When the show was over, all I could think about was getting to a phone and calling Cary. While we waited for the crowd to thin, I leaned heavily into Gideon, drawing support from the strength of his arms around me.
“You okay?” he asked, running his hands up and down my back.
“I’m fine,” I lied. Honestly, I didn’t know how I was feeling. It shouldn’t matter that Brett wrote a song about me that painted a different light on our fuck-buddy history. I was in love with someone else.
“I want to go, too,” he murmured. “I’m dying to get inside you, angel. I can barely think straight.”
I pushed my hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “So let’s get out of here.”
“I’ve got backstage access.” He kissed the tip of my nose when I leaned back to look up at him. “We don’t have to tell them, if you’d rather get out of here.”
I seriously debated it for a moment. After all, the night had been great as it was, thanks to Gideon. But I knew it’d bother me later, if I denied Shawna and Arnoldo—who was also a Six-Ninths fan—something they’d remember for the rest of their lives. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to myself that I wanted to catch a glimpse of Brett up close. I didn’t want him to see me, but I wanted to see him. “No. Let’s take them back there.”
Gideon grabbed my hand and spoke to our friends, whose excitement over the news gave me the excuse to say I’d done it solely for them. We headed down toward the stage, then off to the side of it, where Gideon spoke to the massive man acting as security. When the guy spoke into the mic of his headset, Gideon pulled out his cell and told Angus to bring the limo around to the back. While he spoke, his eyes met mine. The heat in them and the promise of pleasure took my breath away.
“Your man is the ultimate,” Shawna said, eyeing Gideon with a look of near reverence. It wasn’t a predatory look, just an appreciative one. “I can’t believe this night. I owe you big-time for this.”
She pulled me in for a quick, hard hug. “Thank you.”
I hugged her back. “Thank you for inviting me.”
A tall, rangy man with blue streaks in his hair and stylish black-framed glasses approached us. “Mr. Cross,” he greeted Gideon, extending his hand. “I didn’t know you’d be coming tonight.”
Gideon shook the man’s hand. “I didn’t tell you,” he replied smoothly, reaching his other hand out to me.
I caught it and he pulled me forward, introducing me to Robert Phillips, Six-Ninths’ manager. Shawna and Arnoldo were introduced next; then we were led back through the wings, where activity was high and groupies loitered.
I suddenly didn’t want to catch even a glimpse of Brett. It was so easy to forget how it’d been between us while I was listening to him sing. It was so easy to want to forget after listening to the song he’d written. But that time in my past was something I was far from proud of.
“The band’s right in here,” Robert was saying, gesturing to an open door from which music and raucous laughter poured out. “They’ll be excited to meet you.”
My feet dug in suddenly and Gideon paused, glancing at me with a frown.
I pushed up onto my toes and whispered, “I’m not all that interested in meeting them. If you don’t mind, I’m going to hit the backstage bathroom and head out to the limo.”
“Can you wait a few minutes and I’ll go with you?”
“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
He touched my forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You look flushed.”
“I’m feeling great. I’ll show you exactly how great as soon as we get home.”
That did the trick. His frown faded and his mouth curved. “I’ll hurry this along, then.” He looked at Robert Phillips and gestured at Arnoldo and Shawna. “Can you take them in? I need a minute.”
“Gideon, really . . .” I protested.