Page 12 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
I’ve trawled every social media site, every photo online from the night that Tamsin came to our gig. Nothing. No sign of her anywhere. I even checked the buyer details for our VIP passes that night, but Tamsin’s name wasn’t on the list.
She’s a ghost. Impossible to find a second time.
And she’s haunting me to hell and back.
The heat from the lights cooks us onstage, and sweat sheens my skin. Every muscle in my body is tensed, amped up on adrenaline, but it’s not just that. Each day that passes without Tamsin sets me a little more on edge. There’s a constant ache in my chest now, and my gut is twisted in knots.
I’m a goddamn wreck. Standing up on this stage, pouring out my lonely heart for a baying crowd, all singing along and swaying their phones in time with the beat.
At one point toward the end of the gig, I glance toward the edge of the stage on my right and see a camera flash. For a split second, hope rises in me, fierce and hot—Tamsin is a photographer, after all—but then the camera lowers to show a young woman with platinum blonde hair.
She’s looking at me strangely. Not in the same way that everyone else looks at me these days—like they’re worried about me and a bit bored of this extended meltdown—but like she knows something I don’t. Like there’s something she wishes she could tell me.
Tamsin.
An instinctive voice whispers her name in the back of my mind, and it takes every ounce of my self control to stay in place and finish the song. The next time I look over, the photographer has gone.
But as we finish up the gig, I’m not hollow anymore. Not numb. I’m fucking elated.
Because that girl knows something about Tamsin. I’d stake my life on it.
* * *
“Get some good photos?”
The photographer jolts as I speak behind her, then fumbles her camera where she’s packing a set of lenses away into a special padded case. We’re behind the stage after the show, down where empty flight cases are stacked everywhere and cables are coiled on the grass.
The sound of the crowd is still insane, even with the muted music playing from the speakers to usher them away. There’s no VIP meet and greet tonight—not with this city park venue. Our head of security put his foot down.
I’m free for the rest of the night. Free to track down this platinum blonde photographer and ask her what the hell she knows about Tamsin.
My heart beats fast beneath my vest.She knows something.I’m so fucking sure.
“Uh, yep! Yes. Lots of good ones.” The photographer shoots me a nervous smile, then keeps packing her equipment away. “I’ll send them all to the marketing lead once they’re edited. Or if you’re looking for something right now, I got some great shots last week in—”
“Do you know Tamsin?” I interrupt, my skin prickling when this girl flushes and looks down, like she’s guilty about something.She knows.“She’s a photographer too. Maybe you know her. About this tall,” I hold a palm about my shoulder level, “long dark hair, light brown eyes. Husky voice.”
“The girl you were singing to tonight,” the photographer adds weakly. She frowns down at her gear as she zips it all away, and she doesn’t look at me as she asks, “Do you always do that? I mean, have you done it before? I work a lot of these gigs, and that was new to me.”
“For the last week.”
“Oh.”
The girl’s frown deepens, and she yanks harder at a zip that doesn’t want to close. It’s jammed open by an inch, the padded case for her camera bulging open like a little laughing mouth.
“Well?” Impatience sharpens my voice, but I clear my throat and try again. “I’m trying to find her. Tamsin. Do you know her?”
When the photographer nods slowly, still scowling down at her case, I wanna yell in triumph and punch the sky. Finally, a lead. Already, I feel lighter, because it’s gonna happen. I’m gonna see Tamsin again.
“I do,” the photographer says, and then she finally turns to face me square-on, her hands propped on her hips. Suddenly stern. “She’s my best friend. So you can understand why I’m feeling a little protective.”
My hackles rise, because any insinuation that I’d ever do anything to hurt Tamsin is a fucking insult, but I force myself to smile calmly.
“I just want to talk to her. To see if she’ll give me another chance.”
And see if she can explain what exactly I did wrong the first time, so I never, ever do it again. Never scare off my other half. But I don’t say that part, obviously; I’m all too aware that I’m walking the line here between persistent and overbearing.
The photographer hums, gazing at me thoughtfully. For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—something like sympathy. Then she holds out her hand.
