Page 2 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

It’s the girl from the front row. The one who knows my songs.

“Mr. James,” she calls, her voice tight, like she’s nervous.

I turn back and try to play it cool. Like I meet fans every day. No big deal.

She steps toward me and offers me a pen. “Would you sign?”

“Of course.” I take her pen, but there’s an awkward pause because I’m not sure what I’m signing.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I lost my program.”

“Want me to sign your arm?” I tease.

Her pale cheeks flush crimson. “No. Here.” She slips her VIP pass from the plastic cover hanging from her neck and hands it to me.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask.

Her mouth opens, like she’s surprised at the question.

“Alexis,” she blurts.

Thanks for tonight, Alexis, I scratch out, then sign my name.

Her eyes widen when she reads it. “Wow.”

“Is this a school group or something?” I nod at the cluster of teenagers she stepped away from.

The girl’s smile lights up her face, highlighting the tiny freckles dotting her nose. “My brother got K-Sky 107 to give away backstage passes.”

“And you won one of them, huh?” I ask.

She huffs an exasperated sigh. “I texted like ten million times.”

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”

Before I can turn away, she wraps her arms around me. “Thank you.”

Stunned, I stand there like a moron. The security guard standing in the corner raises an eyebrow, but the girl releases me and steps back, mortified.

“Sorry,” she squeaks.

“That’s all right.” I give her one last smile. “You take care, okay?”

Her hazel eyes pierce me with longing. “You too.”

I duck into the greenroom to grab the last of my things and a bottle of water for the road. When I return to the hall, the backstage group is gone. It’s surreal, like the encounter with the young woman never happened.

How does she even know my music? My songs aren’t popular. Maybe her radio station is one of six hundred who actually listened to my demos and liked what they heard.

The headliner band finishes their set, and then it’s time to pack up the last of the equipment. The work is yet another ritual that settles me, turns that final burst of after-jitters into something useful.

I’m saying my goodbyes and thank yous when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Excusing myself, I peel away from the group and head for the backdoor. It doesn’t occur to me to check the caller ID because I’m betting it’s my best friend Quinn, telling me where to meet.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Dawson.”

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