An armful of CDs tumbled to the floor and a pimple-faced kid in his twenties stared up at him out of wide eyes. His overlong hair tangled around the kind of headset worn by the band’s stage crew.
Fucking hell. He’d lost his ever-loving mind. Jay jumped back, releasing the kid and crunching plastic cases underfoot. The threat of Roy, the usual pre-show jitters, and his anxious need to keep Charlee pinned to his side created a fog of dizziness that shook his knees. He searched his pockets and remembered the overflowing trash can Nathan had carried out of his room the prior night. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tony stepped in front of him. Jay couldn’t see her face, but the kid cowered.
“I…uh…my little sister loves The Burn. I’m…I work on the backline crew and was wondering if Mr. Mayard would sign my sister’s CDs?”
“Bathroom’s clear.” Nathan held the door open for Charlee.
She slipped out of reach, eyes narrowed at Jay under lowered lashes. Was that disapproval?
Jay’s heart rate escalated, his nerves fraying. “I’ll go in with you, Charlee.”
She looked away and slipped into the restroom. Dammit to hell. His face fevered.
“Sign your albums,” Nathan said from the doorway. “I’ve got this.”
The door shut and rattled the walls. Fuck Nathan. Jay lurched forward, fists clenched and ready. He tripped.
The kid grunted from the floor where he gathered the CDs. He shook out his fingers.
Great. Not only had Jay shoved him, he’d stepped on his hand. Feeling like an ass, he dropped to a knee and picked up the cracked cases. “What’s your name?”
“Kevin.” He lowered his voice and flicked his gaze at Tony’s back. “Brady told me to give you this.” He tugged a tiny zip-locked baggie out of his pocket and stretched his arm toward Jay. “Said if I did, you’d sign this stuff for me.”
Brady. His longest-standing roadie and hook-up for all things drug-related.
Jay dragged his eyes away from the mix of yellow and white pills. Oxycontin with a Phenergan prep for nausea. He knew it well. “No. Not interested.” His finger twitched.
Lips as red as the poor kid’s pimples curved downward, as did his bony shoulders.
“Tell you what, Kevin. Give Faye your contact information, and I’ll ship you a signed copy of every album we’ve produced. Okay?” He held out the broken CDs he’d collected.
The baggie dangled from Kevin’s trembling fingers, waiting.
Just beyond the bathroom door, Charlee was peeing under Nathan’s watchful gaze. Motherfuck, he wanted to punch something. If he hadn’t lost his shit, he would’ve been in there with her instead of her donkey-fucking hero.
In a few short minutes, Jay would be singing to thousands. So much pressure. So many people. So many notes to fuck up. And he hadn’t slept since the nap on the plane the prior day. What if he glanced at his fingers on the fret too long and Charlee disappeared from view? He was strung so tight, he wouldn’t make it through the first song without breaking down.
Forty migs of Oxycontin would give him a little lift. Buzzy enough to smooth his edginess, but not too potent to steal his vigilance over her.
With a peek at Tony’s back, he slipped the bag from Kevin’s fingers as he dumped the CDs into his hands. “Find Faye, our manager. And I’m sorry about the shove. And stepping on your fingers.”
Kevin jumped up. “No worries. Thanks so much, Mr. Mayard.”
No worries. Good one. Pacing in front of the bathroom door, Jay checked the number stamps on the pills. Nice thing about Oxycontin was there were no real side effects as long as he managed his use. He wasn’t an addict so there was no harm in this one pill. Charlee didn’t even need to know about it.
A twinge of guilt lodged in his throat. He swallowed it back and chased it with a yellow forty and white twenty-five.
In twenty minutes, he would be ready to rockatize the arena.
62
The bounce and sway of twenty thousand concert-goers electrified the air, sparking off Charlee’s body and lifting her skin with goose pimples. The sea of waving arms and camera phones flickered through the stands as far as she could see. They probably would’ve fought each other for her seat. Guaranteed the owners of the dozen or so eyes burning into her back would have.
She wouldn’t let the groupies barricaded in the wing ruin the moment. It wasn’t her fault they weren’t allowed on the stage. Jay told her where to sit, she sat, and no one questioned him.
She perched on a bass cabinet on the stage deck. If the fans in the front row squinted at the shaded edge, they might’ve seen her. And despite their chanting pleas, Jay refused to emerge from the shadowed recess beside her.