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“Davey is MIA,” I inform him without bothering to hide the annoyance in my tone.
“I see.” He doesn’t look at all surprised.
Why is that everyone cuts Davey a break?
“Where are Liv and Harrison?”
“They should be here soon. She texted to tell me they were running late.”
I introduce Tug to Mercedes and Scott, along with the rest of the guys from her band. Brady, Jesse, and Chad approach the table wearing defeated expressions. They obviously have not found their lead vocalist. I happen to know they have one standing right next to them. He slips in between Tug and me, looking a little sad and a ton pissed. I can’t blame him.
“It looks like we have to cancel.” I hear the disappointment in Brady’s voice. I know how much he was looking forward to this. It makes my dislike for Davey grow stronger. I hear Chad and Jesse grumbling about how much it sucks.
“Brady knows the words,” I blurt to the group. Turning on my stool, I stare up into Brady’s eyes. They crease with nerves. “Why don’t you sing? At least until he shows up.”
Brady shakes his head frantically. I’ve heard him sing. He’s twice the singer Davey is.
“You can do this,” I coax him.
“I don’t want to.” Brady leans in close when he realizes the others are listening. “You know that about me.”
I reach up, rubbing my fingers over his cheek. “Maybe it’s time, Brady.”
He knows I’m not talking about singing. I want him to quit hiding from his past and from his fears. He’s too talented to hang out in the background.
The other guys look up, hopeful that I can convince Brady to do this.
Brady leans in next to my ear again. “I told you, I don’t want to do this.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t.” His eyebrows knit together as he studies me. He presses his palm to my cheek. “I don’t want the attention. Not for me…and not for you.”
Oh. I suddenly understand his hesitation. I’m not sure I want it, either. Things have finally settled down for the two of us. The media attention that followed Sheila’s suicide nearly broke us. It’s what led us to buy our place in Mexico. The press hounded us relentlessly and printed stories about Brady that made him out to be an alcoholic playboy on a self-destructive path. It didn’t last long, but it was brutal. This time I know it’s not the media he’s worried about. I trust him, though, and nothing will change that. Not even sex-starved groupies who will try to get in his pants. They don’t stand a chance. Brady deserves this. He loves music, and despite what he says, he loves to sing. He wrote most of their songs. This is his chance, and I’m not standing in the way.
“I think you should do it,” I say, encouraging him, then lean forward and place my lips over his. “I know you’re all mine, baby.”
He speaks, keeping his lips on mine. “You don’t understand what it will be like.”
“Sure I do.” I pull away, laughing. “A bunch of horny desperate women throwing themselves at you. I can handle it. I’m your baby mama.”
He grins and rubs my belly.
“You’re so much more than that.”
“I know.” I plant a kiss on his cheek, giving his butt a firm squeeze. “You deserve this.”
Brady reluctantly agrees to sing for one show, much to the delight of Chad and Jesse. The guys head backstage to prepare for the show minus one irresponsible front man. My nerves are even more on the attack. I can’t imagine how Brady must feel.
“Is Brady really going to sing?” Jessica asks, hopping up on the stool next to me and yanking an olive off the end of a toothpick.
What I wouldn’t give to down a martini right now. I shake my head, biting back the biggest grin. “He’s going to rock your socks off.”
She laughs just as Mercedes and Scott join us at the table. I smile, watching the two of them cuddle in close to each other.
It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Tug. I glance over to the bar to find him engaged in a conversation with a leggy brunette. He makes eye contact and smiles. I smile back and take a drink of my ice water. He’s quite the ladies’ man these days.
Moments later, Second Chances takes the stage. Screaming from the crowd rings out loudly, causing my ears to vibrate. Women swarm the stage, squealing like hyenas. As I look up, my man approaches the microphone with a self-assured ease I recognize. The sexy confident Brady I grew up admiring stands on stage, gripping the mic and adjusting the strap on his guitar. God, I’ve missed that dark arrogance. As long as it’s not directed at me, it’s sexy as hell. His dark hair hangs just above his eyes. He’s wearing a T-shirt tight enough that every ripple of muscle from his pecs to his abs is clearly recognizable. It’s the cocky swagger he exudes that has me really worked up, so much so that I want to drag him off-stage and take him home where I can beg him to take me back to ecstasy island. He looks like a sex lollipop, and I need a lick. His green eyes scour the crowd, landing on mine. He flashes a full-on rock star smile and winks.
