Time (Laws of Physics #3)(48)

Melena said she’d be here. She’d promised to meet me right here, after the concert was over.

“Abram! Hey, man!” Charlie was suddenly at my shoulder, holding my bass and yelling in my ear over the persistent chanting of the crowd. “They’re not stopping. They’re nowhere near stopping. We got to give them at least one more.”

I shook my head as I glanced around, searching for Melena and mouthing an emphatic no. I pointed to my throat. We’d already played nine encores. Nine. The most we’d ever done. My voice was raw, on fire. I would be paying for these extra songs for days.

“Come on.” He held my guitar out, his eyes pleading and wild, like a druggy looking for another hit. “Come on. One more. This is Chicago. Our hometown. They love you. You owe them one more song.”

Gritting my teeth, I glared at my drummer, but said nothing. I’d already given my answer. The pleading eventually morphed into frustration, and then rage. Charlie’s jaw ticked in time with the chant, Redburn, Redburn, Redburn.

“Sometimes, you’re a stingy motherfucker, Abram.” He seethed, stepping back, wiping his upper lip.

Charlie’s hands were shaking, his knuckles white where he held my bass in one hand. He was covered in sweat. So was I. I was hot and sweaty, and wired, full of adrenaline, just like him. And the high, the current and cadence of euphoria still held me in its grip. But I wasn’t insane with it, desperate to prolong it, like he was.

I had something else, the thought of someone else making me crazy.

God, she was so close. So close. I’d gone off script, walking into the audience during Charlie’s drum solo in the middle of our sixth song, unable to wrestle the anticipation into submission. Our security and lighting people scrambled, and I felt like an ass, but I needed to see her up close. I’d walked past the barricade, the guards, down the stairs, to her section, searching for her.

And there she was. Grinning at me. Eyes shining, looking so proud and excited. She also looked goddamn hot, wearing a skintight blue dress that ended mid-thigh, her hair down, red lips. My lungs on fire, it took everything, everything, every ounce of self-control not to grab her and kiss her gorgeous face off.

But we were surrounded by thousands of people, and that pledge I’d made to myself—that all my decisions from now on would be stellar ones, because my decisions impacted her—screamed between my ears. She deserved my circumspection and thoughtfulness, not a big, showy, dramatic, extremely public outing of our relationship. That wouldn’t be romantic. It would be selfish.

So I’d taken a few photos with fans. I’d quickly signed a few shirts. And then I’d climbed back onto the stage and finished the concert, restless, eager for it to end. Yet also wanting to give Mona my best version of our songs.

Now the show was over.

Now it was our time.

So where the hell is Melena?

Movement behind Charlie snagged my attention and I pushed past him, Melena and one of the PAs running toward us, coming from the side hall leading to the dressing rooms and offices.

“Sorry.” Melena stopped directly in front of me, holding a travel mug in one hand and a large water bottle with ice in the other, wearing a massive grin and shouting over the continuing chants.

The PA, however, bumped into me. And then brushed her body against me.

“Sorry, we thought you were going to do another song,” she said, peering up at me, sounding breathless even though she was shouting.

I took a half step back. The PA swayed forward. Frustrated, I gently set her away with the palms of my hands, grinding my teeth.

“I’m glad you decided not to. Here.” Melena pushed the travel mug into my hands, giving the PA an irritated look. Then to me, she said, “Drink this. It has something to numb the throat. You must be hurting.”

Taking the mug, my eyes flickered to the PA who now was staring at me like I was food and she was starving. She licked her lips. Give me a fucking break.

Maybe it made me a dick that I didn’t take the time to learn any of their names. Maybe if just one of them treated me like a person I would have. Regardless, I noticed she was holding one of my T-shirts and I frowned at it, and her, lifting my chin in question.

“Oh!” The PA shook herself, shoving it toward me. “I noticed the sweat, I mean, you’re all sweaty. You look great but your shirt is sticking to your body and you’re, uh, all, uh, wet. So I went to your dressing room and got it for you.”

I scowled, my jaw working. How many times did I have to tell these people? I didn’t want any of them in my dressing room.

She flinched back, presumably at my expression. “I thought—I thought you might—”

“Did you bring me a shirt?” Charlie asked, standing at my shoulder. “Or how about Ruthie? We’re just as sweaty. Stop trying to fuck Abram, okay? Can’t you see it pisses him off? Plus, he’s got a girl already.”

The PA blinked at me, and then at Charlie, her mouth moving without sound as a red blush climbed up her cheeks, visibly mortified.

I didn’t have time for this. Ignoring both Charlie and the offered shirt, I tried to get Melena’s attention. But she seemed to give her eyes a half roll, and shoved the water bottle at Charlie.

“This is for you,” she shouted over the crowd. “It’s my electrolytes mix. Where’s Ruthie? I have one for her too. And if you have a problem with one of the PAs, talk to their boss, Charlie.”