Now I just have to figure out a way to stop wanting to fuck her senseless.
They hit their final notes to a plume of smoke from the pyro canisters and a flurry of the colored stage lighting. The crowd roars as the stage goes dark. When the lights come up a few seconds later, Lucky is just standing there, staring at the ocean of people on their feet for her. Finally, she slams her guitar in the stand and takes a lap along the edge of the stage, waving to the cheering throng. People are tossing flowers and teddy bears, and she scoops a bouquet up as she jogs toward stage left, where I’m waiting for her. Just as she reaches the wings, but before she gets to me, the bass player grabs her by the waist and pulls her into a full body hug.
“You fucking slayed them!” he yells over the roar of applause that follows them offstage.
“Thanks. You were awesome.” She must know that’s a lie, but she gives him a hug and a smile anyway. He tries to plant one on her, but she turns her head and his mouth lands on her cheek. The house lights come up as the roadies start pushing past them onto the stage and Lucky pulls loose from his grasp. He’s slow to let her go.
“Come back to the bus and party with us,” he says, still holding her arm. There’s an air of desperation in his request that’s pretty obvious and totally pathetic.
“Billie’s got a car waiting for me,” she says, backing away. I bristle, wondering who Billie is, until I remember her manager introducing herself yesterday. I feel my bunched shoulders drop from around my ears…until Lucky adds, “But I’ll try to stop by for a minute.”
Her smile vanishes as she turns toward me.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her expression all suspicion.
Behind her, Max stands his ground for a minute, glaring me down, before the drummer chest bumps him and they both take off.
“Working,” I say with a smirk, echoing her response from yesterday.
Her eyes roll.
“Besides, wanted to hear what you got,” I confess with a nod at the stage.
“And?” A shadow of doubt passes over her face and it hits me: she actually cares what I think.
“I think the writing blows, but your performance saved it.”
“Not everyone can be the infallible Tro Gunnison,” she spits, her eyes narrowing, and I realize she didn’t take that as the compliment it was meant to be.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “I only meant that you’ve got something pretty incredible going on out there,” I say with a nudge of my chin at where the roadies are tearing down her band’s gear. “With the right material, you’re looking at world domination.”
Her face changes, softens a little, then pulls into a deep cringe as she lowers her gaze. “You’re right. It sucks.”
“All but that last piece.” I reach behind me and grab the two beers sitting on the crate there. I twist the cap off one and hand it to her—a peace offering.
She takes it and her eyes lift to mine again. “I’m screwed.”
I shake my head as I crack open my beer and take a long swallow. “Not if you find someone who can write.”
She throws her free hand in the air in frustration. “But that’s the thing! I have someone who can write. That last song, the one that won The Voice, was written by my best friend. I’ve got a whole bunch more of hers that they rejected.” She flings a scowl at the stage. “They gave me all that fluff instead.”
The second she says it, I get what’s going on. “You’re young and hot,” I say, and can’t help my eyes from roaming over that incredible body. “They’re trying to brand you pop because they think that’s your audience, but you’re really a rocker.”
She chugs half her beer and turns back to me. “So, what do I do?”
I take a deep breath. “You’re in a tough spot. What are your contract terms? Do they have you under contract for another studio album, or was that it?”
“Just that for now, but my manager’s negotiating for more.”
“Tell her to stop,” I say. “You need to find a label that’s on the same page creatively.”
She takes another sip of beer. “What if no one else wants to sign me?”
I give her a slow shake of my head. “That’s not going to happen.”
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t know that.”
“I can,” I say, draining my beer.
She gives me a skeptical raise of her eyebrows. “Really.”
“Really.”
“How?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I know some people.”
Her gaze grows suspicious again, but before she can say anything, two immense hands come crashing down on my shoulders from behind.
“Gunner!” Jamie bellows, and the next second he’s climbing all up my back. “Introduce me.” Before I can get a word out of my mouth, he’s pushed past me and is sticking his hand out toward Lucky. “I’m Jamie Harris.”
Lucky stares up at him from over a foot below as his hand swallows hers. “Shiloh Luck.”