Page 95 of Poetry By Dead Men
“Where will Sam be tonight?” I ask as Bobby puts on his watch. He’s freshly showered, and the smell of his soap is oddly calming. I breathe it in, willing it to calm the nausea in my stomach.
“Where do you want him to be?” Bobby asks, coming to sit on the mattress. He puts a hand on my leg, and some of my tension eases. His touch saysI’ve got you,and even after the trauma of the past few days, I find that I absolutely believe him.
“I don’t know,” I say, sighing and rolling to face him. I don’t realize my fingers are tracing my stitches until Bobby gently takes my hand and kisses it.
“If you don’t want to come because you’re tired, or need a break, that’s fine. I’ll keep Sam here with you. But if it’s because you're worried about your injuries, don’t be. You’re as beautiful today as you are every day. They just show how strong you are.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. “And as much as I hate to say it, everyone on tour knows what happened. Staying here won’t change that.”
I nod, trying to stop the tears burning my eyes. I understand Sam had to tell everyone about Harrison’s erratic behavior for their own safety, but it doesn’t make it easier to swallow that every one of Bobby’s employees knows the details of the worst moment of my life.
I consider burrowing deeper beneath the covers, letting Bobby head to the venue and staying here to talk to Molly, but a sliver of fear sneaks between my ribs and wraps around my lungs at the thought.
I don’t want to be alone.
Not with Harrison out there somewhere.
“I’m coming,” I say, and suddenly, I can’t get dressed quickly enough. I brush my hair and teeth, and am just finishing changing my clothes when Sam knocks on the door.
“Car’s here, boss,” he says through the door.
Bobby takes my hand and doesn’t let go. Not while we walk through the parking garage or as we slide into the car. Not on the short drive there, or when we sneak into the back of the venue, the sound of his opening act vibrating through my body.
It’s a familiar sensation, a comforting one, and by the time Bobby needs to put in his in-ears, I feel strong enough for him to let go.
The crowd is as wild as ever as Bobby takes the stage, and I pull out my notebook, ready to jot down anything that pops into my brain for my article. Thinking about work gives me something to focus on besides Harrison’s threat and the injuries marking my body, and I savor it, focusing on the performance like I haven’t seen it over a dozen times in the past month.
About halfway through Bobby's set, Sam appears behind me. I feel his presence before I see him, and the feeling of his eyes on my back makes my palms go sweaty and my stomach flip.
I want to ask what’s wrong. What happened to cause the sudden shift in his posture and position, but I don’t. The words are stuck in my throat, held down by a layer of ignorance and denial I can’t, or won't, break through.
He doesn’t say anything as he hovers behind me for the remainder of the show, only stepping away to pull Bobby aside as he exits the stage before his encore. They share a brief exchange, Bobby’s eyes flashing to mine, his brows lowering in concern, and my lungs constrict. He points at me, saying something to Sam emphatically before walking back out on stage.
Seeing Bobby's reaction sets my entire body on edge. "What is it?" I say when Sam resumes his spot just behind me, my voice coming out thin and shaky. Sam looks off to the side, then clears his throat.
"I’m not sure I should—"
"Sam. Tell me what’s going on," I demand.
With a deep exhale, Sam lifts his gaze and turns to face me. "Venue security caught Harrison trying to get in tonight. At least, they think it was him. He purchased VIP tickets off a resale website."
My blood runs cold.
He’s here.
My mouth cracks open, but in shock or horror, I’m not sure. Showing up at the venue—one filled with security— is calculated. Unhinged. It shows planning and foresight, and even worse, a lack of fear. And that absolutely terrifies me.
"They initially stopped him because he was drunk," Sam continues, "and when they asked to verify his identity, he ran." Bubbles of nausea form in my stomach. Once again, I feel stupid. Foolish. But after everything that’s happened, I can’t be surprised by Harrison’s actions anymore.
"I’ve made arrangements for you and Bobby to stay in a different hotel under new aliases. I’ve been doing this a long time, ma’am, and I don’t have a good feeling about this," Sam says, shaking his head.
"Okay," Panic creeps deeper into my chest, and I force myself to take slow, even breaths. "Okay. Do you think someone could get my things? Just a change of clothes?"
"Already done. I think it’s best you leave immediately once Bobby finishes. It will minimize Harrison's chances of figuring out where you are."
Normally I'd argue, but something doesn't feel right. There’s an uneasiness in my stomach that tells me we need to get away from here before something terrible happens, so I nod, confirming that I'll be ready to leave once Bobby’s done. Sam takes a step back and dips his head to speak into his earpiece again.
Bobby only plays one song for his encore tonight, and even that feels a little forced. It's obvious he wants to get off the stage and get me somewhere safer, and I don’t disagree. Knowing that Harrison was here somewhere trying to find either Bobby, or myself, makes my blood run cold.
I don’t have to tell Bobby that Sam suggested we leave immediately.
