Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(23)

She sounded like she was trying to work herself up to do something frightening. My instinct was to comfort her or protect her, but from what? How?

“Can I help?” I blurted.

“Will you be here after the show?” she asked, her face open and hopeful, a sad smile at its center.

“Yeah, Kacey. I’ll be here,” I said gently. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m so glad,” she said. She shuffled her feet, not quite meeting my eyes. “There’s talk of a party after at Summerlin. A ton of people are coming… the guys from our opening act. You should come. I mean, if you want. If you’re allowed.”

I wasn’t. We weren’t permitted to socialize with our fares, but the desire to protect her was fierce and neither company policy nor my stringent rules about the routine could change that.

Her friend, Lola, emerged from the back door again. “Kacey. You can’t make us late again, sweetie. I’m serious.”

“I gotta go.” Kacey reached out and squeezed my hand. “I’ll see you after?”

She hurried to join her band, and I tried to imagine this girl playing electric guitar on stage in front of a screaming audience. She seemed ready to crack in two, and aside from her friend with the two-tone hair, it seemed like she had not one f*cking person in the world to help hold her together.

I wiped my hand on my uniform pants pocket as if I could wipe away her touch and the feelings that came with it, but I could still feel her soft skin against mine.

I slid behind the wheel to wait out the show. The line of limos behind mine grew, and I’d bet Trevor was among them, still not having learned to take off his damn jacket while waiting in the heat.

Unlike last night’s monotony, I spent this night with my nerves jangling, hoping Kacey was okay, and being pissed at myself for caring. Every muffled swell of the crowd made me flinch and I half-expected Hugo to bust out of the back door with her in his arms again.

After two hours, my nervousness settled into a dull pang in the pit of my stomach. A homeless man shuffled up to me, asking me for some spare change. I handed him the crumpled one-hundred-dollar bill Jimmy Ray had given me. The homeless man’s eyes were wreathed in a bone-deep weariness. They widened as he offered me a gap-toothed smile of profound relief before slinking back into the night.

Best hundred bucks I ever spent.

It was close to eleven when the show ended. Through the alley that led to the street, I saw a stream of concert-goers file out. I put my jacket back on and waited at the limo door for the band to emerge.

An hour later, I was still waiting, sweating in my jacket like a Trevor.

Finally the door burst open, out staggered Rapid Confession and the guys from their opening act. All of them drunk and loud and laughing with a post-show high. I searched for Kacey. She was in her concert outfit now: skin-tight black leather pants, and a low-cut black halter-top that revealed a valley of smooth skin between the soft curve of her breasts. Tattoos on her arms were stark against her pale skin, her hair was still piled messily on her head, tendrils falling loose to frame her face.

Kacey looked worn out from the show—sweaty and disheveled and drunk. The drummer from the opener had an arm slung around her neck. They both staggered and weaved. As Kacey climbed none-too-gracefully into the limo, her eyes met mine, glazed with liquor. She flashed me a watery smile before disappearing inside.

Jimmy and the other band’s manager crammed in last, without a glance my way. I shut the door behind them, bottling up the cacophony of laughter and loud talk.

On the drive to Summerlin, my eyes kept straying to the rear view mirror and twice I barely avoided rear-ending the car in front of me. But as long as the partition was down, I kept trying to catch a glimpse of Kacey, to make sure she was all right.

Why do you care? She’s a rock star. This is what they do.

But I did care. She’d drunk herself into oblivion last night and gotten just as wasted again tonight. She told me at lunch today she was scared, but of what? The party scene? Or something more? And why, in the space of twenty-four hours, had her fears become so important to me?

I screeched into the circular drive of the pink palace in Summerlin. This time lights were blazing in every window. When I opened the limo door, a great tangle of staggering bodies and laughter spilled out. I hazarded a guess the mini-bar was raided down to the ice cubes.

The drummer from the opening act was all over Kacey, and as the group moved toward the house, I watched her try to shove him away.

“Get off,” she said, and staggered back. The guy laughed and said something I couldn’t hear. He went at her again, an arm snaking around her waist to yank her to him.

“No,” she said, her voice muffled against the guy’s chest as he pinned her close. His head bent, mouth on her neck and his other hand sliding down to her breast. “Ryan… Stop…”

“Hey!” Kacey’s friend Lola pulled away from her guy and started wobbling toward Kacey to help.

I was faster.

I grabbed the drummer by his shoulder and shoved him off Kacey so hard, he tripped on his heels and landed on his ass.

“She said stop, *,” I said. The drummer scrambled to his feet, his expression morphing from confusion to shock to anger. I stared him down, and when Kacey fell into me, her face buried against my jacket, my arm went around her.

“Who the f*ck are you?” The drummer’s lip curled in a sneer. “The driver…”