20. St. Louis
NICKY
Word had spread. In all the world of rock journalism, there is an untapped lust for puppy kisses. Aftermath was a hit, especially if they brought their dog to the interviews.
Bruce was glaring at me throughout the afternoon, but he could suck an egg. He’d put me in charge of promotions for the opening band whose name he couldn’t even remember. It was a shame he’d so severely underestimated me.
Or the deliciousness of the world’s biggest, most adorable puppy.
Charlotte had her picture taken as often as the band did, and by the time Aftermath took the stage, there were plenty of Archer-and-Charlotte portraits buzzing through the interwebs. At least for the moment, Aftermath and their dog were the hot band of the day.
And when they took the stage, they did not disappoint their audience. Archer held Charlotte’s leash in one hand and her favorite chew toy in the other. The crowd rose to its feet and screamed Charlotte’s name.
She barked at them happily and did her play bow to a stadiumwide coo. Archer handed her the boot, and she settled at his feet contentedly. We all sighed.
And then Mal hit the opening beats of “Lizabella,” and the concert was off and running.
The journalist at my side inhaled. I turned to measure his surprise.
“I thought they were a gimmick,” he admitted. “They’re good.”
“Yeah, they are,” I agreed happily. Archer was technically still hungover and Ian hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, but they sounded tight. Powerful.
Archer began to sing, and hips across the arena were drawn into a shimmy. The hot spotlights caught the blaze of his smile, the shine of his hair, the lean tension of his body, all wrapped in heavenly white.
Just stunning.
They finished up “Thunder,” and then they surprised me. I stood on the balcony with the music journalists and wanted to coo when Archer set his bass aside and called Charlotte to him.
He scooped her up and grunted as he stood.
“Boy,” he said to the fascinated crowd. “I’m not going to be able to pick you up like this for much longer, baby!”
Laughter rippled across the stadium. The journalist next to me fumbled for his phone. Like any girl with a crush, he recorded a video. But unlike a crushing fan, he had good instincts because what happened next was worth remembering.
“I guess you’ve all met Charlotte by now?” Archer grinned his impish triangular smile at the response. Charlotte rolled her head and barked lazily at the audience. “She’s the fourth member of Aftermath. But sometimes she gets so worked up and excited about being on the road and meeting the fine people of places like St. Louis . . .”
He had to pause to allow the excited cheer, and the lady blogger on my other side admired his skill. “Smart,” she murmured. “Sounds very natural when he does it.”
My guy. I preened.
Archer went on. “She has a hard time getting to sleep sometimes.”
This was a patented lie. Charlotte regularly fell asleep in the middle of a frolic. Once I’d found her asleep with her head in her puppy kibble. But never mind. Archer was on a roll.
“So, the guys and I have a song we sing to her, and we’d like to debut it for you now. We call this ‘Charlotte’s Lullaby.’”
His heel found the rung of a stool that had appeared behind him, and he sat. The lights dimmed, leaving Archer and Charlotte in one spotlight and Ian in another. Ian picked out a lovely, lilting melody. It was sweet and soothing and a total earworm. It was going to stay with me long after the song was over. Then Archer began to sing.
I will guard you?—
None shall harm you.
Put your trust in me.
Let your eyes close.
Start the night’s doze.
Just sweet dreams to see.
Life’s gone quiet,
All is silent.
Moonlight from above.
Fingers, toes, and paws,
You’ll be safe because
You’re wrapped up in my love.
By the end, Mal was using brushes on his drums to keep the sleepy beat, and all three of them were singing a rich harmony. Charlotte, the ham, had fallen asleep. She jerked awake when the thunderous applause began.
I stepped back enough to be able to wipe my eyes without being noticed.
“That’s all I want in a man,” the lady blogger said thoughtlessly. “Is that too much to ask? Someone to keep me safe while I sleep?”
Yeah. Someone blazingly handsome.
The journalist with the recorder clicked his video off with satisfaction. “I’ll save that. First time that song was performed in public. This is going to be a classic.”
I saved up his greedy pleasure as a gift to give Archer when he joined us in the VIP suite. As much as the applause, the compliment of someone in the industry made their triumph that much more real.
