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Rooster growls so low, I’m not even sure he did it on purpose. More like an instinctual stay-away-from-my-woman noise. While the sound probably didn’t carry, the deep scowl and scary gaze Rooster shoots at Trent can’t be missed.
Trent holds up his hands and backs away.
I better defuse this fast.Chapter ThreeRooster
Shelby’s band can’t stop staring at us with their totally freaked out eyes and open mouths. But it’s one of the guys I recognize from the show I caught in San Antonio—Brent, Bret. I can’t remember—who’s five seconds from having a size-thirteen boot up his ass. I didn’t like the way he looked at Shelby then, and I don’t care for it now.
“Shelby, are you sure this is a good idea?” He tosses me a cool look.
Other than trying to stare a hole through his face, I don’t react.
Shelby sighs. “I can’t show up late, Trent.”
Trent. Whatever. Close enough.
Shelby tips her head back, shines her sunshine smile at me and adds, “Besides, Rooster and I have lots of catching up to do.”
It’s her sweet face, not Trent’s horrified expression and gaping jaw, that lures me to bend down and press a quick kiss against her cheek. “Yeah, we do,” I say against her ear.
Heidi jogs over to the club’s van and pulls out a backpack, rifling through it and returning with a dark blue hoodie that she hands Shelby. “I don’t have an extra leather jacket but take this.”
“Thanks.” Shelby slips it on and gives Heidi a quick hug.
My gaze slides over the sweatshirt, admiring the way our Lost Kings MC skull and crown logo lands perfectly over Shelby’s ample chest. Damn, she wears my club’s colors well.
“Ready?” I hand her the extra helmet I brought because I planned to take her to upstate’s clubhouse after the concert tonight. She’s supposed to have tomorrow off and spending time with her is the only item on my to-do list.
“All set.”
She waits for me to mount the bike before resting her hand on my shoulder and lifting herself into the space behind me. Damn, I forgot how good it feels to have her back there. Haven’t had another passenger since her.
Shelby hasn’t forgotten how to ride, either. She snuggles up against me, the heat of her body soaking into my soul. To compensate for the extra weight on the machine, I start off slower than normal, easing our way back into traffic. Murphy and Heidi come up on my right.
We don’t get far before we’re forced to slow down by miles of backed up traffic. Since I still don’t listen to a lot of country songs—other than Shelby’s—I hadn’t fully appreciated Heidi’s warning that this festival’s one of the bigger events to come to the Capital Region every summer. Murphy signals for me to follow him, and together we weave in through the line of bumper-to-tailgate vehicles—jacked up trucks, cars, and jeeps, their radios blaring one form of twangy shit or another.
Shelby squeezes me tighter and I chuckle. Do any of these drones in their cages realize one of the stars of tonight’s show is whizzing past them?
While I’m familiar with the performing arts center, I’ve never been to the backstage area where the artists’ buses park. Once we’re inside the huge public park, Murphy and I pull into a small, circular patch of dirt off the road.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
Shelby tugs and jiggles her phone out of her pocket. “Hang on.” She finally finds what she needs and recites a set of directions.
“I think that’s straight ahead and to the left.” Murphy points to the forked road in front of us.
“Look at you.” I smirk at him. “Almost like you used to be a road captain or something.”
He rolls his eyes and sweeps his arm out in front of him. “Lead the way, smartass.”
This time, I fall into the front position. We take left after left until the narrow, paved, unlined roads turn into dirt and gravel. Finally, the road opens into a wider space with a few scattered wooden barricades indicating it’s a private area.
A lone “security” guard walks up to greet us. Maybe he’ll be stricter as the night goes on, but for now, he takes Shelby’s word for it that she’s supposed to be there and waves us through.
Three massive tour buses are lined up near a loading dock attached to the back of the large amphitheater. Dawson Roads’ face is splashed all over two of the buses. The name of another band I don’t recognize decorates the third. Must be where Shelby’s expected to show up.
The piece of shit Shelby’s been traveling in could fit in the storage compartment of Dawson’s bus.
I back the bike into a spot near the loading dock and shut it down. Murphy glides in next to me.
“Shelby?” a guy calls out as he jogs over to us.
