My purse spills when I reached to grab it so I pick up a random tube of lip gloss and swipe some across my mouth. Mascara would be good, but I can’t imagine Dallas would accept separating my lashes as a viable excuse for completely missing sound check.
Oz is still in his case so I lift it and my room key and literally run out the door. There’s no time to wait on the elevator so I jog to the stairs and pray I don’t break my neck in these damn shoes. The heels click like gunshots as I sprint across the lobby, where I collide with an elderly gentleman pushing a wobbly luggage cart filled with suitcases.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir,” I say, continuing toward the exit.
He gives me an appreciative smile and nods before adjusting his now-dilapidated pile of suitcases. Maybe he has a thing for slutty rockettes.
I’ve just hit the sidewalk when I slam into a solid mass. Gathering my bearings and catching my breath, I realize it’s a man, well, a man-child with curly hair and a guitar case strapped to his back.
Jesus. Austin is crowded.
“Sorry,” I say for the second time in two minutes.
He turns his twinkling gray eyes on me and raises a brow. “No need to apologize, beautiful.”
Oh God. Okay, dude number two who appreciates slutty rockettes then.
“Right. Okay, then. Excuse me.”
I go to step around him and hail a cab.
“You heading to MusicFest?”
Sighing as no cabs bother to stop, I turn and frown at my second innocent victim. “Yes. And I’m late for sound check.”
He adjusts his guitar case strap and nods to the left of me. “So are we. Headed there I mean. Not late for sound check. Need a ride?”
A maniac on a bicycle tears past me, nearly knocking me into handsome man-child guitar player’s arms. “Whoa.”
“Careful, there. Austin’s kind of crazy about fitness, apparently. That’s the fourth person on a bike I’ve seen nearly take out a pedestrian. Today.”
“Well this pedestrian is late and if she isn’t on stage seven like ten minutes ago, her brother is going to murder her and stuff her body in a guitar case similar to yours. I’m sorry to be so rude, but I really have to go.”
“We have a van and we know a shortcut,” he informs me.
“A van?” I turn and see several guys around his age lugging equipment into a much nicer van than I’m used to traveling in. It probably even has air-conditioning. Which my frizzed-out hair is tempted by.
“Yeah. I’m sure we have room for one more, long as you don’t mind being a little cramped.”
Risk letting this guy and his friends gang-rape me and toss my body out on a back road, or face Dallas’s wrath . . .
Sadly it takes me a full minute to decide.
“Um, thanks but I probably shouldn’t—”
“Look, I get it. Random dudes in a van, not the safest bet. But we’re All Grown Up, I promise.”
“Yeah, we’re all adults here. And while I appreciate the offer—”
His laughter cuts me off. “No, sweetheart. The band. We’re the band All Grown Up and I’m pretty sure judging from the fiddle you’re carrying and the fact that you’re headed to stage seven, you’re in the band that’s opening up for us tonight.”
I literally want to slap my own face.
“Oh my God. I know you. You’re Afton Tate. Holy shit!”
The lead singer for All Grown Up was a child prodigy that the whole indie music world knows about. At only twenty-one, he’s already turned down deals from several major record labels and his band is still one of the most requested and downloaded.
“Well that’s a new reaction.” He shrugs as we make our way to the van. “But yeah.”
“I’m a fan. Wow. I can’t even . . .”
He chuckles again as he holds the shiny black door of the van open for me. “You could give telling me your name a try. Since you’re my opening act tonight and all.”
“Um, yeah. My name. It’s Dixie. Dixie Lark,” I tell him, realizing I am obviously fangirling all over him now. Ugh. Now I’m the stupid swoony waitress whose eyes I still want to gouge.