s one I’ve caught blatantly checking me out before. Eric—I think that’s his name—leers at my legs before meeting my gaze.
“No need’a apologize. Unless ya wanna come a li’l closer. I’d make ya feel real good.”
God, I hate that he said that. That he even implies I’d want to get with him when he’s been nothing short of disrespectful. Not to mention, he’s a good twenty years my senior.
“I’m good, thanks.” I finally ignore the fact he’s not planning to move, and walk over to my pants to pick them up.
Eric plasters his body to my spine before I can straighten. “Come on, baby. Don’t be such a goddamn tease.” He wraps one arm around my waist, dangerously low and close to my crotch, while the other squeezes my neck. Fear bubbles in my belly and I fight the urge to puke. Memories rain down over my skin and it’s paralyzing. He’s not choking me, but his stance overpowers my small frame and I’m certain he could if he wanted. My gaze darts to the door of the bus, begging, pleading in silence for someone to come through it. One of the drivers, a roadie, Jax, anyone ...fuck!
“Relax, baby. Ima make ya feel good. I promise.” He grinds his erection into my back as his fingers inch lower to the hem of my panties. I try to scream out but he squeezes hard around my neck, silencing my cries. Tears burn the backs of my eyelids but I refuse to shed one tear, to give this bastard anymore power over me. I’m not a little girl anymore.
“Now, don’t be a bitch,” he growls into my ear.
That’s when I know I have to fight back.