The rest of their set was just as electric, and even the news crews who’d come for Sheree were getting some footage of Aftermath onstage. Bruce eyed me after the audience reaction at the end of “The Salesman.”
“Don’t forget,” he growled, “that they’re the opener. These people are here to see Sheree.”
He stalked away.
His anger made no sense. Aftermath was signed to Lyre Records too. Why would it be bad if they were gaining popularity?
I decided he probably had athlete’s foot or jock itch or something mildly embarrassing that made him permanently grumpy. Whatever, dude.
The lady blogger cornered me. “Is Aftermath coming up here or what?”
I told her they’d be up after Sheree’s intermission. I explained that they helped Sheree close her first set with a song chosen specifically for that city. “Really? And Aftermath helps her choose the song?”
“The Aftermath guitarist, Ian O’Rourke, is kind of a walking musical historian. He knows all kinds of songs. For St. Louis, he and Sheree have been working on . . . hang on. Here it is. For St. Louis, they’re doing Chuck Berry.”
“Of course they are!” The TV news reporter was grinning. “Chuck Berry was born here! That’s a great idea. What song?”
Ian and Sheree had blended “No Particular Place to Go” with “Johnny B. Goode,” but she wanted to keep the medley a secret before the performance. As far as I knew, it hadn’t come up yet in the pressroom before someone wanted to talk with Aftermath. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“Tell us where in the program so we can set up for it,” a field reporter demanded.
I had no desire for Aftermath to outshine Sheree. It couldn’t be done anyway. But it was exciting to see the interest generated . . . and to feel that I had at least a hand in creating this groundswell of interest.
My pride was all the greater when Aftermath made a nonflashy entrance and was swamped with attention anyway—a fact made all the more impressive, given that Sheree would be starting her second set within the next ten minutes. People were shouting questions at Archer, and a woman in the highest heels I’d ever seen outside a drag show fell to her knees to cuddle Charlotte.
“Damn.” Ian had appeared at my shoulder. “This is one or two people.”
That made me laugh. “No problems getting Charlotte into the room this time, huh?”
His cheek twitched and the left side grinned. “Fist waved her in without even demanding to see her pass.”
“We need to get her a lanyard,” I decided. “Go stand with Mal and Archer. You’re Aftermath too.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“Doesn’t matter. Go on—they’re taking pictures. No, you look good. Go!” I needed to work on press-huddle behavior with them, assuming I could find something online to teach them.
By the time Bruce clapped his hands like a schoolteacher and forced the press onto the balcony to watch Sheree’s second set, Mal was introducing Charlotte to two blue-haired ladies in what were probably original Chanel suits, and Ian was bent in rapt discussion with the news reporter who’d liked the Chuck Berry angle.
Excellent. One more contact to add to my growing press contacts.
Arms came around my waist, and I was pulled back against a warm chest. “Come with me,” a low, scary voice murmured.
I whirled, and Archer laughed at my surprise. “Come on,” he said. “This is our chance at last.”
“I can’t,” I protested. “I’m working.”
“No, you’re not. Sheree’s about to walk onstage, Bruce will want to talk to the press, and no one is looking for you. Except me. I’m looking for you.”
I looked around the dark, crowded room, but Archer had a point. No one was looking for me—except Ian. He watched Archer tug me to the door, and he raised an eyebrow and nodded at me.
Well. Okay, then.
“Nicky, Archer,” Fist greeted us as we left the room.
“Hi, Fist,” I started, but Archer had my hand and was pulling me down the hall to the elevators.
“No, really, Archer. I can’t go far.”
“Yes, you can. You’re with me.” I dragged my feet to slow him down. He turned to me. “Nicky, sweetheart. Every single one of these skyboxes is filled with people who are even now thrilling to Sheree. This stadium is the single most crowded place in St. Louis. And I want to be alone with you.” Lust flared in his eyes as he spoke, and my knees buckled. Why the hell was I resisting? “I happen to know a greenroom that is absolutely empty at this point. Well, mostly empty. But the locker rooms are almost guaranteed to be totally private. Okay?”
“Okay.” Locker rooms? Really? Was there any way I could spin that as something romantic? He punched the button to summon the elevator and turned to me. “Archer,” I said, remembering. “‘Charlotte’s Lullaby.’ My god, it’s so beautiful.”
