Page 29 of Reverb
The fan was polite enough while she took a swig from her water bottle. Her right hand ached, probably leftover from her injury, so she took her ring off—a simple turquoise and silver band she’d bought back as a teen—and flexed her fingers before setting it down on the table. Then she gestured him over.
He had an actual vinyl album—they hadn’t printed many of them, but some of the fans loved old-school, even if they were a little young to remember playing records on turntables. She got his name, and was in the middle of signing the album cover when a scuffle spilled out in the line behind him.
A guy—of course it was a guy—broke through the line and lunged at her table. She reared back as David yelled something and leapt after the dude. But rather than touch her, he grabbed her ring and took off past the other shocked band members and the venue security.
Fuckno. She’d had that ring since high school. Her mom had loved it, had given her the money to buy it back when they’d had so little and spending any got Momma in trouble with her shit-ass boyfriend at the time.
She was halfway over the table when Ray caught her arm. “Mish! You can’t!”
She sure as hell could. Hadn’t cost much, but it meant everything to her. “Get off me.”
He didn’t let go. “Mish,” he ground out again, “David and Adrian went after him. We need you here.”
Fuck.Fuck. So much of her wanted to bite Ray’s head off, but his last words hit her in the heart and the head. She let him pull her into her seat.
Her gut tumbled and her hands shook. That fucking stalker. This was part of that, she was sure. He’d take her, piece by piece, whoever the hell he was.
Bile rose in her throat even as fury made every muscle in her ache. “Ray.”
“I know. Iknow. But the fans need you,” he said close to her ear.
Yes, she heard them, the crowd murmuring and whispering. The tone had gone from excited to frightened and worried. All because some shithead had it out for her. Mish swallowed her anger and hoped to god her hands stopped shaking soon.
When she met Ray’s gaze, all of his emotions were written onto his face, as they so often were. “And I’m selfish. I can’t handle seeing you hurt again.”
She had to laugh at that. She knew that feeling all too well. “You don’t play fair, kiddo.” Shewashurt, though, but not in a way any of them could see.
“I don’t play at all. Not in this.” He patted her arm and finally let go. “Did the ring mean something?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t worth much.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Ray’s stare held her. “And you know it.”
Fuck, sometimes she hated how much he’d grown and matured. But a brush with death did that, she suspected. “Yeah. It meant a lot to me. My mom gave me the cash to buy it.”
Ray sat back, his lips drawing into a tight line. She’d talked a little with the band about her past, enough that they knew how her mom had died and how hard that had hit her back then.
“We’ll get it back,” he said.
Except they wouldn’t. She knew that already. Just—knew. Hurt like fucking hell. Couldn’t let anyone see that, so she nodded, settled back into her chair, and looked up at the fan in front of her. His eyes were wide and he’d gone pale.
She pulled the album cover back over. Thank fuck the pen hadn’t smeared. She’d gotten his name—Dayton—written, but that was all. “Hey, Dayton, you okay?”
He took a breath. “Yeah.” He glanced at the other band members. “I—Sorry. I’m sorry. I should have grabbed him or something.”
“Oh, honey.” She finished signing her name on the cover. “Wasn’t you. Don’t ever blame yourself for the actions of assholes.” She handed the record back to him. “Don’t let ’em ruin this night for you, either.”
Ray bumped his leg against hers under the table, and she resisted rolling her eyes. Dayton moved on, and the line flowed along again.
The next fan was a young Black teen with her mom in tow. The girl was twelve, maybe thirteen. So hard to tell at that age. She had tears in her eyes, though, and was clutching a T-shirt to her.
Mish bit her lip. Yeah, Ray was right—the fans needed her cool, calm, and okay. “Hey, hey. I’m fine.”
The girl had a death grip on the shirt, her knuckles ashen. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. What’s your name?” Mish held out her hand, and with a little prompting from her mom, the teen handed the T-shirt over, along with a silver paint pen.
“Alysa,” she said. “This is my mom.”
