“Wyatt balances me,” Cal argues. “He’s been as virginal as—” He runs his gaze over the length of me before cocking his head to one side. “Well, shit, he’s just been virginal.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. There’s a sound against a window inside of the bus, and I tilt my head back to see a pink-manicured finger tapping a rhythmic beat on the glass. “I think you’re being summoned.”
Looking behind him, Cal waves at the woman inside of the bus before turning back to Lucas and me. “Looks like I am. God, I love Houston.” He shoots us a wicked grin as he heads up the bus steps. After stepping inside, he grabs something from behind the door. I’m surprised when he holds a guitar out to me, wiggling it around until I accept.
“Enjoy,” Cal tells me. “Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe has good taste.”
I don’t get a chance to respond before the door slams in my face. I draw away from Lucas, running my fingertips along the body of the Gibson guitar. It’s beautiful—with a mahogany back and sides. “You plan on teaching me how to play this thing?” I ask gently, and he nods.
“I missed your birthday in June.” He takes the guitar out of my hands, holding it effortlessly as he leads me back to our bus. “Figured if you can play a piano like that, I can talk you into this, too.”
Twisting my face, I study his expression carefully, searching for any of the stress that’s been there the last few days. It’s not there, but then again, Lucas is good at hiding his emotions. I press my palm to his hard chest, letting the steady beat of his heart drum against my hand.
“It’s perfect,” I say. As he walks up the steps of the bus, I curl my fingers into his tee shirt, stopping him from going inside.
“What is it?”
I pinch my lips together and then relax my mouth. “Is everything okay?”
He gives me one of those soft looks that pull me apart, piece-by-piece. “Never been better, Red.”
One thing I quickly realized about being on the road is just how much I prefer the outdoor concert venues. Sure it’s the second week of August, which means it’s ridiculously hot and nearly all my clothes cling uncomfortably to my body—and the Dallas show on Sunday night is only the second one that I’ve attended outside—but there’s something magical about listening to Your Toxic Sequel’s delicious brand of angst and debauchery under the stars. A rush of adrenaline speeds through me as I leave our bus for the backstage area, a gray-painted building that’s located directly behind the venue.
A beefy guy wearing a baseball cap and a black Security tee shirt that hugs his broad muscles guards the entrance to the building. “You have a crew pass?” he asks, skimming his eyes over me when I walk up. I lift my wrist and hold it close to his face. Once he examines my black and red wristband that reads YTS VIP-AUG 12, he lets me in. “Have a good one, ma’am.”
“You, too.” Pulling in a deep breath, I step forward into the chaos that is backstage. As I force my way through the crewmembers moving around busily in the wide hallways, I hear a female voice shouting my name.
Spinning around, I use my height to scan my eyes over the crowd. At last I spot Maggie, the wardrobe director, cupping her hands over her pierced lips. Noticing that she’s caught my attention, her shoulders slump a little.
She crooks one of her fingers at me. “I need you,” she mouths before disappearing inside of the room she stood in front of. I follow close behind her, barely missing two stocky roadies who are lugging a wide black box of equipment. Inside of the dressing room, Maggie is accompanied by a few other people that I’ve yet to meet. Still, it’s nowhere near as chaotic in here, so I rush in.
As soon as I close the door, pressing my shoulders against it, I lift my gaze to Maggie. She’s leaned over a vanity table, making hasty scribbles on a bright pink clipboard.
“Please tell me you’re not busy,” she pleads in a strained voice.
I rock back on the heels of my nautical-inspired espadrille flats. “Only if you need me to be.”
Her head pops up, and under the harsh vanity lighting, I notice how freckled she is. “Ugh, where have you been all my life?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “The boys have agreed to let these wonderful folks film tonight’s show.” She gestures around the room, and for the first time, I notice that one of the guys has a giant camera hoisted on his shoulder. He wiggles his fingers at me, so I incline my head in acknowledgment.
“What do you need me to do?” I question Maggie.
She swipes one of her wrists across her forehead, leaving a light sheen of sweat on the pinup tattoos that extend from her wrist to the inside of her thin elbow. ““They want do a quick interview with me. God knows why, but whatever, right?” She points to the wardrobe rack that’s against the wall on the side of the room. “And I’m already a little behind because I had to hunt some purple fishnets for Cilla. Can you finish this up for me for the boys?”
I stride over to the garment rack. “Of course.” Turning a little, I take in how flustered she looks and offer her an encouraging smile. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t tell them this is the easiest job ever.”
She scrapes her hands through her short mess of black and blonde curls. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Sienna.” She darts away, muttering about her hatred for all things camera related.
The camera crew follows right on the heels of her gladiator sandals.
Pinching my bottom lip between my teeth, I race my hands across the bounty of jeans and tee shirts hanging just a few inches from my face. It feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve gotten to do work—even though I have spent a good deal of my bus time focusing on my job back in Nashville. Of course, checking and responding to emails has absolutely nothing on being hands-on.
Call me silly, but having Maggie ask me to help out right now makes me feel a little giddy.
Maggie’s already gone so far as to separate everything on the rack with colored dividers for each member of the band, so most of my work has already been done for me. Because I can hear Wicked Lambs running through their set on stage, I go as fast as I can, humming a Queens of the Stone Age song that Sinjin had been listening to this morning on our bus.
Less than ten minutes later, I’ve made selections for the band that’s suitable for the dry Texas weather.
I load everything onto a shorter wardrobe cart that I find in the back of the closet and then roll it down the hall to Your Toxic Sequel’s dressing room. Because this is a smaller venue, they’re sharing a space that David is standing in front of. His arms are crossed over his chest, making him look the part of badass bodyguard. As soon as he spots me, he offers me the same unsure look—crooked grin and hesitant chocolate brown eyes—that he’s been sending my way ever since Sinjin told him I was Lucas’s girlfriend.
“Maggie put you to work?”
“Finally.” I jerk my head toward the closed room behind him, making my long red ponytail swing around one of my shoulders. David’s gaze follows my hair where it lingers a little longer than necessary on my boobs. I clear my throat. “Um, is it safe for me to go in?”
Yanking his dark eyes up to mine, he lifts his shoulders and reaches back to knock several times on the heavy metal door. “As safe as it’s gonna get.” The door swings open, and David holds it wide for me as I shove my cart through the entranceway. “Are you watching the show tonight?” he asks.
I peek back at him. “Are you kidding me? The outside ones are the best.”
He nods in agreement before returning to the hallway and letting the door clank shut.
Stopping in the center of the room a few feet away from a beverage table, I draw in a deep breath, sniffing the air. And once my brain processes just how good this room smells, I inhale again.