Still Not Over You(64)

I hate feeling useless. I’m not a damsel, I’m not in distress, and I despise sitting around idle when I could be doing something useful, even if it’s just keeping an eye on any persons of interest.

It’s hot in here, too. Sweltering. The only reason the heat isn’t putting me to sleep is because I’m too keyed up with tension, the real reason I'm sweating and dehydrated.

My mouth is a desert. At least if I had to be stashed away for safekeeping, it was in a starlet’s well-stocked dressing room. I drag myself off the plush sofa and over to the snack bar.

I should've known what the selection would look like: fifty different kinds of booze, and only two chilled bottles of mineral water bobbing in a half-melted ice bucket.

As I turn away, I glance over the crumb-littered plate and empty wine glass next to the bucket. It doesn’t really register, at first. Just remnants and lipstick prints on the glass, as well as streaks of something down below the rim, but something is just off enough to make me stop and take a second look.

There's some kind of residue.

Making a trail from the lipstick print on the edge of the glass to the bottom. Some kind of grains, like sugar that didn’t dissolve quite right, though it’s white and looks like it might have been powdery before it got wet.

Weird. Frowning, I pick up the glass, looking at it from multiple angles.

What is this stuff? Sure, I know Landon said Milah was drugged up all the time, but last I checked you didn’t mix powdered cocaine or heroin with your drink and toss them down like that. I've watched enough bad murder-mystery TV to know.

The sound of gasps – shrieks – tears me away from scrutinizing the glass, interrupting the sound of Milah’s voice coming from the television and bringing the music to a discordant halt.

I look up sharply, watching on the screen just in time to see Milah go strangely still mid-performance, her face blanking.

She wavers back and forth, slowly but also unnaturally fast, tottering like she’s about to lose her balance.

Only, it's worse.

A second later, she's crashing down on the stage, while the entire arena erupts into screams.

I stare down at the glass. Up at the stage. Down at the glass again.

Poison.

Holy shit. Why did Landon’s instincts have to be right?

I have to get to him.

It could mean Milah’s life, if the paramedics come and don’t realize there's crap in her system.

I’m trying my phone, dashing for the door, but of course Landon isn’t answering.

Of course he’s not, because I can see him on the TV screen rushing out to help carry Milah off stage, Skylar at his side, and he’s too busy barking into his radio to ever pick up the phone.

Damn! I'm frozen, wracking my brain for what to do.

I jerk the door open – only to run face-first into the wall of James' bulk. He stiffens, looking over his shoulder.

“Miss Burke, Mr. Strauss said you’re not to go anywhere.”

“In case you can’t hear all that screaming, Mr. Strauss could be in real trouble and I don’t have time for this.” I glower at him. “I’m a grown woman. Not a prisoner. So, move!”

I expect an argument. But then another shriek comes from the stage, and he tosses a wide-eyed look that way, before his radio crackles at his hip and Landon’s voice barks out.

“All hands on deck in the wings. Now.” There’s a thrilling note of command, cool and controlled, that I’ve never quite heard before. James snaps his radio from his belt and murmurs into it.

“On my way.” Then he favors me with a clipped nod. “Come with me, Miss.”

James plows ahead, into the chaos of stage hands, managers, record company employees, event staff, and technicians milling around in a mess that’s only an echo of the bigger disaster outside among the screaming, frightened fans.

For a brief second, he’s my buffer, parting the Red Sea of people for me with his broad shoulders, but that shield doesn’t last long. In less than ten seconds, people cut between us, running every which way and slowing my frantic steps.

Jesus. Cradling the wine glass protectively against my chest, I shoulder on, forcing myself toward the stage, only for someone to bump me so hard I go spinning around and stumbling into a side hallway leading back towards an emergency exit.

I start to right myself and dodge around the person, but they shift themselves into my way deliberately, blocking my path.

I still, looking up, following the line of a dark, smooth tie up over broad shoulders to a neatly trimmed beard and a cool, reflective smile, into hazel eyes that suddenly seem less thoughtful and more cold, calculating, and utterly self-satisfied.

Dallas.

My throat constricts. Adrenaline kicks through me so hard it’s like I’ve been hooked up to an electrical socket. My entire body goes still, tense and ready to bolt, poised on the balls of my feet.

“Hello, Miss Burke,” he says, rather congenially, eerily at odds with the ruckus just beyond the mouth of the hallway. I don’t like that look. That calm. Not after what Landon said. And especially not when Dallas continues, “Well. You’ve really made this all come together quite neatly, haven’t you? What fortune, finding you here.”

I take a step back, gauging the space he takes up, what chance I have of squeezing past him.

Maybe if I scream – but who’s going to notice one scream among hundreds?