Beneath the Burn (48 page)

The room erupted in high-pitched screeches, flapping papers, and flashbulbs. The rest of the band stood behind stanchions and velvet rope, signing posters and CD jackets. The rope wouldn’t stop an enthusiastic fan, but it served as a reminder that the dozen security staff provided by the arena would remove a line-jumper without hesitation.

Numbness tingled through Jay’s fingers and toes as he approached the energetic mob of fifty or more. Arms reached over the line, fingers wiggling and band paraphernalia waving.

He reminded himself the adorers appreciated his music and that very moment might be the most memorable in their lives. Idolatry and all of that. He got it. He would’ve been the first in line had Jimi Hendrix risen from the grave.

Faye appeared at his side and handed him a black marker. Having his own pen helped him maintain minimal contact with the fans.

Nathan guided Charlee to the back wall, his eyes alert and posture rigid. Good.

A probe through the room would’ve probably revealed his ten-man protective team, but Jay’s attention was ripped away by the doe-eyed girl before him.

“I love you so much, Jay.” She shoved a portrait of his airbrushed face at him.

“Thank you.” He never knew what to say to them. Reciprocated love certainly didn’t make the list of automatic responses. Did that make him a dick?

“I love you, too.” Rio smiled at a girl down the line, pinching her nose and wiggling it. She bounced up and down, squealing.

Across the room, a small smile turned up the corner of Charlee’s mouth. At least she was enjoying this.

Forty-five minutes later, Jay autographed the last photo, grabbed Charlee’s hand, and pulled her out of the overheated room.

“Fifteen minutes till show time,” Faye shouted after him.

He flicked a finger over his shoulder and strode down the hall. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Nathan and Tony were on his trail. Two more of his bodyguards, Colson and Vanderschoot, swept past, blending into the stream of crew members in their jeans and t-shirts.

Hyper-aware of his security team, Jay strummed with an intense feeling of dread. Tony was usually his only shadow backstage. The extra personnel should’ve comforted him. Instead, it was a reminder of the threat against the precious woman at his side.

He scanned the halls and rooms they passed, straining to see something or someone out of place. Protecting Charlee gave him a sudden appreciation for how hard Tony’s job was.

Did Roy have access to these tightly secured areas? Of course he did. He owned their record company, which owned their production company. Jay’s dread magnified.

A man in suit pants and a collared shirt loitered outside a storage room. Who the fuck was that? An access pass hung from a lanyard around his neck.

Jay pulled Charlee close to his side and kept them moving toward the stage area.

The squeak of sneakers echoed around the bend. A wiry guy with dreadlocks skidded into view, balancing lighting equipment. Where was his badge? Was he a legitimate member of the lighting crew?

“I need to pee. Do I have time?” Charlee pointed at the restroom a few feet ahead.

Nathan moved around them and disappeared behind the door marked
Women
.

“Jay Mayard?”

A male voice, one startling similar to the fucker Jay heard on TV that morning. His pulse spiked as he spun and shoved the man against the wall.

An armful of CDs tumbled to the floor and a pimple-faced kid in his twenties stared up at him out of wide eyes. His overlong hair tangled around the kind of headset worn by the band’s stage crew.

Fucking hell. He’d lost his ever-loving mind. Jay jumped back, releasing the kid and crunching plastic cases underfoot. The threat of Roy, the usual pre-show jitters, and his anxious need to keep Charlee pinned to his side created a fog of dizziness that shook his knees. He searched his pockets and remembered the overflowing trash can Nathan had carried out of his room the prior night. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tony stepped in front of him. Jay couldn’t see her face, but the kid cowered.

“I…uh…my little sister loves
The Burn
. I’m…I work on the backline crew and was wondering if Mr. Mayard would sign my sister’s CDs?”

“Bathroom’s clear.” Nathan held the door open for Charlee.

She slipped out of reach, eyes narrowed at Jay under lowered lashes. Was that disapproval?

Jay’s heart rate escalated, his nerves fraying. “I’ll go in with you, Charlee.”

She looked away and slipped into the restroom. Dammit to hell. His face fevered.

“Sign your albums,” Nathan said from the doorway. “I’ve got this.”

The door shut and rattled the walls. Fuck Nathan. Jay lurched forward, fists clenched and ready. He tripped.

The kid grunted from the floor where he gathered the CDs. He shook out his fingers.

Great. Not only had Jay shoved him, he’d stepped on his hand. Feeling like an ass, he dropped to a knee and picked up the cracked cases. “What’s your name?”

“Kevin.” He lowered his voice and flicked his gaze at Tony’s back. “Brady told me to give you this.” He tugged a tiny zip-locked baggie out of his pocket and stretched his arm toward Jay. “Said if I did, you’d sign this stuff for me.”

Brady. His longest-standing roadie and hook-up for all things drug-related.

Jay dragged his eyes away from the mix of yellow and white pills. Oxycontin with a Phenergan prep for nausea. He knew it well. “No. Not interested.” His finger twitched.

Lips as red as the poor kid’s pimples curved downward, as did his bony shoulders.

“Tell you what, Kevin. Give Faye your contact information, and I’ll ship you a signed copy of every album we’ve produced. Okay?” He held out the broken CDs he’d collected.

The baggie dangled from Kevin’s trembling fingers, waiting.

Just beyond the bathroom door, Charlee was peeing under Nathan’s watchful gaze. Motherfuck, he wanted to punch something. If he hadn’t lost his shit, he would’ve been in there with her instead of her donkey-fucking hero.

