Loving Dallas(12)

“Well, relax on mooning around after the liquor girl when fans are around. We’re promoting you as a single guy looking for the right girl. Fans don’t want to see you tripping over yourself for some scrawny nobody.”

There is venom in her voice. I frown at her as I tune my guitar. “She’s not nobody. She’s a girl I dated in high school. She’s a friend.” She’s a C-cup, too, so I’d hardly call her scrawny, but whatever.

Mandy’s eyes practically bug out of her head. “Are you kidding me?” Before I answer she mumbles something under her breath about “the f*cking odds.”

“No. I’m not. It’s not that big of a deal. So she works for the tour sponsor.” I shrug to convince her I believe this. Or maybe to convince myself. At this point I’m not sure.

“Well, that’s just great, Dallas. Go enjoy your show.” She throws a hand out toward the stage. “It’ll probably be your last one on this tour.”

Wait. What? I tell myself I must’ve misunderstood her.

“Why? Is there some rule about fraternization among sponsors and artists?”

She glares at me like I’m the biggest moron on the planet.

“No,” she answers slowly. “There is an unspoken understanding about Jase Wade getting what he wants.”

“You lost me.”

Mandy nods. “That girl is only on this tour because Wade wants her to be. You think she’s earned enough respect at her company to head up the marketing campaign for a tour this size?”

I open my mouth to defend Robyn because she really is driven and hardworking and a pretty incredible girl. But before I get a word out in her defense, Mandy continues.

“She’s on this tour for one reason and one reason only.” My manager goes back to texting after gesturing with manicured fingernails at Robyn blushing beside the stage where Jase Wade is whispering something in her ear. “She’s here because he requested her.”

Motherf*cker.

Jase Wade either has brass balls or is just a complete and total arrogant *. Maybe both. I heard him telling half a dozen groupies he’d show them his tour bus after the show. I’m pretty sure that’s not all he plans to show them. I can’t help but wonder if he’s in so tight with Midnight Bay that he could honestly just request Robyn to be sent to him like a high-priced escort.

“Lose the hat,” Mandy commands, interrupting my internal temper tantrum.

“Excuse me?”

Mandy flicks her hand beside her forehead. “That hat. Lose it. You can’t wear it for the show.”

I stare at her for several seconds in an attempt to determine if she’s serious. She is.

“And why’s that?”

Huffing out an impatient breath as if I’m the one making ridiculous requests, she snatches my hat off my head.

“What the—”

“Because. Jase Wade wears a cowboy hat. It’s his thing. He throws it to a fan at the end of the show and it’s a huge deal. Here. Just throw on one of the ball caps from the sponsor. They sent a box of them over.”

She tosses my hat onto a stack of empty crates and retrieves a black Midnight Bay trucker hat with neon blue writing on it. I frown when she hands it to me.

“You’re serious about this?”

She nods as I place the hat on my head and adjust the bill. “I am. This isn’t a game, Dallas. You want to stay on this tour? You don’t get in his way, don’t steal his thunder, and do not encroach on his territory.”

Right. I’ll have no problem keeping my distance from his “territory.”

As long as understands Robyn isn’t a part of it.

“How the hell are you, Denver?”

The amphitheater isn’t packed yet, but it’s filling up quickly. I adjust my in ears and I wave an arm as Ty lets loose a riff on his guitar. Lex pounds the drums hard enough that I have to shout into the mic. We’ve found a rhythm for the most part, touring together for the past couple of months. But Lexington Wilks doesn’t have half the skill that Gavin Garrison does and yet he wants twice the attention.

“I’m Dallas Walker and we’re gonna play some music for y’all tonight. We hope you like it.”

I’m Dallas Lark and I have no idea who the f*ck I’m trying to kid.

My family surname mocks me from my inner right forearm when I let the first few chords of “Better to Burn” rip.

Fake, it says. Traitor. Liar.

The label thought the name Dallas Walker had a nicer ring to it so after the unsigned artists tour, they dropped my last name as if were an unwanted appendage that could be hacked off.

I belt out a song my sister wrote and try to engage the audience. I don’t think about how much I wish I could glance over and see her playing her fiddle next to me. And I don’t nod to the drummer who I know always has my back. My sister and that drummer aren’t here.

Trying my best not to pay attention to the fact that I haven’t written a complete song in nearly three years, I make eye contact with a few women in the front row. One gives me a huge smile and holds up her phone so I wink.

With every song, the seats continue to fill and all I can think is Holy shit. This is my life.

It’s surreal, the way the lights glow against the jagged outcrops. The crowd is rising up in front of me and it’s as if the amphitheater itself just appeared in the middle of the rocks.