Page 27 of Ripple Effect
“Then let’s go. You must be starved having come here directly from work.”
Mournfully, I eye the chicken leg lying on the floor. Releasing Libby, I scoop it up and throw it in the trash. “You have no idea.”
But as we stand in front of our seats close to the stage, even the energy of the concert can’t eclipse that emanating from Libby. I grin as Libby sings along with every Brendan Blake song, like he’s a megastar or something. It’s not that he’s not good—he is. He just may end up being another name people sit on their tailgates and go, “Oh, yeah. I remember that song.” It happens to so many who toss their cowboy hat into the sound booth. Then again—my eyes narrow as he winks down at Libby singing his third song that hit number one on the country music charts—he did land the spot on the Small Town Nights tour.
I slide up behind Libby and slide my arms around her waist. I begin swaying back and forth with her as she’s being serenaded from the stage. Whether it’s because he saw his death on my face or just respects another woman’s man, Blake tips his hat at me before strolling to the other side of the stage. “Having fun?” I yell into her ear.
Twisting back, she grins and tugs my head close. “I would have been happy just dancing with you to this at home.” Rising up on her toes, she presses a quick kiss on my lips. But before her head turns away, she’s already picked up singing the lyrics in time with the rest of the crowd.
And there, right there is the reason I used my connection to Wildcard Music—the label that represents Small Town Nights and Brendan Blake—to get the tickets and backstage passes. Because Libby doesn’t expect it.
The only thing she wants is me.
It’s a heady feeling.
Swaying with the music, all right in the world for this moment in time, I try to push aside the forty-five minutes of gratitude I endured from the president of Wildcard when I called to ask for the tickets. I tried to pay for them, insisted upon it. He refused to let me.
“Mr. Sullivan, you personally went in and grabbed my little girl out of a house of monsters. And you want concert tickets? Son, you could ask to follow them on tour.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if I could pay, Mr. Wilde,” I tried to insist.
“Do you know what my daughter’s going to be doing next week?”
“No, sir.”
“She’ll be with her mother. Because of you.” The warmth of pride at his words steals through me. “Now, tell me where to send you the tickets.”
I rattled off the Alliance office address. “You’ll have them tomorrow.”
“I’m grateful, Mr. Wilde.”
“No, it’s I who is still grateful. I always will be,” he said, right before he disconnected the phone.
I’m jostled out of my thoughts by Libby’s jumping body as she and 11,000 other fans begin stomping their boots and their hands fly up in unison as Brendan Blake ends his set with his most famous song to date, “Broken Boots.” His guitar is swung over the back of his shoulder, mic in hand as he crosses from one side of the stage to the other grabbing pens and posters to sign. Ripping off his cowboy hat, he signs it and makes a beeline for Libby.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter as he puts it on top of her head. Libby beams up at him, almost causing the singer to miss a note.
Seriously, I should have brought her in jeans and a tee. But even as the thought again crosses my mind, I know it’s not that. Blake’s reacting to her the same way I do. This time, when I wrap my arms around her, there’s no mistaking the violence in the look I shoot him.
God help us if he’s backstage when we meet Small Town Nights.
Blake merely smiles broadly before saying, “Who’s ready to turn Charleston into a small town for tonight?”
The crowd goes wild.
“Hmm, not sure if Shane and Amanda heard you. Who’s ready for some Small Town Nights?”
The screaming response may be heard in Georgia.
“Thank you all for your warm welcome. My name is Brendan Blake; it’s been a pleasure playing for y’all tonight. Keep an eye out for my second full-length album coming out next month…” He doesn’t get to finish because the crowd goes insane. “Thank you, Charleston! Have a great night!”
The stage lights go off. Libby turns around, amazement on her face. “Can you believe that?”
“Incredible.” I hope I manage to sound excited while I’m grinding my teeth.
“Cal, can you hold my purse just a second?” And without a word, Libby shoves it in my hand as she tears off through the pit. She’s whipping the hat off her head.
“Shit! Libby, where…” But my voice dies away when I see her dash over to where the barrier between the pit and the seats begin. The kind of really crappy seats where you can’t see the stage. The kind of tickets I easily could have bought and paid for if I hadn’t made a call.
