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With Soul Obsession’s top hits rattling through the speakers, I march to the stairwell, back the way we came. Every time I round a corner or push through a set of doors, a fresh wave of disappointment hits when Beckett’s not there.
The corridor is empty. The stairwell is too.
Shoot. Where did he go? What if I can’t find him again? My heart throbs in my chest, dragging my tired legs forward. Need to keep looking.Needto see Beckett again, or else… I can’t even think it.
But this stadium is a rabbit warren, all the corridors exactly the same white and gray, and I definitely walk past the same scuff mark twice in the next ten minutes.
On and on, the band plays, the canned sound floating down from the speakers while the bass thrums through the floor.
On and on, I wander.
And with every step, my heart sinks a little further.
For a twenty-two year old, I feel like the creakiest, most exhausted old crone. Should have taken Beckett up on his offer of pizza earlier, shored up my blood sugar or whatever, but in my defense, I didn’t plan on walking a marathon.
Band posters and football fixtures drift past on the walls. An ad for cheeseburgers; a season ticket promo. My sneakers drag along the floor, because I’m too tired now to raise my feet properly in this endless labyrinth. The toes pinch, the heels slip, and there’s that telltale stinging heat that says I’m getting blisters.
I stop and check my phone.
Zero bars. Sigh.
What the hell? I pick a door at random and shove it open, stumbling through—and freeze when I recognize the view.
The green room is emptier than earlier, with only a few folks hunched over the tables. A group of roadies are playing poker, shooting each other faux-evil eyes, and two older women in business suits drink coffee together, speaking in hushed tones. The vending machines hum against the walls, rattling their wares together.
But there’s only one thing I really see: a pair of pale blue eyes over at our table, narrowing on me.
“Resa?” Beckett shoves to his feet. “Are you alright?”
* * *
“I just—I had to see you again. I wasn’t done.”
“I know.” The evening breeze ruffles Beckett’s hair as he carries me across the parking lot out back. Roadies whoop and whistle at us over on the loading bay, but it’s like Beckett doesn’t even hear them. He’s too busy scowling at me, all stiff with concern. “But your feet, Resa.”
Yeah, somehow, after a full day tromping around this city and this labyrinth of a stadium, my old, faithful sneakers have turned on me. The pink canvas is stained reddish-brown with patches of blood, and Beckett has point blank refused to let me walk another step.
“It was weird. I swear, I got so lost, it was like I was walking in there forhours.Like I fell into a pocket dimension.”
Beckett grunts, his strong arms all protective around my body. I’m no featherweight, not with these hips and thighs, but my man’s packing a surprising amount of toned muscle under that suit. He doesn’t seem strained at all by my weight.
Noted.
“Where are you carrying me?”
Should probably ask thatbeforeI let a strange man carry me off into the darkness, but hey. This is Beckett. The rules don’t apply.
He could carry me anywhere and I’d go, heart singing in my chest. He could take me on a tour of the dumpsters, and I’d love every second nestled against his strong chest.
“Tour bus. One of the crew ones.”
A warm wind brushes over my throat and bare belly.
“Oh, cool. Is that where you live right now?”
“Yes. Well—some cities, we stay in hotels. But yes.”
“Do you have your own private bedroom on the bus?”
