Page 36 of Fire
My hands are shaking. My breath is coming out all weird and choppy, and I’m sweating like I’m standing in the middle of the Sahara fucking desert on a hot summer day.
I find a dark corner away from the stage where I can hide, because Christ, this is embarrassing. I’m a seasoned musician. I’ve been performing on stage since I was a scrawny-ass teenager. The first time my dad took me to a music store, and I saw a dude playing Black Sabbath on a shiny new bass, I knew. I just knew that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
And I’ve been trying to make it a reality ever since.
I thought I’d get my chance with Edwin and our band, but it didn’t happen, and I’ve been trying to crawl back from that mistake ever since. So now that I’m here, why do I feel this unexplainable dread in the back of my mind like I’m right on the cusp of losing everything?
Like the rug is about to be pulled out from under me?
Like my life is about to change forever?
“Hendrix?”
Fucking hell.
I was really hoping to have this mini meltdown all by myself, so, of course, the universe would send her my way.
I’m shoved as far into the corner as physically possible without actually becoming part of the drywall. My feet are wedged in between several of the cords that have been taped to the ground—something that one of the techies wouldn’t approve of, but it’s fine. Desperate times and all that.
“You going to acknowledge me, or am I gonna have to make it awkward?”
“Acknowledged,” I manage to say.
I’ll give it to her. She’s keeping her distance. Most people would have marched right up and demanded answers.
What’s wrong with you?
What the fuck are you doing?
Stop being weird and get your ass out of there.
I’m ashamed to admit, if the tables were reversed, I might be one of those people. Perhaps having four siblings has made me a natural problem solver. I see something is broken, and I immediately want to fix it. It has not, however, made me subtle, and I tend to attack problems head-on.
Zara, on the other hand, seems to be approaching me like a wounded animal. Cautious. Calculated.
I can’t tell if it makes me want to run or stay just to see what she does.
My feet stay firmly planted on the ground…or wedged between the wires.
She steps into my line of sight, and whatever assessment she makes doesn’t show on her face. But I know her well enough, from studying her all those years ago in the library, to realize Zara doesn’t merely look. She analyzes. She observes and examines, furrowing away information in that great big brain of hers. It was just as hot back then as it is now.
“I, uh, was actually looking for someone to help me with something in my clinic? Do you think you could spare a few minutes?”
She’s a terrible liar. Takes one to know one, after all.
“Your clinic?”
An amused smile spreads across her lips. “Yeah. The one I have set up backstage. What did you think I was going to do? Run around handing out Band-Aids all night?”
I hadn’t even thought about it. When Ridge had us write up the paperwork for the position, he made it clear we were to just give her whatever the fuck she wanted because, in his words, he wasnotpostponing this tour over a toddler.
“What do you need?” I ask, running a shaky hand through my hair. Her eyes track it, and I immediately put it back at my side.
“Just some heavy boxes that need to be moved.”
“I—”
But before I can even come up with an excuse, she looks up at me with those intense brown eyes and says, “Please?”
