A knock at the bus door draws me from my thoughts. The man who pokes his head inside is familiar. I didn’t catch his name, but he was there when we left LA this morning. “Opal?”
“That’s me.” I stand up and wave.
“I’m Dave. Trent asked me to escort you backstage. You ready?”
I nod and glance down at my sundress once more before I follow Dave outside and through the back entrance of the arena. The floral patterned fabric of the skirt brushes my knees. It’s one of the nicest outfits I own, and even paired with my brown leather boots, I feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb. Too country. Too modest. First opportunity I have, I’m splurging on new clothes.
“Excuse the madness.” Dave grins, and not a second later yanks me to the side as a roadie barrels through and almost knocks me to the ground. “Whoa. You okay?”
“I’m good.” Eyes wide, I nod and follow his path. That roadie would have run me over. Rolled right over my feet like I don’t even exist. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it rattles more than my nerves. Am I really so invisible? I don’t give voice to the answer.
The sound of the chanting crowd pulses louder the further inside we go. There’s even more of the crew, and they move with speed and precision, switching out equipment and moving things off-stage while another group of men strum at least five guitars off to the side of the stage. There’s so much commotion. I stay close in case I need to use Dave for a body shield again.
“Over here.” Dave glances over his shoulder and waves me further back. I don’t see the guys anywhere, but I guess they wouldn’t be waiting on the sidelines for this part. Dave shows me over to one side of the stage. There’s a few rows of chairs, and from here I can see the lighted arena. Rows and rows of fans clap and cheer as the lights dim twice. It’s almost show time.
“Need anything?” Dave shouts, but I see him mouth the words more than hear them.
I wince as the crowd erupts in screams. The stage and arena go black but for the few safety lights. “I’m good!” I lean forward, hoping he can hear.
His face pulls to the side with a grin and he nods before scrambling back to the stage. I have a feeling that guy has an eclectic list of job responsibilities if he’s also tasked with walking me to my seat.
The crowd maintains a chorus of screams and shouts that makes it impossible to hear a thing as the stage fogs with smoke. The energy in the air is palpable and I find myself too anxious to sit. My eyes squint as I stare through the thinning haze. Leighton’s who I notice first. Even with the darkened stage his shadow stands out, his movements graceful and fluid for a man his height. All long limbs, he doesn’t seem like a drummer. He doesn’t give off a rock vibe, either. More J. Crew model. But I know they wouldn’t have hired him if he couldn’t play. Through the shadows I watch him take his place behind the drum set.
“Hi.” A voice says at my left and I practically jump along with the first beat of the bass drum.
Bedo’s lips pull into a tight smile and he takes a seat in the empty chair at my right.
I don’t like him and not only because of the guys’ warnings. He has an air about him I don’t trust. His eyes are unnerving. The way he’s staring, even right now, makes me feel as though he’s able to see every private detail of my life.
I blow out a breath of nerves and tilt more toward the band so I don’t catch his stare in my peripheral view. I’ve never been this close to a live show and I’m excited to watch Three Ugly Guys in action. The spotlights flick on, pouring over Trent’s hair as he tosses it from his face and grips the mic. The music swells, guitars, bass, and drums all crashing together in a rough harmony.
Trent belts out the first line and I swear the screams from the crowd increase to meet the volume of the music. My ears ring and I jump as something touches my knee. I glance down.
Bedo’s holding out his hand, and his open fist contains two bright yellow ear plugs. He’s not even looking at me. His other hand grips his cell and he’s typing out what looks to be an email with only his thumb. He glances up and juts his palm closer. “Take them.” He mouths the words.
“Thank you,” I murmur even though there’s no way he can hear, not with the same yellow plugs protruding from his ears. It almost feels like cheating the experience, to put up a barrier to the sound, but as soon as I slide them in I realize it doesn’t block the music completely.
Stage lights illuminate the band with the bridge of the chorus and my gaze immediately draws to Austin. He’s hard not to watch. My Lord, the way his fingers run up and down those steel strings floods heat to my skin. His long fingers move with skill and a practiced precision that causes me to squeeze my thighs together. My mind conjures all the illicit ways he’s no doubt able to use those fingers. Dirty visions only skyrocket the moment he steps up to a mic and joins in to sing backup vocals. Rock stars? Sexy. But a rock star who also sings? Guard my ovaries, because right now if he asked, I’dsohave his babies.
You’re going to hell.
Shame washes over me, and guilt instantly replaces my naughty thoughts. I shouldn’t objectify him. He’s working. This is his career. I force my eyes not to follow as Austin struts toward the edge of the stage and screaming fans. At the crash of a cymbal, I glance back to Leighton.
Sweet Jesus.
My skin prickles with a rush of awareness as I study the changes to his appearance. Gone is the clean-cut boy. He still looks like a model, but with the black eyeliner and tousled dark hair—the ends practically begging to be touched—he is every bit the rock god he plays on stage. A pang of longing and lust flood my veins.
I’d have his babies, too.
What is wrong with me?I spend one day on this tour and I’m ready to throw my virginity out the window? Not that I’m holding on to it forever or until marriage, but I am waiting for someone special. Someone who values and respects me; who treasures what I’ve spent so many years protecting.
Reality check. It’s neither of those men on stage.
A quick glance out to the thousands of screaming fans only confirms that thought. There’s no way I could compete with any of this. I don’t know how Lexi does it. Actually, I do. She exudes a confidence I’ve never had. That and the fact she’d cause permanent bodily harm if Trent even dreamed of cheating. Still. I don’t know how she can share him with the world.
Point in case, he takes the break between songs to peel off his sweat-soaked shirt, much to the screaming adoration of concert attendees. Even with the earplugs I can feel the reverberation of applause. Yeah, I don’t know that I’d be okay with that. My boyfriend on-stage half naked for others to ogle and fantasize about?
And how hypocritical is that, since moments ago I was doing the very thing while admiring Leighton and Austin.
