“April, what do you say? I’ve heard you sing, and it’s about time the rest of the world got to hear you too.”
And now she spotted him, almost like the crowd had parted in that brief moment just to give her a glimpse of the hopeful expression written on his guilt-ridden face. And he really did look hopeful. He really did look like he wanted her up there beside him. He really did look sincere.
It was just like her dream, in the flesh and incredibly true.
But there was one problem.
Not once—not in the hundred or so times this dream had played through her mind in the past three years since she had found the courage to take on this job and the hope that came with it—did she ever imagine herself turning around, dropping everything in her hands, and running away.
Sometimes during a concert, Jack would pause the performance for a minute—a dramatic break that was made to appear spontaneous but in fact had been overly rehearsed—then scan the crowd looking for a woman to join him onstage. Screaming would ensue, followed by the shouting of names and the occasional attempt by a fan or two to mount the stage uninvited, until Jack finally picked the girl. She was always pretty. Always on the voluptuous side. Always standing next to a boyfriend because Jack liked to see them get mad. And—he would never admit it out loud—always blond.
But never, not once, had anyone refused to join him. Even more preposterous—never had one resorted to running away from him. To say he was mad was an understatement. To say he wanted to finish this stupid song he was stuck singing and punch something was dead-on accurate. But he had to keep performing, plus wrap up two more songs before he could jump down and leave this place. All because April Quinn had just rejected him in front of several hundred screaming fans.
He knew she was mad, but he still thought she would see the invitation as a compliment. The opportunity of a lifetime, even. An unbelievable chance to show the world what she was made of. And maybe he was also a little hopeful that his one simple act of kindness would get April to stand next to him in that tight little dress.
He was a man. Of course he’d noticed. He’d been staring all night.
Not that it mattered, because clearly her bitterness ran deeper than he thought. Well, her anger wasn’t healthy, and it was time she realized it. And if he had to be the one to tell her . . . then fine. He would. As soon as this last song was over.
“We’ve got one more for you tonight,” he said into the microphone. The noise grew and swelled above the already ear-splitting roar he’d been listening to for the better part of an hour. “I hope you’ve had fun, and I hope to see all of you back here sometime soon.” They were customary platitudes and nothing more; Jack was never coming back here. “But until then, you’ve got one more chance to get a little crazy!”
And with that, his fingers grazed through the opening riff of “Crazy Little Thing”—his most recent release. They’d been waiting for it all night, and within seconds, the crowd jumped and roared. But all Jack could see was that feminine figure retreating into the back of the bar.
Only one more verse and two more choruses to go, and then he would retrace her footsteps.
It was time he and April Quinn reached an understanding.
“I said go away, Jack. And I meant go away.”
He banged his head once, twice, three times against the doorframe. It was the fourth time he’d done this, and—who knew?—it really could give a guy a headache. But he wasn’t leaving until she opened the door. He just needed to figure out a way to get her to do it. So far begging, bribing with dinner, and offering to cowrite his next hit song with her hadn’t worked. He’d reached the end of his creativity, and he was out of ideas. Unless a bolt of lightning struck or God himself reached down and zapped him with a sudden burst of inspiration, he would be standing in this hallway all night. And of all the places he could imagine pulling an all-nighter with a pretty girl, a narrow, dimly lit corridor lined with industrial-sized bottles of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise wasn’t it. He hated mayo; even the sight of it made him nauseous. Jack rolled his eyes toward the ceiling just to have something else to look at.
“I’m not leaving, April. Not until you talk to me.”
“Then you’re going to be standing out there until the rapture hits, because I’m not talking to you before then.”
The rapture? Whatever. The sound of her muffled voice had long since driven him crazy, and not in a good way. He could tell she’d been crying, could hear the wetness in her voice despite the fact that it was laced with the kind of anger that meant she wanted to kill him. The combination managed to soften his attitude toward her, while at the same time it gave him a stronger urge to see her.