Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
GIA
No way this is a fluke. Front and center, second show in a row, in two different cities? That either catapults you into superfan status or maybe I need a bodyguard vibe.
But that woman ... she didn’t give off extreme energy.
Other than being extremely interested in JC.
The final notes of our encore dull just a fraction as I stalk offstage. My heart feels red and raw, like crushed cranberries. JC stood deeper in the shadows tonight in what felt like a direct response to my suspicious stare before we kicked off the night.
He noticed me notice her following his every move.
I weave between the roadies hanging out in the wings, desperate for a drink.
Do I ask?
I need to.
This requires unpacking.
Shae greets me in the dressing room with a hug and shoves a frosty bottle of Evian into my hand. “Nice work, nice work. What a song to send them home on. Unforgettable!”
Props to Brady and his idea to encore with Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky.” We gave it a grungy, dirtier edge, and the Parisians lapped it up like crème fra?che.
The cherry on top was the magic of my voice twining with JC’s, spiraling high into the rafters.
We sounded perfect together, better than my usual vocalists, who pile into the dressing room seconds later.
“Did I call it? Huh? Huh?” Brady throws up a hand for a high five. “Full iconic. Tell me that did not go off.”
I slap him back. “Where’s JC?”
“I dunno. Taking a piss? Slap a GPS on him, you’ll sleep better.”
He slides past me to the craft table, popping a slab of brie into his mouth, unaware of my turmoil. That all I can think about is how JC’s face went dark when I busted his little stare-a-thon.
“This is your window to get cleaned up,” Shae reminds us all. “Thirty minutes until the fan zone.”
Tai strips his shirt off, wincing as he sniffs his pits. Funny that his six-pack does nothing for me, while a glimpse of JC’s ripped abs sends me outta my mind.
“I need a shower,” he announces to no one in particular.
Brady elbows Tai, his smile a devious glint. “A meet and greet is like grocery shopping. I’ll take that, and one of those, and that entire aisle. Please and thank you.”
Tai’s gaze jumps from mine back to Brady. “I hope you have a room booked for all your conquests.”
“Aww, fuck, Gia,” Brady moans. “Can we get off this stupid path?”
Before I tell him no for the tenth time, JC strolls in. Instead of his closed-off body language from the show, he seems far more relaxed. I search his face for something, anything to tip me off. But all I see are his sparkling eyes sweeping over me.
“Great show, Boss,” he says. “I never knew you could speak French. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Mama, fluent in English, Italian, and French, insisted I learn all her languages. Helpful on a European tour. In Burnaby, not so much.
“Plenty. If you think I have zero command of anything outside of music, guess again.”
JC helps himself to a chilled Evian, raising it in a gesture of cheers. “You command every space that dares surround you.”
His easy smile. Is it for real? Or is this his way of buttering me up so I forget what I saw? We stand there for a long moment, the rush of the show still humming between us. My eyes flit from his face to the floor, and back to that wondrous mouth that does wicked and wonderful things to mine.
Listen, I’m not a fool. You don’t invite a hot guitarist into your band and not expect others to notice the same qualities. Just as I’m going to ask about that woman, JC rocks the world I thought I had under my control.
“May I have a word with you, Miss Barlow?”
“What’s up?”
He walks us into a dark corner piled with coils of cable and crew jackets. My combat boot taps the floor in double time. I’m aware of every nerve, every current rippling between us.
“We have two nights in Zurich,” he says.
“And?”
JC tilts his head, like I should pick up on something other than the tour schedule I know by heart. When I don’t, he says, “I’d like to treat the queen to a royal stay at one of the finest hotels. If she’ll have me.”
I feel my lungs squeeze. My mouth definitely drops open. JC’s intention is broadcast all over his face. I’m so not ready for this plot twist. “You’re springing this on me now?”
“You wanted us to be clear. About everything.” JC steps closer, only an inch between his heart and mine as his voice dips low and dangerously sexy. “Yes or no?”
Wow. One simple loaded question. This is JC in full force: a wall of potent charm, endlessly provocative eyebrow raises, and the most damning detail of all, that he treats me with an almost courtly formality. Asking, not demanding. Leaving me a living, breathing symphony of dirty-ass thoughts.
