Jesus, she must have thought he was the biggest *. “Yeah. Great. Let’s do this.”
He led her through the storage of sets, past the technician work area, down a fluorescent-lit corridor, and backstage—the back-of-house. Scrutinizing every face, every shifty hand of the passing crew members, his alertness spiked. Roy’s goons could be anywhere.
Following the clamor of voices, he stopped outside the media dining room. Sweat beaded on his brow and his stomach ached.
A hand slipped over his groin and squeezed. A surge of arousal rushed to her grip. Hello, distraction. He groaned as she dug in her fingers. Fuck.
She blinked up at him with eyes that haunted his dreams. “What can I do?”
Rub harder. Don’t stop. “Stop. Or else I’ll scare off the fans with a massive boner.”
Her hand fell away, and a mischievous smile curled her lips. “I think I’ve got a rubber band in here somewhere.” She opened the bag strapped across her chest.
God help him, she was adorable. “No rubber bands. I’d like to go in there with at least some of my dignity left.”
A glance behind him confirmed Nathan was on their heels. Jay reluctantly handed her over to her bodyguard. “She stays in my sight.” Girding his spine, he walked through the door.
61
The room erupted in high-pitched screeches, flapping papers, and flashbulbs. The rest of the band stood behind stanchions and velvet rope, signing posters and CD jackets. The rope wouldn’t stop an enthusiastic fan, but it served as a reminder that the dozen security staff provided by the arena would remove a line-jumper without hesitation.
Numbness tingled through Jay’s fingers and toes as he approached the energetic mob of fifty or more. Arms reached over the line, fingers wiggling and band paraphernalia waving.
He reminded himself the adorers appreciated his music and that very moment might be the most memorable in their lives. Idolatry and all of that. He got it. He would’ve been the first in line had Jimi Hendrix risen from the grave.
Faye appeared at his side and handed him a black marker. Having his own pen helped him maintain minimal contact with the fans.
Nathan guided Charlee to the back wall, his eyes alert and posture rigid. Good.
A probe through the room would’ve probably revealed his ten-man protective team, but Jay’s attention was ripped away by the doe-eyed girl before him.
“I love you so much, Jay.” She shoved a portrait of his airbrushed face at him.
“Thank you.” He never knew what to say to them. Reciprocated love certainly didn’t make the list of automatic responses. Did that make him a dick?
“I love you, too.” Rio smiled at a girl down the line, pinching her nose and wiggling it. She bounced up and down, squealing.
Across the room, a small smile turned up the corner of Charlee’s mouth. At least she was enjoying this.
Forty-five minutes later, Jay autographed the last photo, grabbed Charlee’s hand, and pulled her out of the overheated room.
“Fifteen minutes till show time,” Faye shouted after him.
He flicked a finger over his shoulder and strode down the hall. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Nathan and Tony were on his trail. Two more of his bodyguards, Colson and Vanderschoot, swept past, blending into the stream of crew members in their jeans and t-shirts.
Hyper-aware of his security team, Jay strummed with an intense feeling of dread. Tony was usually his only shadow backstage. The extra personnel should’ve comforted him. Instead, it was a reminder of the threat against the precious woman at his side.
He scanned the halls and rooms they passed, straining to see something or someone out of place. Protecting Charlee gave him a sudden appreciation for how hard Tony’s job was.
Did Roy have access to these tightly secured areas? Of course he did. He owned their record company, which owned their production company. Jay’s dread magnified.
A man in suit pants and a collared shirt loitered outside a storage room. Who the fuck was that? An access pass hung from a lanyard around his neck.
Jay pulled Charlee close to his side and kept them moving toward the stage area.
The squeak of sneakers echoed around the bend. A wiry guy with dreadlocks skidded into view, balancing lighting equipment. Where was his badge? Was he a legitimate member of the lighting crew?
“I need to pee. Do I have time?” Charlee pointed at the restroom a few feet ahead.
Nathan moved around them and disappeared behind the door marked Women.
“Jay Mayard?”
A male voice, one startling similar to the fucker Jay heard on TV that morning. His pulse spiked as he spun and shoved the man against the wall.