Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
I press my lips together and drop my head, holding back the tears. He tips my chin up. Only then do I see the expression on his face, and that expression is every question I have ever had, answered. It’s raw, open, and so truthful it hurts.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice low. “And I never, not once, told her that.”
“You love me?” I croak, swallowing the tears.
“More than you will ever know.”
I let the tears come now as he pulls me in for a kiss.
Because right now, all my dreams just came true.
Travis Phoenix is finally mine.
THE NIGHT COMES ON hot and fast, pulsing with the kind of pressure only Vegas can conjure. It thunders in my chest, skitters along my skin, sets the air on edge. We drive to the arena in a black SUV that smells like leather. Travis holds my hand in the dark, his thumb tracing the line of my wrist as we slide through tunnels. He barely says a word, but I know he’s wound tight, pacing inside his own head.
Shows are an entirely different world for him.
Backstage is chaos.
The ceiling lights are strips of surgical brightness, the security guys built out of bricks and hostility. Someone shoves a lanyard at me—ALL ACCESS, in red block letters. I try to joke with Reagan about how I’ve never even had a backstage pass to a book signing, but my words are drowned out by the noise in here. Travis is immediately swarmed by his band, handlers, managers, that new temp bodyguard who looks like a cop. I’m supposed to stay invisible, just another girl in the entourage, and for the first fifteen minutes, I manage.
Then Travis finds me, slings his arm around my waist, and kisses me long and deep in front of four members of the stage crew. Every single one of them glances at me, then at him, then at each other as if trying to decode some vital secret.
“You want to watch from the side of the stage?” he asks, voice low enough that it’s just ours.
“I want to watch from anywhere I can see you,” I say, grinning.
They lead me to the side of the stage with Reagan, where we have the most amazing view. The stadium is pulsing and alive, a roar that bounces up through the floor and into the soles of my feet. Harley’s opening chords pound through the monitors, and they lose it. They know what’s coming. When Travis takes the stage, the scream is a pressure wave; I feel it everywhere. He’s a star up there. Not just a guy who sings, but a god.
They play the first three songs—fast, brutal, raw—before the pacing changes. The lights drop, the spotlight centres, and Travis starts strumming low. The crowd hushes, as if by command. He leans into the microphone, and his voice is everywhere at once. “I wrote a new song for someone who means the world to me,” he says, his voice husky. “Someone who makes even a guy like me believe in miracles.” He looks in my direction, eyes finding me in the dark.
I suck in a breath, then hold it, staring at him like we’re the only two people in this room.
Travis nods at the side crew. There’s a sudden scuffle at my elbow. A stage manager with a manicured beard motions me forward. “He wants you to go on stage now,” he whispers, and before my brain can catch up, I’m half-dragged, half-shoved into a column of blinding white light, standing on the edge of a stage, twenty-two thousand people staring.
Travis doesn’t wait for a cue. He walks over, guitar slung behind his back. Sweat and salt and him—just him, in all his glory. He kisses me, deep and passionate, no hesitation, no shame. There’s a moment after where neither of us breathes, and then the place explodes. I can’t remember what song came next. I can’t remember the words. All I remember is the way he smiled at me between chords, the way his voice broke on the high notes, like he was trying to shake every secret loose from his bones.
I never wanted it to end.
But it does.
After the last song, the crowd spills out into the electric night, leaving only techs and janitors and exhausted, strung-out musicians. Once we’re backstage, Reagan comes running over, her squeals filling the small space. “Oh my god, I am so jealous right now. That was everything. EVERYTHING.”
I laugh and smile at Travis, who is speaking to Marcus and patting him on the back. “Yeah, it really was.” My phone vibrates in my purse, and I can only feel it now we’re off stage. I reach in and check the screen; my whole body goes cold.
Six missed calls from Chief.
An angry text: “Call me NOW.”