A vulnerable blush spills across both cheeks. I still feel the crush of those biceps against my rib cage when he howled my name the other night. And he felt so huge, straining against his jeans. Will he even fit inside of me?
Hello, Gia? Time to answer!
Sweet Jesus. This man could quite possibly ruin my life, has already put a massive dent in it, and my thighs are fucking liquid.
What else am I going to say aside from, “Yes.”
Fans come out in good weather, in bad weather.
They drive for hours to experience a band they could enjoy on Spotify in their living room while eating bad Chinese.
I’m grateful they spend their money to buy things I’ve created and care enough to connect.
And honestly? I’ll sign anything—your divorce papers, body parts, a baby—just get me out of here and into Zurich already.
But I smile and live through the meet and greet, because that’s what you do when fans swarm, gushing over your music. You give them your best. Even when your brain is doing donuts over the man who just invited you to a hotel suite like he was asking you to prom.
A tiny brunette with two nose rings and a glitter shawl passes over a worn vinyl of our first album, Tasty Like You. “This record saved me,” she raves. “It got me through tough times. Especially ‘Blackest Nights.’ Sorry if this sounds lame, but you are literally my hero.”
I feel a gathering in my throat. To touch someone’s soul, to have it mean something.
There are no words. My fangirls relate to that tune because, somewhere along the line, a man has blown up their self-worth.
My first boyfriend, Alec the A-hole, dumped me after I refused to put out.
He called me a prude, and other things too ugly to mention.
Then he spread a pack of lies, telling anyone who would listen that I was useless in bed.
I cried for an entire week, all the black winter nights tumbling into one another. But my revenge tasted sweet. A petty little sore like Alec deserved a loud, public, and in-your-face declaration that my virginity remained intact.
And so, Pop My Cherry was born.
“Thank you.” I sign across the cover with my Sharpie. “I came out of hell with that album. That was the first song I ever wrote.”
She walks off, clutching it like a gold bar.
I feel that high again, that strange electric rush that comes from being seen, even if it's by a stranger. And Brady is making the most of every stranger. He’s on his second bottle of wine, fully holding court with two fans laughing and one slipping him her business card with a wink.
Tai leans forward so the young Asian fan with sharp, razor-cut bangs worshipping him can snap a selfie. She pulls back and squeals, “Oh my god, you smell so good.”
“Pretty sure you’re smelling tour bus and despair,” I joke.
“Just keeping the band brand honest,” Tai flips back.
The fan cracks up at that, then barges the line to fawn over Brady.
I smile, loving how he interacts so genuinely.
This may come as a shock, but I like that not all the attention is on me.
We are a band, in the end. Half the time, the boys act like barnyard animals and slack off more than I like, but they are in deep.
I do miss Audrie, though. She’s still not responded to my texts.
And where the hell is JC? He left for the bathroom and is still MIA.
He is hot.
He is talented.
He is very good at misdirection.
Did he sense my paranoia about that woman and sweep me off my feet to shut me up?
Whatever the case, I’m scanning the corners of the room and keeping watch on the door.
Maybe my imagination needs a Xanax. Maybe this other woman isn’t a loose end from JC’s past?
Still, I’m keeping my boots on and edges sharp, just in case.
Because if she shows up again, I’ll need more than a killer encore to hold it together.
A rush of fresh air cuts into the hot, stale room.
Shae, running a tight clipboard game, steps aside, and a familiar silhouette of heartbreak approaches.
JC slides into the empty chair beside me, hair freshly combed, a whisper of cologne trailing off his skin.
He glances at me, his expression open. Tender.
I feel gravity pulling me, sinking me straight into the gates of erotic hell.
But then I think, why, or for whom, did he freshen up?
The next fan in line, a heavy-set Middle Eastern dude, leans in and whispers with bad-breathed earnestness, “Magnifique. Vous êtes beaux tous les deux ensemble.”
JC throws me a quizzical look, but I leave him in the dark. Mr. One Language Only can stay on a need-to-know basis. I already know we look beautiful together. And I bet we’ll look even better in Zurich.
Preferably horizontal. In a five-star suite, where all I can do is hang on and feel.
Oh, ouais! Apportez-le.
Bring it on.