“Made me think of you,” he admitted, and then he was nuzzling my neck.
He nudged my jaw with his head to get better access to my tendon, and I caught our reflection in the elevator door. Archer Armstrong was holding me. Nibbling my neck. Oh my god.
The door opened, and he walked me into the elevator. The doors slid closed, and then he was kissing me.
Archer Armstrong was kissing me. He had his hand on my ass and his tongue in my mouth. It was Archer. I tried to concentrate. All I could think of was that he had a lot of teeth, and that there was a security camera in the corner recording it all.
“Archer,” I murmured against his mouth. “Archer, hang on.”
“My god, you taste so good. Why haven’t we done this sooner?”
Because, I thought. Because you were too busy with the dancer and the busty blonde and who knows who else. Why are you with me now? How long do you think this is going to last?
We emerged on the main concourse. “Come on,” he said, taking my hand again.
“Wait,” I said. “Can we go this way instead? It’s a big circle, right?”
“What’s the matter with this way?” He stopped, his handsome face actually seeing me for the first time.
“Merch is down there. You know. Bianca.”
“Who’s that? You don’t want to see her?”
He’d been passed out when I told my confusing tale of woe to Mal and Ian. “Can we just go this way?”
“You don’t want her to see you with me?” He smiled, and I got a flash of the downside of his personality. He could stand in front of tens of thousands of people and be comfortable in the spotlight, but that same self-confidence meant he was sure being seen with him would always be good for a girl’s reputation.
I knew Archer was vain. Who could blame him? It just had never mattered to me before.
I tugged his hand, and he grinned. “We’ll go this way. Come on. Have you been in the greenroom yet? Maybe you can meet Sheree.”
Like I was a groupie. I’d stood beside Sheree on multiple nights, passing her commemorative programs to sign. She’d sat cross-legged on the floor of our bus. I had absolute faith that if asked, Sheree would know my name.
But never mind. Archer.
Focus on that. Archer.
There were people in the greenroom. Sheree’s manager, Clinton, was on his phone, and Dean the Leaner was napping on a sofa. The hairdressers were sprawled in armchairs, waiting to clean Sheree up for the meet-and-greet after the show. Sampson waved at me as Archer dragged me into a huge, echoing locker room.
“Sexy, isn’t it?” He gave me a lustful look as he backed me into a tile wall. “Like you’re the head cheerleader and I’m the football captain. Ever want to have sex in your high school, Nicky?”
He pushed into me and I felt his erection against my belly. I put my hands on his chest and pushed back. “Hang on, Archer. All those people are right out there.”
“They won’t care.”
“I care.”
I never for a moment felt the situation would get out of control, and my faith in Archer’s essential niceness was justified. He pulled back immediately. “What?”
“I want this,” I said, and gave him a soft kiss to make the point. I pulled back before it could go any further, and he let me go. “I just don’t want it to be in a locker room. Is that okay?”
He looked around. “Well, do you want to go back to the bus or something?”
Perhaps the only thing more embarrassing than having Sampson and Dean the Leaner think I was screwing Archer in the bathroom would be having Ken think I was screwing Archer in Ken’s swivel chairs.
“We’ve got two days in Dallas tomorrow,” I pointed out. “Hotel rooms. Privacy. Sheets. A mattress?”
Archer looked confused. “But that’s not until tomorrow. I want you now.” He pushed his hips into mine to make the point, and it surprised me into a laugh that confused him further.
“Can we wait? Just a little while. We’ll be in Dallas tomorrow afternoon. Can you wait that long?” I kissed along his gorgeous jaw, and he sighed.
“All that for a bed? All right, hotness. If that’s what you need, then I’m devoted to making you happy.” I leaned back to smile at him. It did make me happy. Then he looked down between us. “Do you want to—you know—for now?”
Pop. My happiness evaporated. He wanted a hand job in the toilet. Or probably thought I’d get on my knees on this hard tile floor. I pushed back. “I’ll see you back at the bus, Archer. Okay?”
I left him standing there, wondering if I was crazy. Or if he was. What the hell.
Sampson looked up, astonished, as I walked out. “Oh, honey,” he called, but it seemed to be a complete thought with no follow-up. I waved, ignored Dean’s leer, and made my way back to the VIP suite.