“It’s fine,” Cady said, snagging her guitar case from the roadie who’d appeared beside her. Best to head off a fight at the pass. “I’m coming home tonight, so Emily will get a good night’s sleep. Right, Em?”
Emily had the good sense to be gracious in victory, giving their mother a big hug and standing demurely by Cady’s side and holding the guitar case for her. “You really like the outfit?” Emily asked.
Her sister was five ten without the three-inch heels, slender as a wire coat hanger. She wore a black skirt with carwash pleats, a slim grey turtleneck, and grey suede over-the-knee boots that left a good four inches of thigh bare. The outfit would have been sleek New York professional except Emily had gone for broke with her makeup, layering in smoky eyes, a hint of blush, and dark lips. She looked far older and more sophisticated than the gawky girl Cady remembered from her last visit in February. Emily had been trying on styles for a couple of years now, trying to find who she was as a growing woman. “You look amazing,” Cady said.
“I made the skirt,” Emily started. “The sweater’s from—”
A mic stand tipped into an equalizer before crashing to the floor just before a man stumbled out from behind a wall of boxed equipment. He untangled his feet, then tripped again as the mic stand rolled back in his direction. He got himself upright and looked around with the fierce concentration of the stupidly drunk. He caught sight of Cady and everyone stopped talking.
“Maud!” he yelled. He stretched a hand toward her. “Maud, I just want to talk to you!”
“Who’s that?” Emily said.
“No idea.” Cady quickly scanned the backstage area for an exit strategy. The last thing she wanted to do was bolt onto the stage, where a crowd still lingered, with their phones and cameras. Her back was literally to the wall, and her little sister stood beside her in heels that Cady would bet her favorite guitar Emily couldn’t run in. As unobtrusively as she could, she stepped in front of her little sister.
“Security. Security!” Chris shouted, looking around wildly.
Great, Cady thought. That’s going to play well on TMZ.
“Hey, big guy,” she said easily as she swatted at Chris to make him shut up. “What’s up?”
“Maud, I love you. I love you, and I want to be with you, and I’ve written some songs for us to sing together.”
Once, just once, I want a man to confess his love for me using my real name. Not Maud “Really? I could use some new material,” she said, because keeping him talking was obviously the right thing to do, and because behind the drunk, two men in police polos with badges and guns clipped to their belts had materialized. One had reddish brown hair and a lean build that would be easy to underestimate. The other man had a good six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on the other guy and shoulders as broad as a steer’s that tapered to a narrow waist. His dark brown hair swooped back from his forehead, emphasizing a square face dominated by cheekbones and a fighter’s chin.
“Hi, Matt,” Eve said, lifting a hand in a casual wave. Her tone was totally relaxed, but Cady knew that Eve’s Matt was a detective with the Lancaster Police Department. Her attention switched between the admirer, stumbling into boxes and amplifiers and lighting rigs, and the two men stalking him from behind. Cady was pretty sure Matt wasn’t Shoulders, who’d drawn up silent as smoke just behind the drunk guy. She got a flash of slate blue eyes when he flicked a glance her way. Distract him.
“Um … what kind of songs?” she asked.
“A sequel to Love Crossed Stars. It’s about our love. Because I love you.”
Beside her, Chris snorted. “Uh-huh,” she said. Shoulders was inches from his back, so she flashed her brightest smile, gave him a bobblehead nod, and lied through her teeth. “That’s my favorite song. I’d love to sing a sequel.”
When Shoulders’ badge and gun registered in her admirer’s alcohol-soaked brain, he swung out wildly. Shoulders ducked an ineptly aimed backhand and stepped right into the drunk’s body, shoving him off balance, then caught his arm on the forward swing.
“Hey,” Drunk Guy said, indignant, struggling. “Get the fuck off me, man. I just want to talk to her.”
The taller cop got the guy’s other arm in a firm grip, then locked eyes with Shoulders over the flailing drunk’s head. “One … two … three.”
Shoulders thrust his leg behind the drunk’s knee. A neat twist of hips and shoulders, and they took the drunk down, face-first on the floor. A grunt, then a high-pitched yelp. “Ow! Maud!”
“Hey, Romeo,” Shoulders said, snapping a cuff around the man’s wrist. “You think this is your best move? Coming backstage where you don’t belong, smelling like a frat party?”