Page 26 of Out of the Blue

Yet?

Taking in her false eyelashes and dyed hair, plus her overly-perky tits, I remind myself she’s one big walking lie. Still, she did me a solid by not posting the photo. Where I looked petrified to take the stage. And I was. For some unknown reason, I’m compelled to explain myself. “About the picture, you already know how my mom was killed.”

She nods.

“Well, I’ve been finding it difficult to go onstage. Always imagining some random dude with an AK-47 is going to come in and shoot up the place.”

“Oh, God. How awful.” She rests her hand on my forearm and a spark zaps between us. “You are aware the venues you guys play always have the audience go through a metal detector before they’re allowed to enter, right?”

“I know. Never said it was rational.”

Her hand falls away. “I seem to recall reading online about how to combat phobias. Maybe there’s stuff about battling stage fright?”

After I froze before the gig at Madison Square Garden, I checked in with the therapist who helped me when Mom was killed. She gave me some exercises to do, which have helped. Somewhat. “Maybe I should do some more research.”

She blinks. “I’ll do it for you, and report back. That way your talents won’t be wasted reading through all the useless crap I’m sure is out there.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Don’t read anything into it,” she warns. “I want TLR to succeed so I can, hopefully, keep my job.”

I smirk at her warped logic. “Sort of like helping me out is helping yourself?”

“Something like that.” She smiles right back.

I run my hand up my arm where my tattoo sits. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything tonight, you’re welcome to join us. Joey found a club nearby, and we all want to blow off some steam. Especially after all the bad publicity. Which you spun into something good.”

She stands straighter, her eyes focused off to the right. Finally, her chin rises. “Sounds fun. Thanks for the invite.”

With an uneasy truce, we join the rest of TLR and climb into a couple of Ubers over to the Hartford club. Correction. All of us get into cars except Dwight, who somehow managed to get his Harley transported with us during the tour. I shake my head. Never underestimate the resourcefulness of a man and his prized hog.

When we arrive, a line snakes around the block waiting to get in during this early fall evening. “Shit,” I mutter as our Uber drives off.

The rest of the band turns their focus on Joey. “Did you make us a reservation?” Dwight asks.

A blush overtakes his light black skin. “Cheri’s not here, and it didn’t occur to me.”

Guess we need to get out of here. No way am I waiting around forever only to be denied entrance.

Next to me, Cordelia fishes in her purse. Holding up her cell phone, she punches something on the screen and raises her finger at us. “One moment.”

We watch as she hops over to the line and insinuates herself into a group of women. Cordelia shows her the phone, points at us, and a woman exclaims, “Holy! Guys, guys.” She tugs on her friends’ arms. “Look.” They all turn to us.

“WTF?” I raise my arms to Dwight.

He silently motions as if to reply he doesn’t have a clue.

The next thing I know, the crowd pushes toward us, screaming “TLR is here!” Flashes from camera phones go off in our eyes. A couple of seconds later, club bouncers approach our group, which grows by the second.

A beefy, bald guy points at me. “You with a band?”

“Yeah. The Light Rail. We opened for Hunte at their concert tonight.”

“Come right in.”

He motions for us to follow, and the guys do. Walking on air with our newfound fame, I start to follow them before realizing we’re missing someone. Spinning back around, I search the crowd for our awesome social media manager and find her in the background with some other people in line, jockeying for a photo. Placing my hands to my mouth, I yell, “Cordelia!”

Her head snaps in my direction.

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