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“That’s what you really think?” Reagan couldn’t wrap her head around what Imani was saying.
Sighing, Imani shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just afraid you’re repeating old patterns. That savior complex is real, Reagan. Even if you have the very best of intentions.”
Instead of arguing, Reagan listened. They’d had the same conversation in various forms for years. “I hear you.”
Imani dropped her shoulders. “I might not have your Zen delivery, but I’m looking out for you, okay? This whole thing is so like you and unlike you at the same time. Just promise me you’ll put the oxygen mask on yourself if the plane is going down? You’re not in a romcom, babe. This is real life.”
Reagan smiled softly and pulled her in for a hug, “I promise,” she said, hoping she could keep it.
C H A P T E R 2 2
IN TRUE DAVIS FORM, he’d left Libby behind at several red lights after he’d run through them in his rented black Mercedes-Benz sedan. He’d apparently only noticed when he arrived at the venue and she wasn’t right behind him. The text he sent was more than she would have gotten a year ago.
Following his instructions, she arrived at a reserved parking lot that was supposed to be manned by an attendant.
It wasn’t.
Libby: I’m here. No one’s at the gate.
Davis: It closes once the performers and crew arrive, but don’t worry. They told me you can roll it open and let yourself in. Park anywhere and put a note on your dash that says you’re with me. I gotta go. Phone switching o . Once you get to the backdoor tell Gary you’re my girl. He’ll give you a pass.
Libby stared at the gate. This is such a bad idea.
Stepping onto the wet gravel road leading up to the chain-link fence on wheels, Libby quickly realized there was nowhere she could step to avoid a puddle.
“Shit,” she cursed when she bared down to get the gate moving and pressed her high heel into the mud. Engaging the yoga muscles she never used for lifting, Libby moved the heavy gate a few inches at a time in choppy, squeaky bursts.
An eternity later, she was covered in sweat and her carefully
crafted waves were a frizzy mess. At least she’d opened the gate just enough to squeeze in, though closing it was even more annoying than opening it.
Bouncing along the unpaved lot, Libby found the only available space and wedged between two charter buses.
Finding a receipt in her purse for the co ee she’d bought that morning, she jotted a note explaining she was with the band. A little ridiculous, but a little bit of a rush too.
Dropping the blazer, Libby wished she’d thought to stop at home and change. It had all happened so fast. She didn’t have time to notice that her high-waisted trousers and silk blouse weren’t concert appropriate.
Trading her wet heels for the ballet flats she found in the trunk were the only adjustment she could make, though it made the hem of her pants drag just enough to get dirty.
Libby groaned, deciding foot pain was preferable to ruining her pants, and changed back into heels meant for mostly sitting and not attending a standing-room-only concert.
As she neared the end of her long walk from the back of the lot to the black building, she caught site of Davis’ rental car. You’re not that guy, are you? she asked herself as she stared at it parked diagonally across two parking spots. The sight reminded of her Reagan and the night they’d spent together at the gala. The image of her in that stunning suit made her chest tighten. She shoved it away before it could fully form. Before she could think of the kiss.
Libby’s l
ips tingled in an act of treason. Too late. Her heart leapt in her throat as she remembered the smell of Reagan’s skin. The sensation of her fingernails scraping against her scalp. The softness of her mouth and the warmth of her tongue. Most lethal was the thought of how Libby wanted more. How she wanted to lose control.
Rushing toward the back door, Libby tried to outrun her thoughts. She knew it was impossible, but she all but broke
into a sprint anyway. All the energy pent up inside her manifested in a loud bang on the stage door.
No one answered. After a few minutes and a couple more knocks, Libby pulled the handle, not expecting it to open.
When it did, she got an unexpected jolt of adrenaline as she slipped inside. In the loud chaos of the corridor, Libby kept waiting for someone to stop her and challenge her presence, but no one did. It was a small venue for mostly local talent; they probably didn’t have groupies to fend o .
God, am I a groupie?
After going down the wrong corridors a couple of times, she spotted Davis’ head poking out in a crowd of women just o stage. More like girls, actually. Pretty young things with backstage passes around their necks.
