An older man with a headset nervously tapped Jamie’s shoulder. “Um—Mr. Crawford…” He nudged his black, thick-framed glasses up his nose. “The band don’t know what to do next, and folks are getting rowdy out there. Are you…coming back?”
Jamie picked up his guitar. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
“I got her, Jamie. Go on,” Sammi said. Taking Brinton by the hand, she led them down a set of stairs and toward the VIP parking lot.
“I’m sorry about that, folks,” Jamie said over the speakers, moments later. “I had to take care of a family emergency. I appreciate your patience; everyone is fine now. So, let’s get back to it.”
He had called her his family, something she had never expected when she thought back to their headline-making first meeting. And everything that had happened since.
But after tonight, he felt like family too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The rest of Jamie’s set was a transcendent experience. Fans shouted every lyric, the band rallied behind him, and he sang his goddamn heart out. Yes, his little interlude meant that the show ran ten minutes over, which Tex informed meant a not-insignificant $20,000 production fine. That wasn’t even on his radar.
All he cared about was getting home to Brinton.
So, he bypassed the afterparties and skipped his greenroom, where God-knew-who-wearing-God-knew-what waited with whiskey and a smile. He didn’t even pose for pictures at the front barricade, where fans had gathered for hours to see him. He regretted that, but he’d find some way to make it up to them.
Post-show adrenaline propelling him, he drove faster down the highway than he should have, took the curves of those dirt roads a little too sharply. He couldn’t bear another moment without Brinton wrapped in his arms.
When he pulled into the family compound, the driveway was empty, save for his father’s GMC Sierra 1500 Denali. The lights were on in his second-floor office. His father had waited up to properly flog Jamie following his seditious act.
He too would have to wait.
Jamie sprinted to the back of the main house. He didn’t stop when the motion detector lights sprung on and made an Olympic leap over the sprinklers showering the zucchini patch.
When he reached the guest house, the front door was ajar. Something was off, he could feel it. It terrified him.
He shouldered the door open.
“Brinton?” he called out, breath lodged in his throat.
It was quiet and nearly pitch-black, with only the coffee table light flickering softly. Brinton’s laptop, notebooks, and scratch paper littered the kitchen table. On the counter, there were two glasses, an empty bottle of Pinot Noir, and remnants of cheeseburgers and fries in takeout boxes. In the morning, he’d hug Sammi for looking after Brinton when he couldn’t.
But he was there now.
“You came,” Brinton rasped, voice thin as gossamer.
He scanned the living room, but he couldn’t see her.
“Sweetheart, where are you?”
“Down here…”
He inched into the living room, heartbeat a grenade in his ears, and followed her voice. She lay on the floor, curved into the three feet of space between the couch and coffee table. He wasn’t sure what he was walking into, so he waited.
His hand hovered over a switch by the stairs. “Can I turn on a light for you?”
She groaned. “Please don’t. My head—I have a bad migraine. The lights will make it worse. Or the wine made it worse?” She laughed tepidly.
Relief power-washed his nerves. He could handle a migraine.
“Do you have any medicine? Tell me where, and I’ll get it,” he said, crouching down next to her on the floor.
“Upstairs in the bedroom, on the dresser,” she whispered.
“It can’t be comfortable on the floor. Can I please take you to bed?”
