Jersey Six(17)

“Band members?”

Ian nodded, grabbing a clear glass bottle with a blue lid. He screwed off the top and took down the whole thing.

“They left without you.”

He sighed, wiping the corners of his mouth with his hand. Jersey could hear a surge of cheers and rhythmic clapping thundering through the venue.

“I’ll catch up. I’m the last one to go on stage. Walk with me.”

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder.

“You can leave your bag.”

“Nope.” She shot him a challenging look.

“My bad. You should definitely bring it. That was my second suggestion. Do I have anything in my teeth?” He bared his teeth and pink gums.

The room was lined with vanities, mirrors, and lights. Jersey blinked in disbelief for several seconds.

“No? Good. Let’s go.” He winked and strutted to the door.

Jersey hiked her bag up higher and followed him. Two guys waited outside his door. She recognized Shane. He led the way, and the other guy lagged behind Ian, speaking into his wrist. The intensity of noise grew deafening as they wound their way through a maze of halls and doors to a set of stairs caged in by black scaffolding.

Ian turned around at the bottom of the stairs. “Wish me luck, Jersey.”

She shook her head, cupping her ear.

He leaned in so close his lips brushed her ear, and his warm breath burned her skin. “Wish me luck.” Ian pulled away just enough to see her face.

He was close. Too close. Jersey didn’t let men get that close to her without asking to get knocked on their ass or stabbed in the gut.

Except Chris. She let Chris lie close to her, sometimes even touch her in an innocent way. But Ian wasn’t Chris, and surrounded by bodyguards, he was off limits for hitting or stabbing. So she matched his smile, not knowing what to do with the foreign flutter of something in her stomach.

“Luck, Coop.”

He reined in his smile, wetting his lips just inches from her face as he gave her one more slow wink before ascending the stairs. Max waited for him at the top, handing him another glass bottle with a blue lid. He drank it down, gave a few people high fives, and disappeared from Jersey’s sight.

Max waved Jersey up the stairs just as the lights dimmed. The roar of the crowd demanding their rock star escalated to a level beyond pandemonium. The stairs vibrated beneath her feet, and she clutched the railing with one hand and her bag with the other hand. At the top, Max handed her earplugs and led her off to the side where they had a perfect view as a Technicolor of lights lit up the stage and the band started to play.

Ian strummed an electric guitar, watching his hand slide along the neck, pressing and picking the strings as the crowd surged forward out of control. Security held the women off as they cried.

Actually cried.

Jersey narrowed her eyes in complete disbelief.

When Ian started to sing, that was when it all clicked—the song, the voice. She’d heard it a million times playing over the speakers at Marley’s.

“Oh my god …” she whispered to herself.

Jersey spent two and a half hours with her jaw hanging open. It felt like a dream, only she knew it wasn’t because she didn’t dream about rock stars. After every few songs, he’d jog off the stage and hydrate, not making eye contact with anyone or anything except the glass bottle of water in his sweaty hand.

Ian owned the stage, his guitar, and the crowd. Everyone wanted to see him, have a chance to touch his hand, look into his eyes. All Jersey wanted was to know why he bought a homeless woman lunch and offered her a job.

After an encore performance, the band exited the stage. Jersey stayed close to Max. “Where’s Chris?” she yelled over the noise.

Everyone seemed pretty jacked up after the concert.

“He’s going to help tear down and load up the buses. We’ll make sure he gets back to the hotel. Wait here.” Max turned and pointed at the floor like an owner telling their dog to heel.

Jersey obeyed out of a lack of other options. She had nowhere to go and no clue what was going to happen next. She hated feeling so out of her element and out of control.

Two guys walked toward her, laughing it up. “Dude, did you see Deadpool drop that fucking case?”

The other guy cringed. “I can’t even look at him.”

Six thunks followed:

One—Jersey’s bag hitting the floor.

Two through five—a quick upper cut and jab to the first guy, quickly followed by the same to the second guy.

The final thunk was her body hitting the ground as security closed in around her.

“Stop!” Max yelled, shoving her way into the crowd gathered around Jersey’s reprimanded body on the cold concrete. “Oh my god … get her off the ground. What the hell happened?” Max’s frantic voice matched the rapid ping-pong of her gaze going from Jersey to the security guards to the two victims.

“She assaulted them.” One of the security guards nodded to the two men.

Max’s head jerked back. “Excuse me?”

Jersey held a stiff poker face as they helped her upright. It wasn’t her first time in handcuffs or her first time being accused of assaulting someone. She could have hit them harder. No one seemed to notice that the damage was minimal—no blood and nothing broken but two male egos.

“She hit you?” Max questioned the two men leaning against the opposite wall, rubbing their minor wounds. “What did you do?”