Page 15 of Out of the Blue

“Great. Thanks. I’ll go over and introduce myself.” With a wave, I stroll in the direction she indicated. Since so many people are clustered around, I pull out my phone and do a quick Google search for the band. The first headline makes my stomach flip. “Hunte’s New Opening Act Reels from Heartache.” I click andFirst Rumors, a tabloid with sensational fare, opens. Thankfully, Apex has an account with them, so I don’t have to pay to read the article. Showing a photo of Hunte, the piece describes how the mother of the opening band’s lead singer, Trent Washington, was one of ten people killed in a New Jersey mall shooting a few months back. The shooter committed suicide before he could be captured, if I remember correctly. And here’s my first order of business—shield the band from these types of articles.

Without going any further down the online rabbit hole, I approach a tall, beefy guy. “Excuse me. Are you in The Light Rail?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’m a new fan.”

When he stares directly at my chest, I roll my eyes.God, spare me from dopes like this one.“Could you please point out the members of the band?”

The guy nods to a cluster of guys ahead of us by about four rows. At least he was good for something.

I assess the crowd and consider how to wiggle my way up to the band. Finally, I stand next to one of the men who was pointed out to me. Shit. I don’t even know their names, other than Trent Washington. Whatever. I tap him on the shoulder, and he spins around.

Holding out my right hand, I say, “Hi, I’m Cordelia. I work with Apex Hits, and I’ve been assigned to do your social media while you’re on tour with the newly-minted Rock and Roll Hall of Fame band, Hunte.”

His eyes, covered by thick black frames, widen. He pumps my hand. “Hey, I’m Maurice Walker, the keyboardist. We have a social media manager?” His voice raises at the end not because he’s asking a question, but rather due to excitement.

I’ll take his title for me. My eyes roam over his striking features, including pillowy lips. Before I can respond, he waves over a woman who’s been hovering nearby. She’s wearing a pair of jeans with a pretty long-sleeved white blouse highlighting her caramel skin tone. A hue that matches mine. “Fee, get over here. Meet our new social media marketing extraordinaire, Cordelia.”

I nod and the woman smiles at me. “Hi, I’m Fee, Maurice’s wife. Nice to meet you.”

Of course, he has a wife. All the good ones do. One line I’ll never cross.

Soon I’m introduced to Joey Taylor, the bassist. He sports a full head of dark, kinky hair and the broadest grin I’ve ever seen, complete with blindingly white teeth juxtaposed against his light brown skin. And he’s paired with a wife, Cheri, who fiddles with her wedding rings.

Another man joins our group. He’s the shortest, barely taller than my five-foot-six-inch stature. Yet he’s built like a tank and his arms boast guns I’ve only seen on models. He deposits drumsticks into his back pocket. “Dwight Jackson.”

I give him my name, then add, “Drummer, right?”

Pulling out his drumsticks, he asks, “What gave me away?” Then he busts out laughing.

I join him. These guys are going to be a blast to work with, I can tell. And I deserve some joy in my life—while collecting an increased paycheck without all my expenses. I’ll probably have to send Mom my rent, though. My mood dives a bit, only to rise again as it sinks in that I won’t have to pay for any food or beverages, preferably of the alcoholic kind. Yes. This is a good day.

Dwight directs his attention to a short woman standing off to the side. “Denice Jackson, get over here!”

Jackson. Yup, another married one. Whatever. Since I’m not in the market for any strings, sex comes easy. Probably better this way, anyway, as I refuse to bang the same guy twice after what Big Rolls did. He drove the point home to me, again, that relationships aren’t in my cards.

The seven of us make idle chit-chat. Mainly, the guys chatter about Hunte’s upcoming induction into the Hall of Fame, and how it might influence this leg of the tour they’re opening. I capture some of their happiness on my phone’s camera.

“What did you think of our set, Cordelia? Any pointers?” Dwight’s drumsticks bounce up and down his wife’s arms.

I purse my lips. Might as well come clean. Mostly. “Sorry, guys. I was caught up with some last-minute things in the office and wasn’t able to catch your performance. But I’ll get to see every show going forward since I’m touring with you.”

Joey’s hair moves by itself as he nods. “Probably for the best. We were a little rusty today since we haven’t performed in front of a live audience in over four months.” Around the same time that Big Rolls gave me the heave-ho. Curious, I ask, “Why’d you stop?”

Dwight steps forward. “Some serious shit went down.”

Oh, crap. Right. The death of the lead singer’s mother. Before I can try to clean up my faux pas, Maurice chimes in. “But now we’re back, better than ever.” His head swivels. “Hey, where’s Trent?”

Joey looks around, then points toward the bar. “He’s getting a drink.”

I follow the invisible line where Joey indicated. A ton of people stand at the bar.

Dwight helpfully clues me in. “Trent’s our guitarist and lead singer.”

“Great.” I try, and fail again, to pick him out of the crowd waiting for drinks. “Is he married, too?”

Dwight lets out a hoot of laughter. “No way. My best friend isn’t the type to settle down.”

“Good to know.” The drummer’s words are interesting, in a fun fact sort of way. I remind myself it’s not a good idea to get involved with a member of the band. Rubbing my hands on my thighs, I dive into getting to know my new assignment a bit better. “How long have you been together as a band?”

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