In a few short minutes, Jay would be singing to thousands. So much pressure. So many people. So many notes to fuck up. And he hadn’t slept since the nap on the plane the prior day. What if he glanced at his fingers on the fret too long and Charlee disappeared from view? He was strung so tight, he wouldn’t make it through the first song without breaking down.

Forty migs of Oxycontin would give him a little lift. Buzzy enough to smooth his edginess, but not too potent to steal his vigilance over her.

With a peek at Tony’s back, he slipped the bag from Kevin’s fingers as he dumped the CDs into his hands. “Find Faye, our manager. And I’m sorry about the shove. And stepping on your fingers.”

Kevin jumped up. “No worries. Thanks so much, Mr. Mayard.”

No worries
. Good one. Pacing in front of the bathroom door, Jay checked the number stamps on the pills. Nice thing about Oxycontin was there were no real side effects as long as he managed his use. He wasn’t an addict so there was no harm in this one pill. Charlee didn’t even need to know about it.

A twinge of guilt lodged in his throat. He swallowed it back and chased it with a yellow forty and white twenty-five.

In twenty minutes, he would be ready to rockatize the arena.

62

The bounce and sway of twenty thousand concert-goers electrified the air, sparking off Charlee’s body and lifting her skin with goose pimples. The sea of waving arms and camera phones flickered through the stands as far as she could see. They probably would’ve fought each other for her seat. Guaranteed the owners of the dozen or so eyes burning into her back would have.

She wouldn’t let the groupies barricaded in the wing ruin the moment. It wasn’t her fault they weren’t allowed on the stage. Jay told her where to sit, she sat, and no one questioned him.

She perched on a bass cabinet on the stage deck. If the fans in the front row squinted at the shaded edge, they might’ve seen her. And despite their chanting pleas, Jay refused to emerge from the shadowed recess beside her.

The panorama of the boys on stage, glistening with sweat and jamming in tune with a house of energetic people, sent a tingling rush through her body. Experiencing the most popular bands of her time perform feet away would stay with her forever.

Through the first two songs, Jay sang while facing her, hands in the pockets of his leather pants. The rhythmic flow of his voice penetrated her chest, deepened by the fix of his gaze. His timbre reverberated through the sound system to thousands of idolizers, yet the arousing way he moved his lips behind his headset microphone, never looking away from her, it felt as though she were his only audience.

He ended the second song on a series of erotic exhales and she felt those breaths low in her core and warm in her cheeks. He must have sensed her reaction because he winked. Lord have mercy, he was a sexy man with a killer vocal range, and if she weren’t mistaken, he was enjoying himself. A startling contrast from the hot-tempered barbarian twenty minutes earlier.

As the band transitioned into the third song, a roadie waved to Jay from downstage and held out a guitar. Jay ignored him and took advantage of the reprieve in vocals by stepping between her legs.

Movement on the stage glinted light across his brown eyes. He reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm, around her hip, made the short trip over her skirt, and under the hem.

What the hell was he doing? The arena thundered with Rio’s percussional lead and the spunky pluck of Wil’s bass. The roadie with the guitar frantically waved his arm at Jay.

“What are you doing?” she mouthed.

He pushed his fingers between her legs, separating her thighs and curling them inside the crotch of her panties. His eyes looked…off. Out of focus maybe. Was it nerves? Arousal?

Two fingers breached her opening, sliding in, to the knuckles. Her breath caught and her knees fell open as far as the skirt would allow. Desire pulsed where he stretched her, lubricating his entry. She buried her mouth in her shoulder, unsure if her moan would be picked up by his mic.

One thrust…two….three. His hand disappeared, leaving her empty and panting. He stepped toward the panicking roadie, working those leather pants simply by walking backward, smoothly and confidently. He wiggled his fingers at her and she desperately wanted them back.

She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her cleavage with the heel of her hand. Holy hell, it was hot in here.

Screams piped from the women leaning over the gate at the front of the stage. They must have glimpsed
The Burn
’s reclusive singer. Heads bobbed and swerved as if trying to score the best view. When the squeals threatened to drown out the instruments, she
knew
they had seen him.

Accepting his guitar and strapping it over his body, Jay still hadn’t released her gaze. An odd smile quirked his lips. Then he stepped from the shadows and into the edge of the stage lights.

The crowd exploded in hopping bodies and piercing shrieks. His stage appearance excited Charlee as much as the fans, but what had prompted him to cross that barrier? Was he showing off for her? Doing it because she wanted him to? Perhaps his new freedom from triggers gave him the confidence? Her fingernails bit into the cabinet beneath her as she waited to see what he would do next.

The guys must have doubled or tripled the length of the instrumental intro because they were still playing, following Jay’s lead. The guitar solo waned, and Laz arched a brow at his vocalist.

Jay missed it, his eyes on her. Raising his two wet fingers, he pumped them in and out of his mouth. The crowd shrilled, seemingly unconcerned that his head was turned sideways, eyes focused offstage.

“Good Evening, Los Angeles.”

A stunned hush fell over the arena. Jay’s greeting made Rio jerk, missing a drumbeat. Laz and Wil slowed their strumming and straightened their stances.

The quiet erupted into the ragged screams of thousands. From videos of the band’s live performances, she knew he sometimes addressed the crowd, but never from a visible position on stage. What in the world had gotten in to him? Devil-may-care, she surged with pride.