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“Hey, June?”
Sutton pauses, one hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”
“It was. Sensational.”
She laughs. “I know.” A wink, and then the door is opened, officially ending our time alone.
Activity and sound spill in from the hallway. Suzan is stationed just outside the door. Her keen gaze bounces between me and Sutton as she registers the humor lingering on Sutton’s face and my posture, which I hope is casual.
“Everything good?” Suzan asks.
“Yep. Teddy was just helping me with the chords for a new song.” Sutton’s voice is smooth and even. There’s no hint of deception. She’s a good liar.
Suzan looks surprised. “You’re writing on tour?”
Sutton shrugs. “A little.”
Suzan hums before gesturing Sutton forward. “Come on. We’ve got to move.”
They disappear down the winding hall that leads to the outdoor stage, where she’s performing tonight. It will accommodate the largest crowd to date. We’re in smaller accommodations than the stadiums in Cologne and Amsterdam, specifically meant for hosting guests performing here.
The rest of the crew—Adam, Jaxon, Blake, Jackson, Camille, and Amelia—headed onstage and are all gathered in the same sitting area as they were when I went into Sutton’s dressing room. All six of them focus on me as I walk back toward the couch I was sitting on before.
“Long chat,” Adam notes as I pick a bottled water up from the table and take a long sip.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble. Swallow. “We were working on a song.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Blake wonders.
Adam snorts. I roll my eyes but don’t respond.
Hannah appears, letting us know it’s time to head to the stage. I seize on the distraction, downing some more water and then grabbing my guitar before walking down the hall and outside.
We all pause again in the wing of the stage. Sutton is standing a dozen feet ahead, impossible to miss in her sparkly outfit. I watch as she nods her head in response to something Suzan is saying.
“So…did you really…” Jaxon stops next to me, smirking suggestively.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“If that’s your story.”
We’re given our cue to assemble onstage. The appearance of the band prompts a loud cheer from the crowd, which stretches into the distance for longer than seems possible.
I focus on adjusting my microphone instead of the massive audience, fiddling with the height and tilting it. My fingers tap a nervous beat on the back of the smooth wood of the guitar I was given at the start of the tour. A Gibson, nothing like the beat-up Cordoba I inherited from my father.
I’m focused enough on pretending I’m not up onstage that the swell of noise greeting Sutton’s appearance catches me off guard. I look up, startled, to see her sauntering onstage, waving at the crowd with a big smile on her face.
I always feel like I’ve seen behind her facade. I knew Sutton Everett back before most people did. But it’s especially potent in this moment, watching her prepare to put on a show for tens of thousands.
There’s a sea of signs with her name on them. A couple of them are marriage proposals. Three girls I focus on in the very first row are jumping and crying.
Sutton’s comments about the level of interest in her last night soak in a little more. Fame is a fickle beast.
She struts across the stage, hair bouncing and dress sparkling. Amsterdam’s performance began with her coming up through a trap door beneath the stage. This crowd doesn’t seem to care her entrance isn’t as dramatic. Or at least, I thought it would be less dramatic.
I’m just as taken aback as the crowd when twin columns of what looks like fire—but I really hope is not—erupt on either side of the catwalk marking her entrance.
“Hola,Madrid!” Sutton shouts.
