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The words pulled at me and I had to face her again, to drink her down like a thirsty man would savor his last glass of water. She bounded across the stage, exuberance personified, her voice soaring to the rafters and beyond. Her face was radiant. This was where she was truly at home.
Hopefully, she would also find home in my bed. Under my hand, and in my arms.
By the end of the concert, the fans were on the verge of total lunacy, and Peyton was dripping with sweat and beaming. She’d changed outfits at least four times, and she’d danced and wiggled her ass until I was exhausted for her. But she showed no signs of slowing down as she announced two more songs to finish the set. They were new ones, stuff she’d written recently, and she hoped the crowd enjoyed them.
“I have someone to thank first.” She stared right at me. “Someone who helped me dare to go as far as I can with my music. And my life.” Again, she touched her wrist, that mystery gesture I had a feeling I was supposed to understand but did not. “He knows who he is to me.”
No, I really didn’t know, not yet. But I would. Soon.
“Rulebreaker,” I mouthed to her.
She nodded, grinning. She was about to break them all, and I intended to encourage her every step of the way.
From the first note, I knew these songs were different. “Caught Under Your Spell” was edgier and more intense, and Peyton played her guitar like a sexy demon throughout it. She bypassed the dancing to focus on dazzling the audience with her skills on guitar and her sexy voice, promising to lead them on a path to darker delights.
And boy, did she deliver.
The second song was just her and her guitar with only the barest of accompaniment from her backup band. Her mesmerizing vocals held everyone captive as she sung about breaking her own heart while her lonely fingerwork emphasized her pain.
Halfway through it, the girls beside me were crying and myriad cell phones had been lifted to reveal their flickering flashlight apps. I would’ve shook my head at the modern take on the old-fashioned lighter at a concert, if I hadn’t been so enthralled by the woman sitting on a stool in the center of the stage. She was weeping softly as she sung, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
Yet her vocals never faltered. She was simply breathtaking.
From the crowd’s earsplitting applause once she’d finished, everyone in attendance knew it. She was so much more than a pop star or a flavor of the moment. She was the real deal, and I damn well intended to convince her of her talent.
I’d tell her every day if I had to, for as long as it took.
Backstage was complete chaos, but the VIP ticket she’d sent me had included a pass that got me past all the security. Not knowing exactly how these things worked, I tried to give her time to get settled. She probably needed a shower. Or maybe she had some elaborate post-show routine. I had no clue.
I stared down at my empty hands. Flowers. I needed flowers. Isn’t that what people brought backstage? She deserved two bouquets of them after that performance. Adozenbouquets.
Glancing at my watch, I rushed down the crowded hallway, dodging bodies to get to the exit. Surely there had to be a gas station or something nearby. I didn’t want to give her cheap flowers, but I also didn’t want to be away from her a moment longer than necessary.
Tonight I was risking everything.
THIRTEEN
PEYTON
He wasn’t coming.
I gazed at my reflection in my dressing room mirror to avoid glancing at my phone one more time. He hadn’t called, and he didn’t even have the excuse of not having my number because I’d saved it in his phone the morning I left. I knew the hoops people had to go through to try to reach me, and I’d wanted him to have direct access.
So much for that.
At least he’d come to the show. He’d smiled at me, and his approval had gone miles toward quelling the anxious locusts swarming madly through my belly. His quiet, steady presence had helped bolster me to get through the final two songs of my performance.
And I’d nailed them, if I did say so myself.
Even Taylor, my manager, had been abuzz after the show. The fan response was positive. Radio seemed interested. The new songs might end up on the next album.
As incredible as all of that was—beyond my wildest dreams incredible—the victory seemed hollow without Jed. He shouldn’t have mattered so much to me in such a short time, but somehow he did. The backstage pass I’d given him had been a sterling sign that I wanted to talk to him.
Neededto. But he’d just walked away.
Eventually, I’d asked Taylor and the members of my band and the assorted road crew and friends who’d stopped by to leave. I hated to ruin their fun and my own. The show had taken a lot out of me, both physically and emotionally, and adding the Jed factor to the mix had drained me even further. If I made it home without crying, it would be a miracle.
Some of those tears would be happy. A lot of them, actually. Some would not.
