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  “I’m good to go.” I snatch up the handle and wait for him to exit first.

  Like hell I’m leaving him alone in my bedroom where he could pry through things. For all I know he’s one of those celebrities who feel they’re entitled to anything they want, that boundaries don’t apply.

  He walks ahead of me, hands in his pockets as though the stance is his fail-safe, as we head for the door. “Do you really think you’d be no good as an opener?”

  Isn’t it obvious? “Rock fans don’t usually dig classical music.”

  “So sell it to them.” His eyes are hard and full of challenge as he waits for me to do the usual once over of the apartment before I lock up. “You must be okay if you can sell a hundred tickets on your own.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I sass as I shoo him out the door.

  He shrugs. “Just stating facts.”

  Could I do it, though? Could I sell his audience something so vastly different to what they like?

  “What else?” I frown a little as he continues to stare at me while I check the door’s locked.

  “Nothing you need to know right now.” He grins, leaning his shoulders against the wall, head turned to look at me. “You ready to practice?”

  “To an empty auditorium? Sure. To you? No.”

  He huffs a laugh, taking my violin from me. “And there you go again, doubting yourself.”

  “You’re asking me to basically audition before you, Rey. I think nerves are a natural response to that.”

  “And playing for me would be an issue because …?” He gestures for me to go first down the stairs.

  “You’re like, super successful compared to me. What I think is good is probably shit to you.”

  “And yet I’m a nobody compared to the likes of Metallica or The Rolling Stones.” He sighs behind me as I start the last flight. “We’re all somebody and nobody all at once, Tabby.”

  I might have only known this guy twenty-four hours, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out the Rey the world knows and the Rey his bandmates are privy to are two entirely different people. Something tells me that the more time I spend with him, the more I’ll get to know the real Rey.

  A part of me worries that I might like it.

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, huh?”

  “When it’s not about me, yeah.” He reaches up to slip his shades on before we exit into the sunshine. “Come on, kitty. Your entourage waits.”

  I chuckle as I follow Rey into the street, the vehicles parked obnoxiously in the traffic again. He passes my violin to Pete, who holds the door for us, and then climbs into the SUV.

  Just play the concert, Tab. It’s one night. By next week, Rey will be back on the road, and I’ll be a fading memory of some girl he met along the way.

  I don’t have to like the guy. He doesn’t have to like me.

  Don’t overthink things.

  For all I care Rey could cross-dress in his spare time and sing nursery rhymes to an array of teddy bears. All I need to know is regardless of the fact my music style couldn’t be further from his, he’s more than quadrupled my audience tomorrow night.

  And for that, I guess I could be a little less whiney and a little more grateful.

  NINE

  Rey

  “Invincible” – Adelitas Way

  There’s nothing like the crisp sound of money as it rolls between your fingers, especially when that movement will eventually satisfy an intense craving.

  “Anything full-strength,” I instruct Pete, handing him the two twenties. “And get something sugary with the change.”

  I ran out of smokes half an hour ago, and with the diva shots Emery calls, I’m about ready to gut the next fucker who asks me to “stand there for a moment and give me a few lines.”

  “Can you hear that echo?” Toby hollers from behind his set. He smacks the snare a couple of times, head cocked.

  “Yeah.” I lean on the front of the stage, facing him, with my elbows near my head. “It should sound different with a full house, though.”

  Our sound tech nods from behind his desk as though to agree. Pack a venue with a thousand sacks of flesh and bone, and the acoustics change notably. That’s why we pay these fuckers who operate the board: they know how to predict that change and to adjust the levels for it.

  I tuck my chin between my outstretched arms as Toby strikes the drums a few more times, using my peripheral vision to watch Tabby-cat. She sits in the front row with Café Girl, chatting. You’d be forgiven for thinking she’s relaxed by the way she talks, yet her incessantly tapping foot says otherwise.

