Page 18 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
Over in the headlights, I unfold Tamsin’s letter and smooth it against my trembling palm. Her handwriting is small and kinda messy, and I have to squint to read it, tilting the letter this way and that in the bright headlight.
When I’m done, I fold the letter carefully and tuck it into my own pocket. My heart is beating so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t punch its way clean out of my chest.
Tamsin.
I tilt my head back and roar up at the stars.
* * *
Photographer Patty. I need Photographer Patty, so I hurry across the trampled grass, scanning for platinum blonde hair in the moonlight. All around me, crew members push heavy cases toward the trucks, the weight trundling over the uneven ground.
“Patty,” I yell, but the sound is swallowed up by the clang of hammers and the shouts of the crew.
She knows Tamsin. She knows where she is. And surely, since she delivered that letter, she knows that Tamsin is pregnant with my child.
I won’t be kept away. Not anymore; not this time.
Ineedto see my girl. Need it more than oxygen.
Photographer Patty will understand that—if I can find her.
“Patty,” I yell again, grimacing at the pain in my torn throat. “Patty!”
A big guy is pushing an equipment case past me toward the trucks, his expression bored in the starlight, and I clap a hand on his shoulder, stopping him by my side. The guy scowls, looks ready to yell at me for stopping him at work, then recognition dawns on his craggy face.
“Shit,” he says. “You’re Jett Santana.”
“Yeah.” I’m not above pulling that card right now. Not when every wasted second feels like an hour. “Yeah, I am. Have you seen Patty? The photographer?”
The guy nods, then jerks his head back over his shoulder. “She’s helping take down the truss. Step, uh, step carefully though, man. You’re not in protective boots like everyone else.”
“Sure.”
Whatever. As I break into a jog, heading in the direction he pointed, my own heavy boots slam against the dirt, and my leather vest creaks. Hell, I’m probably in more protective clothing than anyone else here.
The truss, it turns out, is the shiny metal frame that holds up all the dazzling stage lights. The crew have lowered it down flat on the grass, and now they’re hammering it apart with ruthless efficiency. Flashlights zap back and forth over the earth.
I ignore all that, rounding the truss to head straight for the shock of platinum blonde hair I’ve spied across all the metal. By the time I reach Patty where she’s leaning over, hammering at a thick silver peg, I’m already speaking.
“You need to tell me where Tamsin is, okay? The letter doesn’t say, but I know you know. I need to see her. I need to tell her—private stuff.”
Patty snorts, straightening up and propping both fists on her hips, one still clutching a mallet. Her headtorch shines directly into my eyes, and I hold up a hand to shade the beam. “So private that you declare it to the whole internet every gig.”
“That’s—I’m desperate, okay!” My temples throb at the injustice. “I haven’t seen Tamsin for over three fucking months. Would you rather I pussyfoot around and worry about what everyone else thinks?”
Patty grins and taps her flashlight down so she’s not blinding me anymore.
“Nope. I think it’s very romantic, actually.”
Too fucking right.
“So you’ll tell me where she is?”
Patty grins even wider. “I’ll do you one better, Santana. I’llshowyou.”
Then she steps forward, grips my arm, tugs me around, andpoints.
My stomach drops.
