Page 19 of Under the Ink

“I’m not sure how much you know, but I was good friends with my drum tech—and he died a few days ago.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

It wasn’t that therewasn’tsympathy in her voice, but she seemed cold. Unreadable perhaps. Nothing like the groupies who wanted just a taste of him.

When Naomi cleared her throat, Sage shifted his gaze from the drum he was staring at to really look in her eyes. Those green orbs were gorgeous, mesmerizing—but he could tell even from where he stood that she was closed off. There was no doubt in his mind that she wouldn’t be interested in chitchat or even baring her soul.

Business only.

“So is this how you like your drums set up?”

Sage couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, generally, but you don’t have to worry about that. All my concert drums are secured onto a platform. We have several guys whose main job is to move shit—because we have a lot of it, and most of it’s heavy. You don’t have to worry about how shit’s arranged.”

The way Naomi’s mouth curled up on one side was almost cute. “Then whatdoyou need me for?”

“I need you to make sure everything’s good. You make sure I have plenty of drumsticks, make sure there are no loose bolts, check the sound, tighten heads, all that shit—and you’ll have about five or ten minutes to do it. Then, at the end of the show, you debrief with me so I can let you know if there’s anything different you need to do next time.”

“That’sit?”

“Yeah. Mostly. I mean…you’ll also be doing general cleaning and maintenance of them too, but that’s your basic day to day.”

“You couldn’t have one of your other road crew guys do it?”

“Look…each person on the tour has a specific job—and if you fuck yours up, we don’t sound good. If you don’t want the job—”

“No, I do. I just have more responsibility making people’s lattes is all.”

“You have a shit ton of responsibility. If I sound bad because you didn’t check my shit or if something falls apart in the middle of a show, that’s on you.”

“That’s fair.”

Goddamn. Any other person on the planet would have fucking jumped at the chance—an hour’s worth of work a day max and the opportunity to listen not just to Shock Treatment’s new shit but also their opening act’s music; traveling all over the world, most expenses paid—although, in this woman’s case, traveling over the entire U.S.; lots of free time to do whatever they wanted. Granted, a lot of that free time was spent rolling down the road in a tour bus, but still…

And what the fuck was up with this woman anyway? He was pretty sure there was a hot chick underneath all that makeup, but that combined with the way her short black hair hung in her eyes sent a clear message: back the fuck off.

But she had two full sleeves of tattoos, also mostly black, which meant she was competing with everyone on tour to win the Most Tatted award—and maybe they might have something in common.

“At least you’ll fit right in.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your ink,” Sage said, pointing to her forearm. “I don’t think there’s a soul on tour without a fair amount of tats.”

“I’m not here as an art exhibit.”

What the fuck?

Bobby, done being important for the moment, started to walk back toward them.

Sage said, “Note to self: no small talk. Cool.” At least she cocked an eyebrow at that. “I’ll go over everything with you in person at our first show.” Standing, he gave her a nod and then looked at Bobby. “We’re done here. Now I’m gonna go get my drink on.”

“Wait. What?” As Sage started heading toward the doors, he heard Bobby asking Naomi, “Did he even show youanything?”

Sage shook his head slightly. All these years and Bobby hadn’t figured him out.

“Don’t be late for call!”

Opening the door and stepping outside, he turned for one quick moment. “When’s that again?” Then, with a grin, he let the door close. He knew he’d get at least three text messages from Bobby before then…but chances were the guy would call him before he’d made it to his car.

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