  I took two steps inside their apartment and the raw reality of her situation hit me smack in the face. I’ve been there. I’ve lived with only the bare necessities while I fought to get where I am today. Shit. One look in her eyes when I opened my goddamn mouth and stated the obvious, and I was thrust back to the good old days when that was Toby and me.

  Beaten down. Embarrassed. But too fucking stubborn to quit.

  I jacked this thing up and told myself it was because I wanted to humiliate the woman who stormed into my rehearsal and made me feel insignificant. But ten minutes in her apartment and I realize how much of a fucking liar I am, even to myself.

  I want to help her because she deserves better than this.

  “Where the fuck is my stand?” Emery hollers from the side of the stage. The crash of metal on wood precedes a growled “Fuck!”

  Should have given Pete money to get alcohol, too.

  Toby tips his head back, jaw slack as he makes a strained face. I chuckle into my arms, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the stage to fend off my cravings. Idle hands …

  Some bands hate this part, the setup. It’s tedious, broken practice. But I love it. Throw the four of us in a room, banging around pointlessly, and it’s as though we’re twenty and jamming in Emery’s games room again. It’s the fun before the bullshit. It’s the essence of why we all embarked on this fucked-up ride of lights, sound, and motherfucking publicity.

  Fuck, the publicity.

  Apparently we can’t market the band without being involved—who would have thought? Swear to God I’ll find a way, though. Bring it back to the music. I didn’t move out of home to get a career in style and opinion pieces. I hit the road to make a living doing what I love, what brings me alive.

  What’s almost killed me several times over.

  “We’re set for you now, T,” our sound tech calls across the auditorium. “Can you guys run through a couple of songs? We’ll see how it mixes.”

  I cast a glance Tabby’s way to find her quiet, focused, and seemingly eager to hear us play. Fuck—it’s never crossed my mind to ask the woman if she’s heard our music. Does she live and breathe classical, or do her tastes vary?

  Time to find out.

  I jog up the steps side of stage, two at a time, and head across to grab my guitar. I saved for what felt like a fucking lifetime to buy this baby at the start: a PRS SE custom. No matter how much money I make, how many guitars I get gifted by sponsors, this girl will always be my baby. The strap rests across my shoulder, comfortable and familiar, as I lean in to check song choice with Toby.

  “Think we should start with ‘Descent of My Mind’?”

  Emery strides on from the side of the stage, mumbling under his breath.

  Toby flicks his eyes across to the moody fucker, and then back to me. “Think he’ll break his guitar if he fucks up the end again?”

  “Should we find out?” I pull the pick from my strings and give a couple of warm-ups.

  “What we playing?” Em asks, brow furrowed.

  “Descent of My Mind.” I shift my gaze to Kris as he settles his favorite ESP against his hips. “You catch that?”

  He answers with the first chords of his solo.

  “Right, guys,” I call, taking my spot at the mic. “Let’s give these lovely ladies a good show.”

  I earn a giggle from Café Girl, yet Tabitha stays impassive, simpl
y lifting an eyebrow. I blow that bitch a kiss as Toby taps out the beat with his bass, and then rip her mind apart with the opening riff.

  She sits still as a statue while I build the power chords, working up to the best part of the intro, and by the time I drag my pick down the strings to slide into where Kris takes over, she’s leant forward in her seat, elbows on knees as she takes the music in with un-blinking eyes.

  That’s it, Tabby-cat. Lap it up. I’ll have this woman addicted to rock and laying that violin down for good in no time.

  The song feels good, the lyrics pouring off my tongue with ease as Emery settles, his earlier frustration seemingly lost. Empty or full, it doesn’t matter what that goddamn theater is, I enjoy the moment all the same as I work the stage, putting the sound guys through their paces.

  Five minutes and forty-two seconds of pure, unchecked emotion pour from me. My throat hurts from the strain the song demands, my neck stiff as I lay the final chords, but fuck it all, isn’t this why I live?

  “Nailed it.” Toby taps the end of his stick to my raised palm, giving me one of his extended high fives.

