Page 52 of Poetry By Dead Men
Just as agreed, Bobby leftthesong out of his set list and held strong to his promise, despite the chant from the crowd to sing it. They chanted several times, actually, but he'd distracted them with his blinding smile and perky butt.
Ormaybethat's just how he'd distracted me.
Bobby waves to the crowd as he exits the stage and strides straight over to me. Someone hands him a towel, and he dabs at his neck. The way his biceps ripple with the movement makes my mouth go dry. This is getting ridiculous.
"What’d you think?" he asks with a smile that almost looks nervous, so out of place from his confident stage demeanor. "Have I lost my touch?"
"As much as I hate to admit it, you’re better than ever." I smile back at him, tucking my notebook under my arm.
"Bobby!" someone shouts from the side of the stage. "We have some VIPs here to meet you."
Bobby hesitates, as if questioning whether he wants to leave me alone or not. "Go ahead," I say, wanting a bit of space from the super hot rockstar I used to be in love with. Seeing him back in his element is heady—dangerous—and I need a cold shower and a glass of wine to come down from the experience.
Maybe I’ll see if Harrison is still up. When we’d spoken this morning, he told me about a big day in court for a case he’s been working on formonths, and I don’t even know how it went, other than it ran late and he had to reschedule his therapy appointment.
"I’ll meet you back on the bus," I nod to where Big Blue is parked behind the stadium.
"Are you sure?" He quirks an eyebrow, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a deep swig. His throat bobs and some water drips onto his shirt, and suddenly I'm wishing he'd take it off. Except I’m not. Because Harrison.
"Yep, I’m very,verysure," I hold back a groan, and his forehead scrunches.
"Are you okay?" he asks, confused by my answer. "I don’t have to go."
"Yes, Bobby. I think I can make it a hundred steps back to the bus. Go do your thing. I should type this up before I forget what I was thinking, anyway," I say, tapping my notebook.
"Okay then. I’ll see you in fifteen." He disappears around the corner, and I’m about to leave when I’m stopped by a hand on my arm.
"If it isn’t Beth fucking Winters," Bobby’s manager, Marissa, says. "Or am I seeing things in my old age?"
"Aren't you like thirty-eight, Marissa?" I ask, leaning to give her a big hug.
"Which is almost forty, which is almost fifty, which is almost dead," she says, returning the hug. "You know, I didn’t believe Bobby when he told me you were coming on tour. After what happened. I mean, I can't help but feel a bit responsible—"
I raise my hands in the air and cut her off, not wanting to go there. "Water under the bridge," I say, even though that’s not exactly the truth.
"I also hear you’re the one writing the article. I need to buy you a drink to thank you. Hell, you deserve a whole case of champagne for getting him to finally do this interview. I’ve been hounding him about it for almost two years."
"Well, you know how Bobby feels about doing press," I say with a shrug.
“Oh, I’m aware. Make him look good, will you? I'm hoping this album makes us enough that I can buy a boat for Kate."
"Don’t you hate the water?" I question, remembering a time when Bobby was on tour in Florida that Marissa flat out refused to set foot on the pontoon boat we'd rented for a day on the ocean.
"I do, but Kate doesn’t. Plus, successful people own boats," she says, her mouth tilting up in a smirk. I laugh. Marissa seems to be as ridiculous as ever, but I’m grateful she’s still with Bobby—that he’s had someone tough and loyal like her by his side.
"I will do my absolute best to present him in a way that increases record sales so you can buy your wife a boat," I say, nudging her with my elbow.
"I always liked you." Marissa elbows me back as if we're in on an inside joke together. "I’ll see you at the show tomorrow," she says, walking away without so much as a goodbye.
The backstage area has cleared out, and dozens of men are taking apart the stage. That was one thing that always amazed me after a show, how quickly everything’s taken down and packed up, leaving only the ghost of the music present in the space.
I walk toward the exit, eager for that wine, but freeze when I hear Bobby’s voice. It’s almost a shout, and uncharacteristically angry, which makes me uneasy. I can count on one hand how many times I've heard Bobby raise his voice, and that's including right now.
"It’s none of your business what I’m doing!" he shouts, and I shrink back, certain I’m not supposed to be hearing this.
There's a humorless laugh—Johnny's. "Are you fucking kidding me? It’sabsolutelymy business. I’m the one who had to watch you after she left last time. The one who had to pick you up off the floor and convince you to get out of bed in the morning."
"She’s writing a story about me, and then she’s leaving, and I’ll probably never see her again."
