Page 1 of Heart Beats

one

jagger

Another city.Another stadium. Another packed house. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve played in Toronto since I started touring sixteen years ago. Many.

Every city, every audience, likes to believe it’s the best of the bunch. A belief we fuel by telling each one they’re our favorite. A white lie that’s good for the energy and for business.

We’ve finished the first three songs of our set when the band tapers off instead of leading into another. Time for me to spin the harmless lie. Hype the audience even higher than they already are, and that’s pretty damn high. Hard to imagine they can scream any louder, but we’re going to find out.

“It’s been too long, Toronto! I love being back here in the T-dot.”

The house erupts in a raucous roar. Mic in my hand, I raise my arms, encouraging them to make more noise as I walk back and forth across the front of the stage. Lighting makes it impossible to see faces beyond the first few rows, but I smile out at the crowd as if I’m making eye contact with every single one of them.

The fans Icansee are primarily female. We’re a rock band with a massive male following, yet the first two rows are packed primarily with women, many of them smokin’ hot. That’s how it always is. Not complaining—I like the view. Especially the brunette at center stage. I always pull a fan onstage during the show, and tonight, she’s the one. I knew the instant I saw her.

The volume of the crowd doesn’t decrease when I lower my arms. They’re supercharged, this audience. The euphoria of playing to a sold-out audience faded a long time ago, but I still appreciate the fans’ enthusiasm, so I tuck the microphone under my arm and givethema round of applause, along with a wolf-whistle. They fucking love it, and I find myself honestly enjoying the moment.

“You guys want to know a secret?” I ask, bringing the mic to my mouth.

The response is a thunderous, screamed “yes”that makes me laugh.

“All right, here’s the secret—every city we’re in, we tell them it’s the best. But right here, right now,” I say, pointing at the stage, then around the packed stadium. “There’s something extra about this place, about the people. I really gotta move here someday, because Toronto rocks!”

The crowd loses its fucking mind. I’ve played some wild shows to crazed audiences, but the volume in the stadium right now has to be a record.

I turn and point at the band. Johnny lays down a beat on the drums. That’s all it takes for the fans to recognize our current number-one single. Shane, Luke, and James follow on keyboard and guitars. By the time I belt out the first line, the place is practically vibrating, and I feel more alive than I have since we started this tour six weeks ago. Longer, even. Maybe the euphoria’s not completely dead.

There’s no break after the last verse. We transition seamlessly into the next song, another recent chart topper. Belting out the lyrics, I cover every inch of the stage, moving back and forth, again and again. Doesn’t matter what my mood is, or how I feel, I fucking perform. That’s what the people pay to see, and that’s what they get. Every time.

I’m rocking the house, but I can’t stop looking at the gorgeous brunette. She’s not waving a sign or jumping up and down. She’s not wearing skimpy clothes or gobs of makeup. There’s nothing excessive about her. But there’ssomethingabout her.

I point at Shane as he takes center stage for a guitar solo to finish the song, then I duck out of sight to change my shirt and scrub a towel over my sweaty face. Have to look the part when I’m pouring my heart out in the rock ballad coming up.

“Going to slow things down for a few minutes,” I say, returning to the stage. “Give this old guy a chance to rest. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

There’s laughter and roaring from the crowd. Voices calling out that I’m not old. They’re right, I’m only thirty-three. But I’ve been hardcore touring since I was seventeen.

Once the buzzing from the crowd subsides, I bring the mic to my grinning mouth again. “How do y’all feel aboutTomorrow?”

Applause and hooting fill the air. The song isn’t everyone’s cuppa, but it sat on the Billboard chart long enough to know it’s a crowd-pleaser for most, especially the female fans.

“All right,” I say, crossing the stage. “I’m going to need help with this one.” My white dress shirt a sharp contrast to the snug-fitting black t-shirt I started with, and anyone who’s been to a show before knows what happens next. Most of the women in the front row know, that’s for damn sure. It’s tits-bouncing, arms-flailing central down there.

There’s no question in my mind, no contest. My gaze locks on one woman as I move toward the edge of the stage—one of the fewnottrying to get my attention.

Her eyes open wide when I crouch and extend my arm. She looks left and right, then points at herself when I give her the come-hither motion.

“Yes, you,” I say, as one of the stage crew pushes a step block in place against the stage. “Want to come up and join me for a song?” The mic picks up every word, and fifty thousand people scream their approval.

As does the dark-haired woman standing beside her. “Hell yes, she does!” she yells, giving a hearty but affectionate shove to my brunette’s shoulders. “Go, girl. Go!”

My beauty steps forward, taking my hand along with the first stair. The instant she touches me, a jolt rips through me.

“Sorry, I think I gave you a shock,” she says, attempting to break free of my hold.

I don’t let go, tightening my grip instead. Not for the show. Not for practicality. That wasn’t static electricity passing between us. A physical reaction, yes. Something more than that, too. I can’t tell her that, though. Not with the equivalent of a small city watching every move, listening to every word. Damn, what I wouldn’t give to be alone with her.

Later. After the show. I’ll take her somewhere. Not to my dressing room for temporary satisfaction. Somewhere where we can truly be alone, where I can take my time.

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