I’m not feeling polite; I’m feeling pretty damn pissed.
My head swings away from her, searching the crowd for Francesca. She’s behind the merchandise table to my right, scrolling through emails as she oversees the never-ending VIP line filing through the side door. It shows no signs of tapering off, despite the fact that we’ve been mingling dutifully for what feels like a fucking eternity.
“Francesca.”
She looks up at the sound of my growl and exhales sharply as she spots the fan who’s now practically plastered to my side. Snapping her fingers, two of her minions instantly rush forward to intervene. With effort, they manage to peel the girl away from me.
“Bye, Ryder!” She blows me a kiss over her shoulder as they lead her away.
“How much longer?” I ask Francesca between clenched teeth.
“Not long,” she says, not bothering to glance up from her phone. “Just one more group, then you’re done.”
I steel myself for the final wave of fans as they step inside. Thankfully, they’re not nearly as aggressive as the last. I sign their posters, pose for pictures, and thank them for coming to the show.
Rinse and repeat.
The stupid grin on my face falters when I glance over at Felicity, who’s got her own steady stream of admirers on the opposite side of the room. I can’t help noticing the vast majority of them are men. They surround her in a ring, crowding in from all sides. My jaw ticks as I watch them telling her jokes to make her laugh, leaning in to whisper in her ear. Putting their hands on her waist as they pose for photographs, tracing their eyes down her lithe little body in that tantalizingly tight dress she’s wearing.
She looks like a fucking meteorite — sparkling in silver and black. Her kohl-rimmed eyes are a stunning shade of honey, even from twenty feet away. Her lipstick is a deep scarlet, an homage to the great Bethany Hayes — and a distracting one, at that. I’ve been fixated on her mouth all night, whether it’s pursed in anger or pouring out lyrics.
The moment she stepped out of her dressing room, it took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to throw her over my shoulder, carry her back inside, pin her up against the nearest wall, and kiss her until every trace of red was off her lips… until she melted in my arms and admitted, once and for all, that she’s mine and always will be.
Which may explain why I had not even an ounce of remaining restraint to control my reaction a few moments later, when she confronted me about my recent attitude.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell a middle-aged mother and her teenage daughter as I sign their album, shooting daggers at the man hugging Felicity over the top of their heads. “Your support means the world.”
Feeling the weight of my stare, Felicity looks up, straight at me. The light in her gaze goes dark as soon as our eyes meet, shuttered in an instant as the air between us fills with memories.
You’ve been ignoring me, shutting me out…
You ripped my heart from my chest.
You’ve been so cold I can hardly breathe…
I’m not your boyfriend anymore, baby.
We both glance away at the same moment.
“Hey there!” I wink at the next two girls in my line, making them blush and giggle as they approach. “Thanks so much for coming out tonight…”
Rinse.
Repeat.
* * *
“Yes, this is Francesca.”The Route 66 agent listens for a moment to whoever is on the other line, then sighs deeply into her cellphone. “No, you were supposed to pull the busses around the back of the venue.” She pauses. “Well, that’s frankly unacceptable. Now it’ll be a mob scene.”
She clicks off her phone with an angry jab of her finger against the screen, muttering under her breath about basic competence. She looks up to find me, Felicity, Aiden, Lincoln, Carly, and two of the security guys whose names I can’t ever seem to remember, all staring at her with raised brows.
“Apparently, the buses are in the side lot, not the back lot. Even though I calledtwiceto confirm the pickup point.” Her lips purse. “You’d think such a simple task wouldn’t require vigilant supervision, and yet…”
“Francesca, it’s not exactly a crisis.” Aiden’s voice is placating. “We can walk to the side of the venue.”
“That’s not the point.” She adopts her most severe expression. “The point is, I’m your label representative, not your tour manager. It’s not my job to be juggling these details, nor can I leave all my interns at your disposal. As I told youweeksago: you need to find someone who can handle these things while you’re out on the road. Issueswillcrop up, and I won’t be there to fix them, except on the rare occasions I fly out to see one of your shows. I have other artists that require my attention as well.” Her expression is acutely disappointed, as though we’re disobedient children. “Did you not get in contact with the potential tour managers I recommended?”
“Those guys were sleazy as they come,” Aiden mutters.