“Same here.” I keep my shoulders straight and maintain eye contact. Not because I have something to prove but because I want him to know I belong here. And that the last thing I care about is competing with him when it comes to women. He can have all the groupies to himself.
Wade smirks. “Guess we’ll have to watch our language around here, fellas. Seein’ as Dallas here is going to have his babysitter with him.”
The urge rises in my throat to laugh—and not with him. At his juvenile bullshit. Wade has some chart-topping hits. Several successful albums.
Guess how many of the songs he wrote himself?
Zero. None. Zip. Zilch. Not a single fucking lyric.
Not that I have much room to talk at the moment, but typically I do write my own music.
Dude probably knows all of three chords. I may not have his sales numbers, but at the end of the day, I can look myself in the mirror and be proud of working my ass off for music I believe in instead of shit that was forced on me by someone else.
So if he wants to put me down to establish his alpha male dominance? No sweat off my balls. I’m just here to play my music.
“She spank you if you act up?” Wade nods to Mandy, who stiffens beside me.
“Only if he asks real nice,” she snaps back.
I toss both of my hands up in a gesture to let them know I’m bowing out of this little scuffle. I didn’t know they had history but it’s clear now that they do. Even some of the members of Wade’s crew are backing away.
“You two enjoy your foreplay. I’m going to go introduce myself to the tour sponsor.”
“Tell Red hi for me,” Wade says without taking his eyes off Mandy.
“I’ll do that,” I say, even though I have no idea who Red is. Don’t know, don’t care.
It’s the number-one rule Mandy has reiterated since the moment we found out I was being added to this tour. Hands off Wade’s women. I highly doubt he and I have the same taste anyway. Wade likes the drunk ones with the biggest tits from the front rows, from what I hear. I’ll pass on those walking sex tapes and TMZ exposés waiting to happen, thank you very fucking much.
Stepping offstage, I glance at the empty seats once more.
According to the sign posted by the stage, maximum capacity is 9,450 people. The largest audience I played for on the unsigned artists tour was a little under five thousand folks.
This is it. I made it.
There’s a lyric here somewhere. The quiet before the storm. I know it’s in there somewhere, but I can’t find it with both hands.
Despite my writer’s block, I can feel the enormity of this moment in my bones. The building buzz in my veins. Adrenaline and anticipation fortifying me in their purest forms.
This is only the beginning.
And no amount of adolescent fuckery from Wade or Mandy or anyone else is going to get in my way.
6 | Robyn
“HEY, DIXIE. THANKS FOR GETTING BACK TO ME.”
I’m half out of breath from running across the amphitheater. I’ve left half a dozen voice mails for her but I didn’t know how to ask what I needed to on a recording.
“Sure. Sorry I crashed early last night. But I got your messages. What’s up?”
I move behind a concession booth for a modicum of privacy. The VIP fans are already in line and Dallas and Jase will be down here any minute for the meet-and-greet.
“It’s about Dallas. Well, me and Dallas. We’re on the same tour.”
“Oh God, Robyn. I meant to call you. I completely forgot you told me you were heading up the promo for Wade’s tour. Dallas was so excited about getting added to it and I was on the road when he called me. The pieces didn’t snap together until last weekend and I—”
“It’s fine. Really. I just, um, I just wanted to know . . . Does he know? That he’ll be working with me?”
The other end of the line is quiet. Then I hear her exhale audibly.