Page 34 of Naughty Dreams
Once they reached the limo, Moss caught a cab, since he had other matters to handle. He told DJ he’d see him in Dallas, the next tour stop. With all he did for them, Moss had the band’s wholehearted approval to use the private jet whenever he wished, which was for any destination or meeting that would take him more than a half-day’s driving time. In contrast, whenever time allowed it, DJ preferred the bus. Survival did some of their best composing with wheels beneath them.
In the limo, DJ checked on a guitar he’d ordered to pick up in Dallas, and touched base with Shaun to give him a status on it and discuss a problem he’d experienced at the latest performance. He also reached out to a guitarist he admired, one who’d been in a wildly popular band thirty years ago and was still considered a legend in the business. They’d met at a party a few months back, and he lived outside Dallas. He’d told DJ to give him a call when he was going to be in the area.
“Yeah, man. Why don’t you plan to come to the show and play a song or two with us? The fans’d love it, and the rest of the band would be over the moon. Afterwards, we can go back to your home studio, tell lies, and jam until dawn.” DJ chuckled at the musician’s response. “If that’s your price, I’ll bring a whole crate of Buchanan’s.”
From the tilt of his head in the front seat, DJ could tell Roy was tracking his conversations, probably to stay in tune with what his client was doing, and what he needed to anticipate. But he hoped it was also because Roy had a personal interest in who DJ was and what he did, since DJ sure as hell had a personal interest in Roy.
DJ put the phone away as they pulled up to the studio. A bigger crowd had gathered, as was always the way of it when word spread about Survival’s whereabouts.
“The FBI should hire our fans,” he observed. “They could find us if we were dropped on an iceberg.”
“True,” Roy noted. “But they have a focus problem. They see a frontman with a cute ass and lose their minds.”
DJ beamed. “You think I have a cute ass.”
“I was talking about Adam Levine.”
“Asshole,” DJ muttered. David, their driver, bit back a smile.
The team in the car behind them emerged to take position as Roy double checked that Henry’s security had enough coverage on the barricades. An army of girls had started screaming and waving the signs they’d created.
I love you, DJ.
Forever for Survival.
Have my baby!
His head was in a better place since this morning, so the noise was less grating. DJ felt bad for his earlier annoyance with them. “I’m going to sign a few autographs. Okay?”
“I figured.”
As Roy communicated that to his team, DJ’s attention turned to the driver. “David, how much swag do we have on board?”
“About ten T-shirts and fifteen gift bags.”
“Okay. Follow behind and hand them out according to my cues. Don’t let them bite your hand off at the wrist.”
David, who had a decent bulk and even temperament, appropriate qualities for a celebrity’s driver, gave him an amused thumbs up. DJ slid across the seat, but he knew the drill. He waited until Roy had exited the front seat, done one more sweep, then opened the door for DJ.
Though it was temptingly in reach, DJ didn’t grab his ass on his way out. For one thing, the suit jacket was covering it. He’d look really good without the coat, in his dress shirt with the shoulder harness and gun. Maybe the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
Totally Kevin Costner-ish.
As he emerged from the limo, he braced for the wave of shouting, the wall of lifted cell phones, and the ever-present paparazzi and their strobing flash bulbs. They’d throw elbows to angle for the best position. One was on top of the vending food truck, smart motherfucker. When the driver came out, he was going to bust him a new one.
Screams, yells, cheers, flash, flash, flash.
DJ moved toward the barricade, reaching for the autograph book a bright-eyed, gold-haired teenager in last year’s Survival tour shirt was holding out to him. She was leaning so far over the rail, Mitch, Henry’s security guy, had to keep a straight arm out in front of her to prevent her from face planting.
“Faggot asshole.”
DJ jerked his head around to see a bellowing, two-hundred-pound twenty-something, charging at him from the direction of the vending truck. He wore their uniform and an approved visitor pass. He’d also yanked a gun out of the food service cart, the weapon tucked between crates of sodas and bottled water.
DJ reached over Mitch’s arm and shoved the girl back, landing her on her ass, and jumped away from his fans. But when the gun fired, he had a rough meeting with the pavement, Roy putting him down and holding him there.
It was a jarring change in the melody, the rhythmic thunder of excited screams and cheers turning into a chaotic shrieking gale. While Henry’s security tried to manage the crowd, Roy’s people disarmed the shooter and jumped on him. A charging bull of crazed determination, he plowed forward, dragging them with him. Roy muttered an oath.
“Stay down, Dory. Don’t move.”
