This One Moment (Pushing Limits, #1)
Stina Lindenblatt
Chapter 1
Nolan
The arena locker room buzzed like a bee hyped up on caffeine. I grabbed my guitar and strummed a few random chords, experimenting more than anything.
But it wasn’t enough.
I’d been edgy for the past hour. Normally it wasn’t like this before our band, Pushing Limits, took the stage. Usually I could clear my head of everything that didn’t belong there before the show began. Then all that mattered was the music and the fans.
I closed my eyes and pretended the stale air didn’t smell like hockey players fresh off the ice after an intensive workout. Instead, the room reminded me of sugar cookies. A room from my distant past.
The random chords transformed into the melody I’d been playing around with for the last two days, after I’d managed to sneak off somewhere quiet.
“Dude, that’s really good.” Mason drummed along, tapping the beat on his knees.
I stopped playing and cracked open my eyelids, the moment over.
The tattooed drummer draped his arms around the shoulders of the two groupies cuddled up to him. “Hey, why’d you stop?”
“He’s right,” Jared said, eyes gleaming. “You’ve been holding back on me.”
I returned the guitar to its case and propped it next to me on the wooden bench running along the wall. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got so far.” Which was a huge amount compared to what I’d written over the past few months. Touring wasn’t exactly productive for songwriting.
My phone buzzed in my back jeans pocket. I removed it and checked who’d texted me. Brandon, my best friend from back home.
Call me! It’s important.
I ignored the text and shoved the phone back into my pocket. I’d deal with it later, after the show.
Resting my head against the cold concrete wall, I closed my eyes again. Exhaustion sat on the bench beside me, ready to crash the party as the five of us prepared to go onstage. And it wasn’t just hanging around me. I’d seen it on the guys’ faces for the past few weeks. The next stop on this touring train? An extra-long break with a side order of sleep.
Giggles broke out across from me. I peered through half-closed eyes at Mason and his friends. The blond groupie sitting next to him pushed herself off the stained orange couch and walked over to me, her gaze ripping the plain black T-shirt and jeans off my body.
Not that I was much better.
Her tight Pushing Limits T-shirt, which she’d cut into a tank top, revealed cleavage a guy could easily get lost in. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mason had already tried.
“Hi, Tyler. I’m Rachel.” She sat next to me and rested her hand on my stomach, just above the waistband of my jeans. My muscles instinctively tightened for a second, then relaxed.
I cocked my head to the side and gave her the lazy grin that Mas had dubbed my panty-dropping smile. Hey, whatever worked. “Hi, Rachel. Ready for the show?”
“I’d say,” she practically purred. “You’re my favorite singer. And guitarist.”
I leaned in and murmured against her ear, “Well, thank you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling into my stomach muscles, taut from years of pushing myself to the limit when I worked out. “Wow, you’re fit. And hard.” The last word came out as a seductive breath.
Chuckling, I stood. Unlike Mason, I never f*cked just before a show. The moment I hit the stage, I was raw energy. Fucking before that would only dull the edge.
I glanced around the room. Mason was busy with the brunette now on his lap. Jared and Aaron were talking to a roadie, Jared flipping a guitar pick between his fingers and across the back of his hand, like he always did just before a show. Kirk was chatting with another groupie who had also sweet-talked her way backstage. All the guys were preoccupied, none paying attention to me.
“Maybe I’ll see you after the show,” I told the blonde. I grabbed my black sports bag from the floor next to my feet and walked to the far end of the bench. Fortunately, she didn’t follow me. She returned to the couch, smiling to herself.
I unzipped the bag and removed the laminated photo. The picture was slightly battered between the two plastic sheets, the result of me not having had the foresight to laminate it sooner. Along with my acoustic guitar, which I used for a few songs during the show, I always brought Hailey’s picture with me onstage.
A lifeline.
The one nobody knew about.
In it, we were sitting on my bed, both of us seventeen years old. Hailey was holding my guitar on her lap, trying to play it. I was straddling her from behind, repositioning her fingers on the D chord for the tenth time. Hailey was laughing because no matter what she did, the chord always fell flat. That’s when my mom had snuck into my room and snapped the photo.
It was the only one I had of Hailey. It was one of the few possessions I’d taken when I escaped my hometown five years ago. Hailey’s picture was the only thing that had kept me going all these years.
The dressing room door opened and a roadie entered. He scanned the occupants until his gaze narrowed in on me. “Mr. Remar wants to talk to you.”
“Now’s not a good time,” I told him, slipping the photo into my back jeans pocket.
He shrugged, not having a response, because ultimately it didn’t matter if this was a good time or not. If the president of the record label wanted to talk to me, I’d better move my ass and be there five minutes ago. Both the roadie and I knew that.