Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Faye appeared at his side and handed him a black marker. Having his own pen helped him maintain minimal contact with the fans.
Nathan guided Charlee to the back wall, his eyes alert and posture rigid. Good.
A probe through the room would’ve probably revealed his ten-man protective team, but Jay’s attention was ripped away by the doe-eyed girl before him.
“I love you so much, Jay.” She shoved a portrait of his airbrushed face at him.
“Thank you.” He never knew what to say to them. Reciprocated love certainly didn’t make the list of automatic responses. Did that make him a dick?
“I love you, too.” Rio smiled at a girl down the line, pinching her nose and wiggling it. She bounced up and down, squealing.
Across the room, a small smile turned up the corner of Charlee’s mouth. At least she was enjoying this.
Forty-five minutes later, Jay autographed the last photo, grabbed Charlee’s hand, and pulled her out of the overheated room.
“Fifteen minutes till show time,” Faye shouted after him.
He flicked a finger over his shoulder and strode down the hall. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Nathan and Tony were on his trail. Two more of his bodyguards, Colson and Vanderschoot, swept past, blending into the stream of crew members in their jeans and t-shirts.
Hyper-aware of his security team, Jay strummed with an intense feeling of dread. Tony was usually his only shadow backstage. The extra personnel should’ve comforted him. Instead, it was a reminder of the threat against the precious woman at his side.
He scanned the halls and rooms they passed, straining to see something or someone out of place. Protecting Charlee gave him a sudden appreciation for how hard Tony’s job was.
Did Roy have access to these tightly secured areas? Of course he did. He owned their record company, which owned their production company. Jay’s dread magnified.
A man in suit pants and a collared shirt loitered outside a storage room. Who the fuck was that? An access pass hung from a lanyard around his neck.
Jay pulled Charlee close to his side and kept them moving toward the stage area.
The squeak of sneakers echoed around the bend. A wiry guy with dreadlocks skidded into view, balancing lighting equipment. Where was his badge? Was he a legitimate member of the lighting crew?
“I need to pee. Do I have time?” Charlee pointed at the restroom a few feet ahead.
Nathan moved around them and disappeared behind the door marked Women.
“Jay Mayard?”
A male voice, one startling similar to the fucker Jay heard on TV that morning. His pulse spiked as he spun and shoved the man against the wall.
An armful of CDs tumbled to the floor and a pimple-faced kid in his twenties stared up at him out of wide eyes. His overlong hair tangled around the kind of headset worn by the band’s stage crew.
Fucking hell. He’d lost his ever-loving mind. Jay jumped back, releasing the kid and crunching plastic cases underfoot. The threat of Roy, the usual pre-show jitters, and his anxious need to keep Charlee pinned to his side created a fog of dizziness that shook his knees. He searched his pockets and remembered the overflowing trash can Nathan had carried out of his room the prior night. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tony stepped in front of him. Jay couldn’t see her face, but the kid cowered.
“I…uh…my little sister loves The Burn. I’m…I work on the backline crew and was wondering if Mr. Mayard would sign my sister’s CDs?”
“Bathroom’s clear.” Nathan held the door open for Charlee.
She slipped out of reach, eyes narrowed at Jay under lowered lashes. Was that disapproval?
Jay’s heart rate escalated, his nerves fraying. “I’ll go in with you, Charlee.”
She looked away and slipped into the restroom. Dammit to hell. His face fevered.
“Sign your albums,” Nathan said from the doorway. “I’ve got this.”
The door shut and rattled the walls. Fuck Nathan. Jay lurched forward, fists clenched and ready. He tripped.
The kid grunted from the floor where he gathered the CDs. He shook out his fingers.
Great. Not only had Jay shoved him, he’d stepped on his hand. Feeling like an ass, he dropped to a knee and picked up the cracked cases. “What’s your name?”
“Kevin.” He lowered his voice and flicked his gaze at Tony’s back. “Brady told me to give you this.” He tugged a tiny zip-locked baggie out of his pocket and stretched his arm toward Jay. “Said if I did, you’d sign this stuff for me.”
Brady. His longest-standing roadie and hook-up for all things drug-related.
Jay dragged his eyes away from the mix of yellow and white pills. Oxycontin with a Phenergan prep for nausea. He knew it well. “No. Not interested.” His finger twitched.
Lips as red as the poor kid’s pimples curved downward, as did his bony shoulders.
“Tell you what, Kevin. Give Faye your contact information, and I’ll ship you a signed copy of every album we’ve produced. Okay?” He held out the broken CDs he’d collected.