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Across the green room, the door swings open. Travis, one of our security team, squeezes his bulk through the doorway, saying something over his shoulder to the person following behind. A young woman inches into the room, and I freeze, the neck of my guitar clenched in one hand.
Blood rushes in my ears.
My throat’s too thick to swallow.
Can’t feel my face.
Who the hell is that? She’s nothing like the usual groupies we get in here. She’s layered up in frayed gray jeans and shit-kicker boots, a draping black sweater and a forest green knitted scarf. Her jacket’s worn leather, rucked up by the giant bag hunkering on her slender shoulders, and her red hair is like braided fire piled on top of her head.
Holy shit.
I stare across the green room and suck in a ragged breath.
Am I dead? Is this what dying feels like?
The angel’s saying something to Travis, her lips moving as she murmurs, and her emerald eyes skitter around the green room, looking for someone. I half expect her to waltz over to my corner and put a hand on my arm—to tell me I had a good run, but I’m expected at the pearly gates.
And when her eyes land on me, it’s a shock of electricity up my spine—but then she looks away, and I want to put my fist through the wall.
Not dead, then. Just losing my goddamn mind.
Who is she here for?
Which fucker has a claim on this girl?
Mine. It makes no earthly sense, but the word pounds in my temples with every squeeze of my heart. Mine. Mine. Mine.
And I swear to god, if I have to watch Jefferson suck bruises on this girl’s milky collarbone, if I have to watch him snarl and snap his teeth at her throat, I’ll end the night with blood on my hands.
Mine.
The angel spots Jefferson in the center of the room, our lead singer too caught up in his groupie to notice our new arrival. Her nervous smile falters for a second, but then she squares her shoulders and marches forward.
What? Why? What can a woman like her possibly see in the dissolute rocker sprawled on the sofa? Whatever she wants from him, I can provide.
“Dad?”
She speaks softly, her husky voice unsure, but that’s definitely what she says. Even though it’s hard to hear much across the room, I watch her lips form the word. Jefferson stiffens, his chin jerking up, and then he’s exploding off the sofa, his blonde groupie toppling onto the cushions with a shriek.
“London!” He yanks her into a hug, and she smiles wide, visibly relieved. She hugs him back, clinging onto his broad shoulders.
So that’s her name. London.
I clear my throat, and I’m hot all over. Feverish.
London Peters. My best friend’s daughter.
…Well, shit. It takes what feels like eons, but I turn and rest my guitar in its open case. My muscles are stiff and aching, like I’ve just sprinted a mile without any warm up.
When I straighten up, my gut swoops.
Because she’s still here, smiling bright, and it’s like having that chandelier from the ballroom suddenly lit in the center of the room. It’s dazzling. Blinding.
Too much.
A walk. That was my plan a few moments ago: a long walk through the rainy city streets, to clear my head and make my breathing come easy again. And, now, to chill the flush from my cheeks and bring my body back down to a low simmer.
…My best friend’s daughter.
