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Did I freak him out by playing “White Knight?” I didn’t mention him by name, but he knows the song is about him. Is he mad I played it since his club brothers are out in the audience tonight? Will they razz him about it later? Maybe he’s embarrassed that some silly girl wrote a corny country song about him.
As I’m spiraling into my freak-out, he pushes away from the wall and through the crush of people around us. “You were phenomenal.”
Before I have a chance to answer, he picks me up and plants a kiss on my lips.
Manager, band—heck, everything around us is forgotten the second our mouths meet. I keep my eyes open, staring straight into his. I’m consumed by the taste and feel of him. Reckless, I close my eyes and deepen our kiss, unconcerned that we’re making out backstage where lots of spectators are sure to get an eyeful.
People will talk. Pictures could be taken.
Next to us, someone clears their throat.
I fight my way through a fog of lust back to hard reality.
When I pull away, Rooster’s face is fierce, hot, and primal, reflecting the desires at war inside me.
He sets me down gently but keeps an arm around my waist.
Greg’s disapproving manager face is a bucket of ice water down my dress.
“Shelby, you need to get ready for the duet with Dawson.” Although he doesn’t scold me for the public display of affection, his stern tone conveys the gist of his feelings on the matter.
“I have plenty of time. Gonna take at least thirty minutes before Thundersmoke goes onstage. Their set’s about forty-five minutes. Another half hour to set up for Dawson…”
“Don’t blow this, Shelby.”
“I won’t,” I insist, annoyed he thinks I’d squander the opportunity.
Rooster remains surprisingly quiet during our exchange. Once I’ve made it clear to Greg that I have plans, I tug on Rooster’s hand and lead him back to my dressing room.
“I’m so sorry. I originally wanted to leave with you after my set. I never expected…”
“It’s fine, Shelby.” He settles his hands on my hips and presses my back against the door.
I peer up at him. “Were you mad?”
“Mad?” He frowns, his gaze darting from side to side. “About what?”
“‘White Knight?’ What I said? Your brothers—”
“I couldn’t give a fuck what they think.” He strokes his knuckles over my cheek. “You were sunshine lighting up that stage. I’m so impressed with how much you’ve changed since the Tipsy Saddle.”
“You think I’ve changed?”
“Only in the best ways.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“What do you need to do to get ready for this duet?” His voice remains neutral, so I can’t tell how he feels about me getting up and singing a love song with another man. Not just any man either, but country music’s biggest sex symbol—not that Rooster would know that.
“Uh, well, first, I’d really like to check out the festival.”
He draws back, forehead wrinkled. “Can you do that?”
“I’ve never tried before. But I figure if I change my outfit and slap on a hat, no one will notice me.”
“I don’t think it works that way, Shelby.” He twirls a finger through my curls. “You’re extremely noticeable.”
“Please? I never get to see the crowd from the other side.” I clap my hand over my mouth. “Shoot. I need to bring my guitar with me for the hospital visit. How am I—”
He’s already slipping his cell phone out of his pocket and texting someone. “Birch drove the van. I’ll have him meet us in the back lot. We can load up whatever you need.”
“Really? But…?” I don’t even want to ask how he’s going to get me to the show the day after tomorrow because that’s where we’ll part ways, and I can’t even think about saying goodbye when we’ve barely said hello.
He flashes another don’t-worry-about-it grin. “I’ll scrounge up a vehicle one way or another. I got you, Shelby.” He gently turns me around and tugs the zipper of my dress all the way down. “Change. I don’t think we have too long before your ass needs to be back here to get ready.”
I shimmy out of the dress, toss it on the couch, and run into the bathroom to check out my makeup. Everything’s more or less in place. My hair’s a little wild but nothing I can’t fix later. I race out of the bathroom, grabbing the jeans I’d worn earlier, a tank top with a pair of kissing flamingos on the front, and a pair of red and pink Converse sneakers. “There. No one will recognize me.” I hold out my arms for Rooster to inspect my “disguise.”
He smirks at the flamingos. “If you say so. Hat?”
I have a ratty red ball cap I brought on tour for bad hair days. Country Strong is embroidered across the front in worn white thread. I gather my hair into a loose ponytail and pull the cap into place.
