Chapter 12 Kolton #2
Straightening slightly, I moved in to speak into her ear, only for the both of us to get jostled.
I grabbed hold of her to steady her and keep her from going flying, pulling her against me until the rowdy offenders had rushed by.
I tried again, only to get bumped from behind, causing my mouth to collide with her cheek.
“Shit, sorry.” I tightened my grip, trying to hold the both of us steady while wondering if coming to this dive bar in Boystown was really a good idea. “That’s Elliott Van Ness. His debut album was…” I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to my lips. “…chef’s kiss.”
Sloane grinned up at me. Pretty sure she’d reached her limit on drinks. Or maybe exceeded it.
“Here!” Olivia grabbed Sloane’s arm, tugging her out of my grip.
“I found a place to sit!” We followed her to a high-top table set off to one side of the crowded bar.
The girls climbed into their seats, and though there was a third chair available, I felt more comfortable standing close behind them.
It was easier to watch the crowd, to ensure no one got too close.
Olivia had insisted I wasn’t there to guard her, that even though she was famous, people often overlooked her or mistook her for a nobody, but I wasn’t the kind of person to let something happen to her while she was with Sloane.
Besides, I could stay closer to them both if I stood.
The music died down and the crowd cheered. On stage, Elliott was saying something about how great it was to be back onstage, back in Chicago. He gave a heartfelt thanks to his assistant, Amie, then settled onto a stool in front of the mic with his guitar in his lap.
“What’d he say his assistant’s name was?” Sloane asked, leaning into the space between Olivia and me. Though her eyes were on Olivia, I spoke without thinking.
“Amie Penn. She’s been with him since the beginning of his career. There are rumors—I mean, aren’t there always?—that they’re together. But—” I stopped, finding the two of them staring at me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Olivia said before Elliott strummed a familiar chord and our attention swung back to him.
“Here’s a little something new,” he said, dipping his head toward the mic.
“You may have heard it before, probably a little different than this version, I’m sure.
But this song.” He paused, shot a glance at the side of the stage where I could just make out Amie’s curly blonde hair.
“It’s lived inside of me from the moment I first heard it, and I wanted to share that with you. ”
He strummed his guitar again and the crowd went wild. By the second verse, everyone seemed to be singing along.
Everyone, that is, except the three of us.
Because the song, this song that meant so much to this man who wrote beautiful songs about love and heartbreak, was a cover of one of Sloane’s most popular hits.
Sloane hid her face behind her hands, peeking out at Olivia as her friend started singing along. By the time the chorus hit, her hands were down, and she was crooning right along with everyone else. Loudly.
Did I mention she was a tad bit drunk?
Even so, her voice was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, those closest to us turned to look, leading to a chain reaction. Section by section, the crowd quieted down, until on stage, Elliott was peering into the bright lights, hand over his eyes as he searched for the cause.
The whole room must have felt it—when their eyes connected, when Sloane hit that high note and Elliott kept singing on. He was smiling wide, performing through his shock as this pop star rose from her chair and waved.
Still strumming along, Elliott bent over the mic. “Do you see that, Chicago? Your very own Sloane Rivera, here at Eagles Loft, out-singing me on one of my all-time favorite songs! Come on up here, Miss Rivera! Don’t leave me hanging.”
Sloane glanced over her shoulder, peeking up at me.
Brown eyes twinkling, full bottom lip between her teeth, she looked ready to beg and plead.
But I was already moving. No way in hell I’d miss a chance to see two of my favorite musicians singing together.
I followed Sloane to the stage, making sure the path was clear and the actress we’d come with was right behind me.
Sloane climbed the two stairs before meeting Elliott in at center stage.
Strumming his guitar through to the chorus again, the two picked up like they’d never cut off. The crowd eventually joined in, though with Sloane’s soprano ringing out, with Elliott’s baritone complementing it impeccably, it was just background noise to absolute perfection.
The two went on to sing a few more tunes before my diva quietly bowed out. She gave Elliott a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then waved to the crowd before coming down the stairs to me.
As I took the girls home, we all agreed this was the best night in the history of the world. My phone was buzzing with notifications—alerts I’d set up anytime Sloane’s name was in the press. But I pushed it aside. Enjoyed the rest of our night and fell asleep with fucking stars in my eyes.
It wasn’t until morning, when we were seeing Olivia off at the airport and another alert hit my phone, that I bothered pulling them up.
My heart stuttered and choked, my legs feeling weak as I read the headline before clicking into the article that mentioned Sloane.
With nothing but a tiny acknowledgment of the pop star’s impromptu duet with Elliott Van Ness in a dive bar in Chicago, the article went on to feature a lengthy write-up of actors Beckett Giles and Brooklyn O’Dell at one of LA’s celebrity hotspots.
The two were now officially dating, and the photo of their lips locked over a celebratory five-star meal was the icing on their flaming chocolate cake.
“What is it?” Sloane asked, rushing to my side as I dropped back to the chair I’d been sitting in while we waited.
She tried to grab my phone from my hand.
Tried again after I pulled it away, up over my head.
Distracted by the push of her thighs between mine as she stepped so close my face was literally pressed against her chest, I let go when her hand wrapped around mine.
I could feel the train coming down the track, feel the thunder of it as it swayed and swerved before wrecking itself right there in the waiting area of Chicago O’Hare International Airport.
Sloane dropped the phone to her side, face pale in the fluorescent lights overhead. But instead of screeching or screaming or adding to the wreckage, she merely took a deep breath.
“That son of a bitch.”