  My chest rises and falls as I catch my breath, Kris’s smile infectious. Fuck yeah. That song alone will sell our next album.

  “What did you think, ladies?” Emery struts to the front of the stage to accept the bottle of energy drink Pete passes up.

  That guy’s a goddamn legend. I make a mental note to see if he wants a full-time gig.

  “Holy. Shit,” Kendall gushes. “I mean, I felt the vibrations in here.” She taps a closed fist to her chest. “That was loud. Awesome, but loud.”

  She continues talking to Emery, the grizzly fucker lapping up her adoration the same as he does that bottle of guarana. Yet I hear none of it, my focus squarely on the girl who reclines in her seat as though she’s seen performances like ours a thousand times over.

  Maybe she has? Not as though I’ve bothered to find out much about her.

  I lift my guitar off my shoulder and set it in its cradle before hopping off the front of the stage with a loud thud.

  “Talk to me, Tabby-cat.”

  She shrugs. “It was good.”

  “Just good?” Way to kill a buzz there, little lady.

  “What would I know?” She narrows her critical eyes on me. “I play classical, remember?”

  Gonna be like that, huh? “Suppose.” I drop into the seat beside hers and watch the guys as they talk amongst themselves.

  Kendall takes her seat on the opposite side of Tabitha again. “I can’t believe you’re opening for these legends, Tab.” She nudges her friend in the arm.

  I watch her keenly in my periphery, frustrated when she doesn’t react other than to say, “Lucky me, huh?”

  I picked her as the guarded type when we met yesterday. But that’s a damn understatement. This girl isn’t just guarded, she’s estranged from her fucking emotions altogether. Would it kill the woman to be excited about something?

  She hasn’t put the bow to the strings yet, but she’s already convinced she’s failed. What the hell has this girl been through to make her so damn pessimistic?

  Fuck. And I thought I was a moody buzz-kill at the best of times.

  “Rey! Get your ass up here,” Emery calls. “We’ve got time for ‘Succession’ and then we’ve got to split.”

  I slam my hand down on Tabitha’s knee and pat her leg twice. “If you thought the last one was ‘okay’, baby, then you might struggle to stay awake during this belter.” I flash her a cocky wink as I rise. “Fair warning, and all.”

  If I’m not mistaken, that was the hint of a goddamn smile.

  Girl might not be so cold after all.

  TEN

  Tabitha

  Theme from Schindler’s List – John Williams, Itzhak Perlman

  I said he was good to save inflating his ego to dangerous levels. I lied.

  It. Was. Fucking. Phenomenal.

  I’d come across the name of the song in the press pieces I read that were published pre-tour, but because the track was a key selling point prior to the new album dropping, they’d decided to keep the song relatively under wraps. No YouTube video, no Spotify upload. Nope. “Descent of My Mind” is the dark horse of the tour.

  And I can see why.

  “I’ve got to take these guys to a radio interview,” Rick says as he stops beside where I unpack my violin. The guy is attractive in a clean-cut corporate way. “But I’ve asked one of the cars to stay behind for you and your friend.” He hands me a business card, which I promptly drop into my open case. “Phone me if you have any issues, otherwise we’ll see you back here tomorrow night, an hour at least before you’re due to go on, okay?”

  “All my ticket holders have been notified of the change in time?”

  He nods. “An alert went out through the seller.”

  “Cool.” I lift my tried and trustworthy Cremona from its case and force a smile.

  I need a better violin. This one has done well—hell has it done well—but if I want to notch my performances up that bit higher I need a better tool for the job. Only problem: that tool costs in the vicinity of two grand. I can’t afford to feed myself properly, let alone save enough to buy my ideal instrument.

  Talk about a hell of a catch-22.

  “Keep these guys here as long you need them,” Rick instructs. “They get paid by the hour, so don’t let them bitch out on you, okay?”

  “Sure.” Not 100 percent sure how I’d feel about ordering around people I don’t know, let alone pay, but okay.

