The deafening applause is answer enough.
The cameras pan closer. I force a happy smile, pushing thoughts of Ryder out of my head.
Remember how it burned, last time you got too close.
“Well, folks, I’m afraid we’ve got to say goodbye! Ryder and Felicity, it’s been absolutely wonderful having you here with us. Best of luck on your tour and please — don’t be strangers!”
“Thanks for having us, Eileen. It was so much fun.”
The lie is heavy on my tongue… but not quite as heavy as my heart as we turn and leave the stage lights behind.
* * *
Francesca is waitingin the wings. She launches into analysis-mode before we can take so much as a steadying breath, describing our performance with hawkish attention to detail.
“Felicity, you need to work on your eye contact with the crowd.” She starts walking down a narrow hall, and we trail mutely in her wake. “Ryder, don’t cut off the host’s line of questioning next time — if they feel belittled or disrespected, they’ll stop inviting you for segments.”
Neither of us says a word, but that doesn’t deter her from listing her many criticisms. I do my best to tune her out as we turn left, heading toward a side exit. Glancing around for my guitar, I see a mammoth man dressed in all black carrying it a few paces behind us. The case looks like a fragile toy in his hands as he follows us down the hall. My eyes widen a shade when two additional hulks with shaved heads close ranks on either side. They cut rather intimidating figures with their muscular arms, macho expressions, and matching translucent security comms in their ears. It’s easy to imagine they’ve just stepped off the set of the CIA thriller being filmed one lot over.
“Don’t mind them.” Francesca’s tone is perfunctory. “Merely your new security detail. They’ll be with you from this point on, for the remainder of the tour.”
“Dotheyhave names?” I ask, brows lifting as my head swings between the men.
Three grunts volley back in quick succession.
“Smith.”
“York.”
“Linden.”
Ryder snorts under his breath. “Does the A-Team know about you three?”
“Ignore him,” I say weakly, trying out a smile. “I’m Felicity.”
The security guards stare at me blankly. Three mountains with empty eyes.
Okay, then.
My confusion over their sudden appearance evaporates as soon as we step through the exit. A wave of paparazzi surges forward the second they catch sight of us, almost rabid as they fire questions and snap photographs. I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the bombardment of flashes.
Felicity! Miss Wilde, look this way!
What’s it like to be back together?
Ryder! Over here!
Do you have a comment about your time apart?
Is Wildwood making another album?
Mr. Woods, are you still on the wagon?
They swarm like flies on honey, fueled by desperation after our long media hiatus. Ryder steps closer to me, shielding my body with his. I can feel his breaths stirring the hair at my neck, his chest brushing against my spine with each step — it’s nearly enough to make me forget about the screaming mob of press.
I keep my focus on the back of Francesca’s auburn head as we shove our way down the steps and across the sidewalk. Smith, York, and Linden do their best to keep the reporters back, holding a stiff perimeter of space around us as we slide into the waiting SUV, where yet another security hunk is sitting behind the wheel.
“Stevens,” he grunts, when I ask his name.