Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Then I face the mic again. Everything rushes back in—crowd screaming, bass kicking, drums pushing, and Timothy right there in the middle of it, now with his eyebrows lifted, making even him look puzzled by me. My eyes are only on Timothy when I finally thrust shaky fingers over strings, letting Glorious sing first, and then part my lips to join him.
It’s a miracle we make it through.
Every song on the setlist, too.
The lights that occasionally comb over the audience play with my eyes, causing me to lose sight of him now and then. Sometimes I lose sight of everything, giving myself to the music, eyes closed as I let the lyrics and chords flow through the vessel of my body. Even when I don’t see him, I feel him there.
But I don’t want to. What’s he here for? Answers I don’t have?
I wanted him far away from this. From me. Safe, back in his totally-not-as-bad-as-he-made-it-out-to-be hometown of Spruce.
Not standing in a crowd of potential maniacs who would eat him alive if they knew we kissed. If they knew we had something.
If they knew anything at all.
Why are you here, Timothy?
It feels both like ten hours later and the blink of an eye when the show’s over and I’ve gotten my phone from my dressing room to check for calls or texts from him, something I may have missed.
Nothing.
“Are you sure?” I ask Rob, who’s standing by the door leading to the lobby in all his arms-crossed muscular glory. “No one?”
“Chase … c’mon, man,” he groans.
“It won’t be a big deal,” I plead with him. “I just need to check something. I’m pretty sure I saw someone I know out there, and—”
“No can do. Sorry, man. Give me a description and I can send someone to look, but you can’t go out there and you know it.”
Of course I can’t give a description. No one can know about Timothy, let alone what he looks like. Also, I understand where Rob’s coming from. He was the head of security during our scary stalker era. His caution isn’t coming from nowhere. “Rob …”
“Hey, if you’re wanting to meet fans again,” he goes on with a shrug, misunderstanding what I want, “maybe talk it over with Ian and the others, see if we can set up an official meet-and-greet next show, but I can’t open these doors.”
Next show.
He may not be at the next show—or any show, ever again.
But I can’t push it here. If I do something crazy, it’ll be Rob’s head, and the last thing I need is to be on someone else’s shit list.
I thank him and dismiss myself, Rob watching me with some questions still in his eyes—questions I hope he forgets. When no one’s looking, I sneak back into the wings of the stage, dodging both house crew and our own as they tear down and load things away. The whole auditorium is clear, the big lights up, only venue staff and workers left doing their things, sweeping and mopping the floors, breaking down equipment, taking things down. No one is left out there. I slip back into the hallways and search for a side door, but the only one I find leads to an unused loading bay with no access to the main parking lot. I could go around the perimeter of the whole damned building, but just the thought of Rob getting in trouble for my antics stops me.
I can text Timothy, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s him knowing who I am now—who I really am. It makes a difference what I do now. How I handle this. Whether I send a simple fucking text or not. I hate this so much …
“Mr. Holt.”
I turn. Raj stands there in a sweated-through tank, blinking. We’re in a back hall near the dressing rooms and the loading bay door. No one’s been by this way for a short while now.
And he keeps blinking. Intentionally. “Mr. Holt …?” I ask with a lift of an eyebrow. “Since when do you call me that?”
He smiles strangely. “I was studying the audience tonight, as I so often do during these shows, and … couldn’t help but wonder to myself if you still like horseshoes?”
Now it’s me blinking at him. “Is that a riddle?”
“Partly. Anyway, I think you may enjoy some time in private. To think about horseshoes. In a dressing room.” He comes really close to me, close enough to lick my ear. “And my room is so much more private than yours. No one ever checks up on me. Not even Dee. My drawers are always stocked. Just around the corner across from Wily’s. I’m going to chat with Emmett about literally nothing at all for thirty minutes exactly. Please don’t touch the sticks.”
He’s gone quicker than he appeared.