Page 138 of Love Me Steadfast
“Why is William in Montana?”
Chapter Forty-Two
WILLIAM
It takesme too fucking long to figure out how to get close to Creekside because the limited parking lot is already full. There’s off-site parking with a shuttle, but that isn’t going to work.
There’s a brewery right next to the venue that doubles as the parking shuttle drop off, and when I turn into the parking lot, there’s a line of people snaking up the road to the entry gate. I ignore the big signs warning me that the parking is for the brewery only and not Creekside and step down to the gritty concrete.
Though I left the rain behind, it’s cooler than I expected, and goose bumps pepper my arms and skim down my back. A steady breeze is blowing off the river behind the brewery venue complex, but I taste only the sunbaked concrete and a hint of yeast no doubt coming from the inner workings of the brewery.
On the other side of a tall, black, chain link fence, the stage waits at the bottom of a gentle sloping grass amphitheater, flanked by what looks like VIP seating platforms. From my flat vantage point, there’s movement on the massive, raised stage, but no sound. Behind the venue, on the other side of the river, dark canyon walls rise up to asloping plain sparsely dotted with fir and gray rock outcroppings. Creekside is probably a really great venue if concerts are your thing.
The brewery complex has two large metal warehouse-like buildings next to the tap room, which has a concrete patio with metal chairs and tables, most of them occupied.
Inside the brewery, country music blares from speakers. It’s so loud compared to the near-silent parking lot that a jolt of pain flickers behind my eardrums, making me squint. Thanks to the giant windows letting in the glare off the river from the lowering sun, it’s also bright, and a lot warmer. It’s packed with people, most with blankets tucked under their arms or clear backpacks slung over shoulders, their laughter and conversations blending with the music.
A dark-haired woman in a tank top tied at her low back to reveal her tanned stomach saunters my way. “What can I get you?” she asks, giving me a quick once-over.
I order a pilsner and settle onto one of the stools.
When she sets the beer in front of me, I nod at the chain link fence surrounding the venue, visible through the big side window. “Guess you get a front row seat, huh?”
She gives me a half-grin. “Not exactly, but the tips make up for it.”
“You a fan of Nic Salazar?”
“Sure. You here for the show?”
“I have a VIP pass.” I take a sip of the beer. It’s crisp and cold and goes down quick.
Her eyes turn quizzical. “If you’re looking to sell it, you’ll have better luck out there.” She nods at the long line of people.
“Where does the band hang out before the show?”
“It’s kind of bare bones backstage. I mean, there’s dressing rooms, but most big names have trailers or a bus.”
New mission:find his bus.
The bartender moves to the other side of the bar to take an order. I pull out a ten and tuck it under my beer, then head for the door.
Outside, I walk to the banks of the river behind the brewery andscan downstream. Because of its slight curve to the north, I get a glimpse of the tour buses parked on the other side of the stage, in a bare dirt parking area.
“Hey!” A guy in all black with SECURITY in white letters is walking toward me, one hand on his radio affixed to his belt. “There’s no loitering here.”
“When do they let in VIPs?” I ask with a jerk of my chin toward the gate.
“Six o’clock.”
I try to smile at the guy but my face feels frozen. “Thanks.”
Back in my car, I leave the brewery, but the roads are now clogged with vehicles.
Fuck.
What was I thinking, coming here? Of all the places to get to a celebrity like Nic fucking Salazar, a concert venue with airtight security is not it.
I drive away from the access roads to the freeway, then head east, but there’s not another turnoff to Creekside. At the first break in the guardrail, I cross over the two-lane highway to the dirt shoulder, where a narrow dirt track parallels the river. I bump over roots and rocks, kicking up a cloud of dust that coils into the trees as I follow it back toward the venue. But it dead ends fifty yards later at the black chain link fencing. I’m below stage level, staring across an open dirt area where a tour bus, a couple of trailers, and a giant semi-truck are parked adjacent to the stage. I park my car beneath a cluster of scrubby fir trees. I’m not waiting another hour for the gates to open. I’ll climb the fence and bust into Salazar’s trailer if I have to.
