Page 31 of Out of the Blue

After a moment, he tugs on a short dreadlock. Up close, I realize hurt simmers right under his surface. “You could ride with us.”

I’m not giving in. “My luggage has been stowed under this bus.”

He glances up and realizes he’s causing a rather large disruption and delaying our departure. He drops his arms. “Well, see you in Boston.”

As little as can be. “Bye.”

He turns and descends the stairs at the front of the bus. My heart yearns for his touch again, yet my mind wants to excise him from my life. Despite our short time together, I fear he has the power to hurt me worse than Big Rolls ever did. And I’ll never allow that to happen.

Once the roadies have all settled into their routines, I pull out my computer. No matter what, Trent needs to get control over his stage fright now before he’s unable to perform. Which would be the end of TLR. And my salary.

A few hours later, we rumble into Boston. I’ve spent the entire time sifting through tons of information about Trent’s challenge, and have compiled some promising exercises to help him overcome his nerves. Armed with the new information, I disembark, collect my luggage, and wheel it into another, interchangeable lobby. At least we have two shows here, meaning two nights.

And you’re going to spend them in your own bedroom.

Instead of going to the hotel’s restaurant, I order room service and review my notes. Once I’m confident I can help Trent without jumping his bones again, I text him.

Cordelia:What’s your room number? I have some exercises that should help you.

Trent:1147

Good. No flirty response. I walk to the elevator, all the while reminding myself I don’t do repeats. Or second repeats. Or thirds. Whatever, we’re over. Nothing to see here.

When I arrive at his door, I knock. He’s changed into the clothes he’ll wear onstage—an Imagine Dragons t-shirt this time, with a pair of tight black leather pants. Fuck. Me.

Down, Cordelia.

He ushers me into the room and reaches out as if to help me with my computer, but I flinch away. I adopt a professional demeanor as we sit across from each other at a small table, and open my laptop. “I think these exercises will help you out. I wanted to go over them with you so you can pick out the ones that speak the most to you.” I pass him my laptop.

After skimming my notes, he asks, “You did all this on the bus ride?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Some of these sound good. Like diaphragm breathing, yoga stretches, and eliminating caffeine at least two hours before showtime. I think I can add a couple of your ideas to my routine.”

“I’m glad. Do you need me here to help you, or are you fine going over them by yourself?” God, please don’t ask me to stay.

He swallows, and my body reacts to the way his Adam’s apple bobs.Stop it.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he murmurs, “I’m good alone.”

“Great.” Tapping on the keyboard, I rush to my feet and edge toward the door. “Just sent you the links.” I’m out of his suite without waiting to hear his response. As I retreat to my room, I try to convince myself I made the right decision about the broken man I fled.

* * *

As is my routine, while the band performs, I post photos to generate hype. The fans at the concert won’t see them ‘til later, but the ones who aren’t in the arena get to experience a little of what they’re missing. I even post a video snippet of them performing “Let Me Give You a Sweet” from backstage. In it, Trent and Joey are out on the catwalk interacting with some girls in the front row. Comments light up almost immediately.

TLR finishes their set to the loudest applause I’ve heard for them to date. This is good. Trent took the stage minus the deer-in-the-headlights look he usually sports. Maybe today will be the day the band’s social media responses pull ahead of California Skies, and I’ll be one step closer to securing this salary for the long haul. Visions of my debt decreasing dance in front of me. It’s still out of reach, but I’m closer.

The guys make their way into the green room, hooting and hollering. Guess everyone felt the excitement in the air tonight. Still, it’s my cue to become scarce. I don’t want a repeat of what Trent and I did last night. My body begs to differ, but I shut her down. No. More.

When Raine calls them over to yet another meet-and-greet, I breathe easier. Free for one more hour. Scrolling through the band’s Instagram account, I stop on @Joey’sFangirl, who posted he’s “the biggest dreamboat with a heart of gold for his admission about his BIL’s OD. I was there and got clean, and he’s doing a lot to help out right now.”

My heart does a double beat. Confidence races through my body. My strategy really is helping people.

Hunte chooses this exact moment to walk into the green room, laughing and slapping each other’s backs. Within minutes, TLR returns from their appearance, and drinks are passed all around. Carrying two bottles of Bud, Braxton approaches Trent and holds one out. I raise my Canon and snap the exact instant when Trent accepts the offered one. Nice. I post it with the caption, “A happy toast from one frontman to the other.” A couple of minutes later, the headliners disappear, followed by an explosion of happiness from the audience.

“Cordelia,” Joey yells. “Come over here.” He waves me over.

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