Page 30 of What Happened Last Night

I looked back at him. “What do you mean?”

“Are you kidding me?” Brad motioned around the small room, where he’d set up a makeshift workstation on a folding table, equipped with laptop, cell phone, and walkie talkie. “I’m doing a show here. He’s in my way. Or he would be, if he wasn’t Will. The first tour, I assumed he was like any other boss—useless, only wants to hang out backstage to feel important, complain, get high, and pick up women.” When I made a face, he shook his head, amused. “Girl, you are so innocent, you have no idea. When Will started showing up backstage, I wanted to kick him out until I realized he’d be better at this job than I am if he put his mind to it. So I let him wander around and solve problems for me. And I still get paid.”

Will extricated himself from his conversation and came back to us. “Someone’s going to text you the security code to the storeroom,” he said to Brad. “They keep extra cases of water in there.”

Brad gave me a look that said, See what I mean? Then a thumbs up as we walked away.

By showtime, it was dark, the sold-out venue was packed, and the crowd was rowdy. The Road Kings were huddled over their handwritten set list, talking quietly. I felt my stomach twisting, as if it were me about to go onstage. I was glad I’d changed into jeans and a tee with my most comfortable sneakers, because I was sweating and my feet were sore. Will motioned me to a sofa.

“You can wait here,” he said. “Once they’re on, you can watch from the wings. Just stand where the security guy tells you to.”

I frowned when I realized he was leaving. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“Out front. I’m going to watch from the crowd.”

I stood up. “Then I’m going, too.”

He seemed surprised. “You’re sure? It’s a big deal to have a backstage pass. It’s nicer back here, and you can relax.”

True, but if this was the best place to watch the show, then Will would be here. “I want to go where you go,” I said.

He paused, and our gazes locked. Then he held out his hand.

“We have five minutes,” he said. “Let’s hurry.”

I didn’t even think about it. I put my hand in his, feeling the hum of electricity that shot up my arm at the contact. I savored his warm palm against mine, the firm grip of his capable fingers, the tendons that flexed with his grip.

He tugged me out the door, down a corridor, then down another. We went through a set of doors where a security guy nodded at Will. Then we spilled out into the waiting crowd.

It was madness out here. It was dark. It smelled like beer, weed, and sweat. The fans knew the show was about to start, because they pressed forward, chanting “Road Kings, Road Kings.” I gripped Will’s hand more tightly as he led me through the crowd. If I let go, I’d lose him.

He stopped, pulling me to him and leaning close to my ear. I caught his clean, perfect scent, mixed with the smells of the crowd. “Just for the first few songs,” he explained. “If you want to leave, just tell me.”

I nodded, but I didn’t have time to speak. The lights went out. The crowd roared.

For a minute I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but the press of bodies and Will’s hand in mine. His squeezed gently. He didn’t let go.

A kick drum thumped a slow rhythm in the darkness. I felt it vibrate up through the soles of my feet. The lights came on low, and in the shadowy dimness onstage I saw Axel behind the drums, then Stone. The smoky sound of Stone’s guitar wound through the air, electric and tense, an unmistakable riff. It was “Give Me a Reason,” one of the songs from the new album that was taking off. Neal’s bass joined in, and then another shadow moved onstage. Denver didn’t even have to form words—he just warmed up his throat with a sexy, bluesy hum into the microphone, the mmmmm sound vibrating to the back rows, making you feel hot and bothered and sad at the same time. Then the lights came on and the song opened up.

I was so stunned I didn’t move. I’d heard this song—heard it in my headphones, heard snippets of it at the studio. But I’d never heard it like this, full throttle in a wild crowd. The sound squeezed my ribcage, and I felt it everywhere. Denver’s voice was a living thing, rising and falling, full of rage and pain and sex, drawing me in.

Give me a reason, I’m begging on my knees

Give me a reason, rid me of your disease

The crowd screamed the words with him. Denver raised one boot-clad foot and braced it on an amp, leaning out over his bent knee as he sang. The crowd arched toward him, their arms up. He was unearthly, mesmerizing. I tried to remember that this was the same sweet man who liked silly jokes, the devoted boyfriend who could do impressions that made you cry with laughter. I tried to reconcile that with the lean, dark figure onstage whose voice ripped my chest open, and I failed.

Give me a reason, a crater in my soul

Give me a reason, or give me rock n roll

Will’s hand squeezed mine again, and though I could barely make him out in the half-dark, I knew he felt the same thing I did. It wasn’t about T-shirts, private planes, sponsorships, or bottles of water. It wasn’t even about money. It seemed like it was, like it could be—but it wasn’t.

It was about this.

Everything Will did was for this.

I squeezed his hand back, and as I sang along with the crowd, I wondered what it felt like to fall in love with someone. And I wondered, once you started, whether it was possible to stop.

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