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No dehydration headache.
No nothin’.
My heart flutters.
Then—“Oh my god! Is that Jameson? It’s Jameson!”
Thousands of bodies press forward, shunting us up the line, all eager for a glimpse of the pop star. And normally I’d be hopping up on my toes to see Jameson too, desperate for a peek, but right now all I feel is a sharp stab of panic as I’m shoved away from the man in a suit.
Eyes wide, mouth open in a silent cry, I stare back at him as I’m carried forward several meters. Something wrenches inside me, like even this much distance is too much; like if I get too far away from him, my heart might tug loose and slump down in my rib cage.
So nuts. That’s what too much sun will do to ya.
But the man is here, striding along beside me, keeping pace and cursing under his breath. He unhooks a new section of dusty metal crowd barrier, then reaches into the mob to grip my arm.
His hand is big.
His grip is sure.
And I’m tugged gently from the press of bodies, out into the open air, the barrier shoved shut behind me. Finally, I can breathe again! Laughing brightly, I trip into the man’s arms.
“Oh.” He rears back, even as his hands clutch me closer. Like he’s not sure whether to gather me near or push me away. “Uh—hello.”
“Sorry!” Tugging my clothes straight, I step back and offer a shaky smile—and let’s pretend that my cheeks are burning because of the sun. Yeah. That’s why. Not because I just lost mymind and snuggled a stranger. “It felt like a hugging moment. So, we’re going inside?”
The man shakes his head, but not like he’s disagreeing. Like he’s dazed, and he needs to jumble his thoughts back together. He’s not the only one.
I don’t even know this guy’s name, and he’s suddenly taken the top spot in my brain, even above my all-time favorite band. What on earth?
“Uh. Yes.” A quick cough; a straightened tie. “This way, please.”
Two
Beckett
When my agent called me with this job writing a book about Soul Obsession, she pitched it hard.Travel the world, she said. Dig deep into the dark side of fame, she said. All expenses paid, no subject off limits, roll around in royalties for the rest of your life, etc, etc.
It was an obvious choice. My life in London has felt so small lately, constricting and airless, with the walls of my flat closing in on all sides. Everything in the capital is gray and damp and joyless. Every day there feels the same. As soon as I got that call, something inside me sung to life,demandingI pack up my bags and take off on this tour.
It was a sign, I thought. A good omen. Because something, for god’s sake, had to change before I died of boredom at the ripe old age of thirty five.
But then… city after city on those black tour buses. Endless green rooms and sound checks and dusty flight cases. An ocean crossed, and so many late nights and early mornings, and only occasional drama. These guys are older and wiser than their firsttime with the band, and the gripping story line I hoped for has not yet emerged.
It’s the same old boredom, but now with more stamps in my passport.
“This way.”
Long strides carry me around the side of the stadium, my shirt sticking to my back in the damp Southern heat. Insects hang in the air in buzzing swarms, unbothered when I swat them away, and the sky is streaked with crimson and purple. The heat-stricken fan I rescued scurries after me, her yellow backpack jostling as she runs to keep up.
I check my stride, slowing down. No need to be a prick about it and make her jog, especially when she looked ready to faint back there. Is she okay?
“I’m Resa,” she says, breathless, once we’re side by side. “Teresa Castillo.”
“Beckett.” I smooth my tie. “Liam Beckett.”
“Bond, James Bond,” Resa jokes, and my mouth twitches against my will. Christ, when was the last time I smiled? The last time I actually laughed, loud and genuine? The last time I noticed the warmth of sunshine on my skin?
I’ve been numb for far too long.
