“Sorry. If I hadn’t kept you talking outside the hotel—”
“I was already late. Not even remotely a possibility that any of this is your fault.”
He ducks his head and peeks at me from under his eyelashes. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
I can’t help but smile at him. “Thanks. It was a valiant effort.”
“So, not that it’s any of my business, but this looks pretty intense for being late to sound check.”
Tracing the carved ivy pattern on the iron tabletop, I shrug. “Yeah. There’s, um, other stuff.”
Not that I plan to tell you any of it.
“I see,” he says quietly. “Well, maybe we can talk about that tonight at dinner? There’s a Mexican place on the other side of town that stays open late.” I smile up at him but the ever-present gleam in his eye dims. “How many times can I ask you to dinner before I start to seem desperate?”
“If you’ve had to ask her more than once, she doesn’t want to go. Bluebird never turns down free food.” Gavin’s voice startles us both.
And what the hell? He’s never called me that in front of anyone. Ever.
Afton’s eyes go wide and he puts his hands up. “My bad? man. She never mentioned having a boyfriend.”
“That’s because she doesn’t have one,” I inform him. I finally get it. Gavin can dish it out but he can’t take it. Standing so that I’m level with both of them, I give Afton my full attention. “And I’d love to have dinner with you. Just find me after your show.”
A wide smile breaks across his face. “Cool. Have a great show, Dixie Lark.” With a wink, he disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone with Broody von Glareyface.
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
“Saving your ass so your brother doesn’t kick you out of the band or take away your solo.”
“Ah. It’s time, I guess?”
“Yeah. It is.” Without another word he turns and I follow him back to the stage. The crowd near the bars is thick, a sea of bodies we have to maneuver through. But as we get to the stage it’s a bit sparser.
This is the trouble with being the opening act. Everyone is still sober and that makes for a much less forgiving audience. It’s still dusk and not quite dark enough for the stage lights to work their magic. Dallas isn’t completely wrong when he says we need to be perfect and not half-ass it. The sound guys are still working bugs out so there will be glitches during our show that we can’t prevent.
For Dallas, this is unacceptable. For me, it’s just part of it. The bumps and the bruises, the memories of everything gone wrong, of playing through the hiccups—that’s part of what I love about it. Music is an experience. It’s alive. Untamable. You can try to plan it out, pin it down, and bend it to your will, but it can’t really be done.
I was born to be an opening act, to fly by the seat of my pants and make the best of it. But my brother is a headliner.
And Gavin . . . I don’t know exactly what he is. The encore, maybe. The one nobody can get enough of.
As much of a train wreck as I am right now, I can’t help but notice the way his black jeans are slung low across his hips, drumsticks sticking out of one pocket. And how taut his shirt is pulled across his broad back and the way his ink moves as the thick ropes of muscles shift in his arms.
When we reach the stage, Gavin goes straight to his drums. He’s angry. At me, I think. I can feel it. I’m just not exactly sure why.
Sighing and retrieving Oz, I’m surprised when Dallas comes over to me.
“Dallas, I really am—”
I don’t finish my millionth apology because my brother wraps his arms around me. His words are low in my ear as his hands thread through my hair.
“I know it’s been ten years, and I know you miss them. I’m sorry, Dixie Leigh. I’m so damn sorry.”
The shock of affection combined with the force of emotion weighing in his voice makes an impact the cracks beneath my surface nearly shatter under.