  He gives me a curt nod and then turns for the exit. I cast my gaze across the room, violin tucked under my arm as I check the tension on my bow. The band hangs near the doors that lead through to the lobby, Toby chewing everyone’s ears off. Kris leans his shoulders against the wall, hands in pockets as he listens. Emery clutches a new can of energy drink like his life depends on it.

  Probably does.

  Rey, however. Rey nods at what Toby says, yet his gaze keeps cutting across the enormous auditorium toward where I set up. Seems I’m not the only curious one.

  I shy away, same as I always do when people are fascinated by me, and swallow back my nerves. Like you have a million times before, Tab.

  “You got everything you need?” Kendall drops her ass to the front of Toby’s platform, legs crossed as she watches me apply rosin.

  “I think so.” I flick my eyes toward the band. “Be better when they leave.”

  “Babe.” She sets her lips in a firm line. “If you’re nervous about playing in front of them, then how the hell will you handle it tomorrow with a full house?”

  “Let’s not talk about that, okay?” I wince at the thought, and then bring my violin to rest on my collarbone.

  The bow glides over the strings perfectly until the final inch where it snags. I huff and drop the instrument back under my arm to apply a little more rosin to the end of the bow hairs.

  “Breathe,” Kendall coos. “You got this.”

  “I have to play classical to rock fans. I don’t have this.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.” Her gaze flicks to the rear of the room as the guys head out. She gives Toby a cute finger wave. “If you don’t want to play, don’t.”

  “And how would that look to the people who wanted to see me?” I ask, noting Rey leave without so much as a backward glance. Asshole. “First I change the time, and then I bail altogether.”

  Kendall smiles. She has me in her little trap.

  “That was your point, wasn’t it?” I drone.

  She nods with a smug smile, hands tucked between her legs.

  “Ugh.” I retry the bow, and satisfied that it’s ready, head for the mic.

  The sound guy waits patiently at his desk for me to start.

  “Um.” I lean a little too close and wince at the feedback. “Do you want me to do a whole song, or…?”

  “Whatever suits,” he calls. “We’ll work around you and let you know if we need more.”
r />   Okay. I nod and pull in a deep, cleansing breath. Go with your favorite. I lift my violin and close my eyes, letting my senses guide my bow to the strings.

  The room falls silent, enough so that a pin drop would be deafening. My breath escapes on a long exhale as I pull my bow across the strings and begin.

  There it is. My heart calms, my mind at ease as I visualize the sheet music, preempt the next note. I fall back on the piece that cemented my love of violin: the theme from Schindler’s List. A beautifully emotive and sad tale. A perfect piece to play solo.

  I sway as the piece builds, feeling each note rather than hearing it, completely and utterly immersed.

  So much so that I don’t realize the entire theater remains silent while I bring my violin to my side and pull a deep breath to open my eyes.

  Kendall sits speechless, nothing short of pride on her face. “That is why you’re supposed to do this shit.” She beams. “That right there.”

  I glance across to the two sound techs. One sits perched on the back of a chair, his feet on the seat and jaw slack. The other, the guy who works the levels, stands with his hands immobilized on the board.

  “Wow.” He snaps out of his trance, lifting one hand to scratch the back of his head as he looks down at the controls. “I think we’re good, but if you want to do another….”

  “Something a bit faster?” I ask. “I’ve got backing tracks for a few of my pieces, but the USB for it isn’t with me.” I was so thrown by Rey at our place that I forgot to grab the damn thing.

  “No issue.” He waves his hands before him. “Turn up early tomorrow, and we’ll run over them before everybody else gets in.”

  “How early?”

  He looks to the guy who’s now managed to shut his jaw. “What do you think?”

  “Um.” He climbs off the chair. “How many tracks are we talking?”

  “Four.” My hand flexes on the neck of my violin. “I can find out who was supposed to do the sound for me if it helps?”

  “No, no.” He shakes his head, scratching around for something on the desk. “No need. We took over before they were scheduled to come in.” He pauses to look up at me. “You would have practiced today with them, right?”