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One
Carmen
Vienna, six weeks ago
He’s watching me again. I can feel it.
This venue is bustling, the loading dock filled with groaning trucks pulling in and out spare bays, their shrill beeps rending the air. It’s chaos as we unload the equipment for another gig tomorrow night, all the roadies yelling instructions across the concrete, but somehow, amid all this, I sense him.
The songwriter.
The man with dark, curly hair and hungry eyes. The man touring with this rock band, working his magic on their next album. The man who watches me like I’m the answer to all his prayers, even though I’m only crew.
Where is he? Glancing around beneath my eyelashes, I can’t see him. I can feel him, though. The familiar sensation of his eyes on me sends tingles racing over my skin.
Do I look as gross as I feel? The crew bus here was cramped and musty,nota five star ride, and I’m dying for a cool shower and some fresh clothes. I pull my black hair out of its stubby ponytail and finger-comb the waves. Is that any better? Do I still look like roadkill?
Ugh. What is wrong with me?
Why am I preening for my stalker?
It’s early evening, and the sky has flushed pink. It’s warm in this city, muggy and close, and we’re all working in jeans and t-shirts, the fabric sticking to our backs.
There’s something weirdly relaxing about unloading a truck. It’s rhythmic. We all fall into sync, the crew moving as one, like a swarm of ants rather than a bunch of cranky, overheated humans, and progress is quick.
As soon as I’m out in the open on the loading bay, I sense him again. Wherever the songwriter is, he must be watching from a distance. What is he doing, besides staring at me? Is he writing a song? Humming under his breath?
I may not know much about the man who watches me, but I know that he writes the big hits—and the award winners, too. Makes it rain cash for whichever bands he works with. How much longer will he be working with Run Along Ruby on this tour? Where will he go next?
The thought of him leaving, of never feeling the telltale caress of his eyes on me again, makes my stomach drop.
I hope he stays with us a good while longer.
“Throw that in the stage right wing.”
I nod at a bearded ginger man with a clipboard, then throw my weight against the case to get it to turn. My steel-toe boots skid against the stage, and then we’re off, my cheeks warm and my breaths coming hard.
As the wheels rattle along the ground, the vibrations jarring my elbow joints, I keep wondering: why me? Why does the songwriter watchmeof all the people on the crew?
Why, when there are so many beautiful women in the audience every night, screaming and giddy and so ready to throw themselves at any man with a backstage pass? He could have his pick of them, what with all that tuggable curly hair.
Seriously.
Why me?
I yank my flight case to a stop stage right, toeing down the flippy silver brakes. We’re in a vintage theater for this stop on the tour—all red velvet seats, hanging black drapes, and rows of pale rope running up the length of one backstage wall.
I don’t know what makes me look up. Call it intuition. I mean, I’ve got no business up there in the flies, and yet I still tip my head back and peer into the darkness.
A shape moves. There’s a man leaning his elbows on the balcony rail in front of the ropes, watching us unload the trucks from high above. It’s too dark to make out details, but it’s my songwriter. I know it is.
I lift one hand and give an awkward wave.
The shadowed man tilts his head.
Hmm.
I gaze up at the flies for so long, my neck starts to ache. I stare and stare, and he doesn’t move again, and the whole time my body’s heating under the force of his gaze. Simmering to life under my clothes, my heart pumping harder.
