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“We can talk in the green room.” Security guards nod at me as we pass, the beefy men dotted at intervals along the outer wall. They’re all dressed in black suits, arms folded over their chests, radios crackling at their hips. Lots of shaved heads and tattooed necks. “It won’t take long—I just need a fan’s perspective.”
And to understand why Resa loves Soul Obsession so much; why there are thousands and thousands of adoring fans back there, queuing up for hours in the merciless heat, all dressed in merch.
Have I ever loved something that much? Beyond all reason? I don’t think so.
“Will the band be in there?” Resa fizzes with excitement, practically skipping beside me, her hands flapping in the air. “Jax and Jameson and Mason and Crue and—”
My mouth tastes sour. “Possibly. But listen, you can’t bother them, alright? If you do, you’ll be escorted out, interview or no interview.”
“Sure! Of course.” Resa draws a cross over her heart, beaming up at me. Thosedimples, good lord. This girl’s smile is wide and bright and heart-stoppingly genuine, and the tiny gap between her front teeth makes me want to scrub my face and groan. “I can be normal, I swear.”
A heavy door swings open under my palm, its surface warmed by the sun. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Resa’s bright laugh bounces around the corridor inside.
It’s cooler in here, dim and empty. Sounds crackle through hidden speakers: thrumming guitar notes and the whine of microphones. The shiver of cymbals, and the distant thump of equipment dropped onstage. The roadies are setting up, running sound check and getting ready for tonight, and their far-off tinned chatter floats through the speaker system.
They curse a lot, always cracking dirty jokes on stage, and it’s never bothered me before—but now Resa’s listening, I suddenly wish they’d check their language. She’s soinnocent.
But does it bother her? No. Resa gazes around us, wide-eyed, like this dusty backstage corridor is a garden of wonders. An empty beer bottle slumps against one wall, and there are scuff marks on the lino, yet she floats through it all like an angel touring heaven.
Everything is dark and dingy back here, especially after the blinding sunshine, but Rena is a shock of bright color with her yellow backpack, those pink canvas sneakers, and a sky blueband shirt cut short above a tanned, soft navel. Not to mention her bleached denim skirt and those eyes, those eyes, those eyes.
Brown, with little flecks of gold. Like honeycomb.
“This way.” I’ve got no excuse to touch her, not really, but I take Resa’s elbow anyway, steering her toward the green room door further down the corridor. The buzz of chatter inside gets louder as we approach, and my stomach sinks. The band membersarethere. Is she in love with one of them? I don’t want to see that. “And remember—”
“Be normal. Aye, cap’n.” Resa salutes me with her free arm, making no effort to dislodge my hand on her elbow. Her golden brown skin is butter-soft under my palm, lightly sheened with sweat and sunscreen.
I’d like to lick her all over.
Bloody hell. Where didthatthought come from? Shaking my head, I lead Resa into the green room.
With crowded tables and vending machines around the walls, it’s not just the band in here: there are off duty crew members, assistants, and visiting friends. A tired photographer sits at a table alone, flicking through the images on her camera, and the tour manager Shelby bustles past, talking a mile a minute into her radio.
“Eep!”
That tiny noise makes me stiffen. If Resa freaks out now, if she rushes one of the band members, if she crosses a line—
But it’s not the Soul Obsession guys Resa slips out of my grip for. It’sShelby, our no-nonsense tour manager—and now they’re hugging and giggling and making enough noise that every single person in the room glances over.
“What?” My voice is clipped, carrying over the clamor. This makes no sense, it does not compute, and it doesn’t help that they’re chattering at a pitch that only dogs can hear. “You two know each other?”
After one final squeeze, Resa turns back to me, her cheeks pink with excitement.
“Yeah, we go way back. Shelby got me my VIP pass, see?” My sun-struck fan tugs a laminated pass on a lanyard from beneath her top, jiggling it in front of her chest. “So I didn’t even need you to get backstage, Mr Bond—although I appreciate the early shade, that’s for sure.”
Resa winks.
My gut flips.
I am so out of my depth with this girl.
Three
Resa
Is there anything more fun in the whole, wide world than getting this suit-wearing grump all flustered and confused?
