PR at its finest.
As the hours bled away and the pictures were taken, I took notes on how the band members reacted to each other. There was only so much research I could do online. Most of the band looked to Hunter for leadership. All save two of the members—Bats and Wyatt.
The more attention Hunter got, the more ostentatious Bats became. Wyatt was definitely far more watchful and quiet. Each time Wyatt’s eyes tracked me back to Hunter there was a smirk. Not exactly a friendly one, either. It felt far more calculating.
Finally, the last of the fans were ushered back downstairs. There was another secret door at the back of the balcony and everyone was shuffled down the stairs. Indie and Keys escaped first, so I hung back to return Lila’s call.
Now that everyone was gone, I dropped into one of the red velvet chairs. I’d learned that Lila preferred a FaceTime chat above anything. Since I’d now dodged three of her calls, I bit the bullet and flipped open my iPad. When the call connected, it wasn’t Lila’s China blue eyes that met mine, but a far different wintery blue under heavy brows.
“Hello, Donovan.”
7
Hunter
I was the last though the door to the hidden passageway to backstage. I expected Kenny to follow me, but she lowered herself into a seat. Her shoulders were ramrod straight. I was used to her prim poses already. She used them more like a cloak. I preferred the woman that had stolen my dish, and moaned with buttery garlic pasta in her mouth.
She smoothed her hair over her shoulders before holding up her iPad.
I caught a glimpse of a suit on her screen. I recognized the angular face that had graced more covers of magazines than my own. His cultured, accented voice carried over to me. Donovan Lewis. Every woman’s wet dream, and the man who gave Hammered a chance at something new and different.
It was rare for me to be jealous, but that guy could make the President of the United States secondguess his manhood. I’d only met the guy a few times, but he was the definition of successful and charismatic. Kenny’s voice held an undertone I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Too friendly?
Intimate.
I didn’t like it.
At all.
A throat was cleared behind me. Loudly.
“If you’re done spying on the PR chick, we might just be able to get you on stage on time.”
Indie had her mom voice on. And perhaps I should have felt guilty for watching Kenny. I really needed to warm up. Too much talking had left my voice raw. People were here to see us play—and if we were lucky, they’d want to hear the new stuff.
Distractions like Kennedy McManus, PR princess, were the last thing I needed, but her scent was living in my head. Orange blossoms and silk sheets with a side of sweet, soft lips. Having her tiptoeing around behind me through the signing had me even more worked up than our little moment in the tunnels.
Knowing she was right there and that I couldn’t look at her, couldn’t touch her.
The damage I’d done was already epic. But fuck me, I wanted her. More than I’d wanted anything in a long damn time.
I backed up and turned to face Indie.
“Hunter…”
I held my hand up. No way could I get into it with her. I was a fuckup more than half the time lately. This certainly didn’t help my cause. Kenny’s low laughter chased me down the labyrinth of stairs to the stage waiting for me. I firmly pushed my reactions to her to the back of my mind.
It was time to become the front man my band needed, not the hormonally-imbalanced walking cock that I’d become the last few hours.
I strode into the shared dressing room and shucked my shirt, hat, and simple belt in favor of a black tank and a studded belt with a wide buckle that fit squarely above my zipper like a damn homing beacon. What the fans wanted. What the stage needed me to be. The sex symbol, the seducer, the voice.
I dug my ring out of my pocket. The familiar weight of the heavy platinum setting meant “go-time”.
Some people had rituals. I had a prop ring from our very first video fourteen years ago. It was black onyx with a bold platinum J in the center. The setting was hefty and withstood all the abuse I gave it on stage. Whacking it against drum kits, microphones and their stands, guitars, the damn ground—it always survived.
I fisted my hands, and the ring fell into the grooves of my forefinger where I habitually wore it. Like a switch, focus pushed out the disgust from the magazine, as well as my fuckall attitude. Kenny and her distracting mouth was locked in a little box at the back of my mind. A flood of endorphins relaxed my aching shoulders and neck.
The outer gathering room was empty. Everyone else was on stage.
Here and now it wasn’t about me. The murmurs of the crowd, the hum of the amps, the pulse of Wyatt’s kick drum drove me from the room and to the ornate stage with its bordello red curtains.