A low wolf whistle rings out as I step into the van and sit beside a severely pierced-up guy that I’m pretty sure is Mikey Beam, their electric guitarist.
“Easy, fellas,” Afton tells them as he gets into the driver’s seat in the van. “This is Dixie Lark and she’s in the band opening up for us tonight. She’s in a bit of a hurry, so we’re taking the shortcut.”
A few of them nod at me, and Mikey steals my hat and puts it on his head.
“Hey, mister.” I nudge his shoulder gently and he laughs. “My hair’s a mess. I need that.”
“I think it’s more my style, what do you think?” He poses and readjusts it so it falls over one eye.
The guys whistle at him and I roll my eyes.
We’re all jostled as the van hits a bump and I glance out the front windshield.
“Really, Afton?” The older man in the passenger seat who I hadn’t noticed before asks. I assume he’s some sort of handler since I know they don’t have a manager yet.
“When a beautiful woman says she needs to get somewhere, you get her there,” Afton replies, successfully heating my cheeks several degrees.
“Aww,” Mikey coos. “Afton has a crush on you, pretty girl. I’ll pass you a note asking you to go steady with him in a few minutes.”
“That’s real cute, asshole,” Afton mutters, barely loud enough for me to hear.
As he speeds toward Sixth Street on a road that I’m pretty sure is closed for the festival, I examine him more closely. Dark curly mass of hair over a handsome yet boyish face. And yet.
He’s no Gavin.
God I hate my subconscious sometimes.
Before I have time to check out him or any of the other muscled mounds of testosterone, we screech to a halt and Mikey slides the door open. Afton has literally driven me right up through the crowd to stage seven.
“Thanks for the ride, fellas,” I call out as I hop down out of the van. My right ankle stings a little from the harsh impact but I don’t have time to process the pain.
“Have a great show tonight,” Afton calls out.
I’ve only made it a few steps when I glance up and see Dallas and Gavin both glaring at me from onstage.
I offer them each an apologetic smile and a small wave as I make my way to the stairs.
“Hey, opening act,” someone calls out from behind me. “You forgot this.”
Turning around, I see Afton holding my hat and grinning.
“Thanks.” I reach for it but he pulls it back. “Have dinner with me.”
“Um, what? You know I have sound check.”
My back is searing with what I know will be my brother’s infuriated glare.
“After the show, crazy girl. Have dinner with me after the show.”
He’s holding my hat just slightly out of my reach. Normally being taunted would piss me off. But somehow Afton Tate manages to be sweet about it. He’s watching me with this nervous hopeful expression and I’m too busy dreading facing my brother to think about what his invitation really is.
“I’ll think about it, okay? Kind of depends on whether or not my brother maims me for being late. The longer I stand here the more likely it is that I’ll be on a Missing poster soon.”
Afton grins and sets my hat sideways on my head. “Okay then. Since it’s life and death and all. But find me after the show, okay?”
I nod, annoyed that I’m not more excited. He’s Afton freaking Tate. Where are the butterflies, the flippy stomach? There isn’t a teenage girl or her mom alive who doesn’t drool all over him and his band. Instead I just feel flattered by the invitation and grateful for the ride.
Walking the death march up to the stage, where I’m sure Dallas is about to berate me, I ignore the reason I’m not jumping at the chance to go to dinner with Afton. The same way that reason ignored me earlier in rehearsal.
“Dallas, I’m sorry. I overslept. I set two alarms like you said and—”