Chapter Two #2
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
Cassidy spoke into her earpiece. “We’re using the kitchen exit now. Bring the vehicle to the service lane.”
Cassidy turned to the server. “We need the door.”
“It’s clear. Follow me.”
The server shoved open the swinging panel. Cassidy caught my forearm and pulled me into motion.
A teenage girl stepped into the aisle ahead of us. “Shane, can I please get one selfie?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stop here.” I kept my voice level and followed Cassidy. “Please give the staff some room.”
The girl moved aside.
“Shane!” someone called from the front. “Over here!” another voice shouted. “Please, Shane!” The calls rolled across the restaurant in waves.
Cassidy entered the kitchen first. Steam clouded the air above the griddle. Plates crowded the pass-through, and two cooks shifted back to clear our route. The floor turned slick near the dishwasher.
“Step right,” Cassidy said.
I moved right.
A server came out of the swinging door behind us, followed by a man holding his phone over her shoulder.
Cassidy placed one hand at my waist and pivoted me around a steel prep table. Her grip was firm enough to direct me without knocking me off balance.
“Keep going.”
Her palm stayed against me as she opened the service door.
The narrow lane blazed with sunlight. The SUV waited ten feet away, rear door open. Three people had already rounded the far corner, phones lifted.
“Shane, over here!”
“Can you sign my shirt?”
“I appreciate you coming, but I can’t stop.” I kept pace with Cassidy. “Please stay out of the lane.”
A woman stepped off the curb toward me.
Cassidy shifted between us and extended her arm without striking or shoving. “Please stay back. The vehicle is moving.”
The woman stopped.
Cassidy guided me into the SUV, climbed in after me, and pulled the door shut.
The agent drove before the lock clicked.
Through the rear window, I saw the three fans reach the empty space where we’d been. No one chased the vehicle. No one fell.
Cassidy stayed turned toward the glass until we cleared the block.
“Is anyone hurt?” I asked.
She spoke into her comm. “I need a status from the restaurant.”
A voice answered through her earpiece. “No injuries reported. Staff have the doors controlled, and local officers are helping clear the walkway.”
Her shoulders lowered a fraction.
I released the breath I’d been holding.
Cassidy faced me. A flush spread across her cheeks, and the escaped strand of hair clung near her temple. Her palm still rested against my side.
Her fingers lifted.
“Sorry.”
“I’m not.”
“That wasn’t flirtation.”
“It was effective.”
“It was leverage.”
“I’m six foot two. You moved me across a crowded kitchen like you’d rehearsed it.”
“You listened.”
“You told me who could get hurt.”
Her lips parted, but she didn’t answer.
I glanced through the windshield. The boardwalk receded behind us, along with the restaurant and the fans someone had directed there under my name.
“I thought showing my face would settle them,” I said.
“It might have settled the first six people. Everyone behind them would’ve moved forward to see you.”
“And then the people inside would’ve been trapped.”
“Yes.”
“You saw that before I did.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
I glanced down at the space between us.
“You also put your hand on my waist.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I’m taking the lesson seriously,” I said. “I’m capable of respecting your professional skill and enjoying the contact.”
“You’re capable of turning oxygen into a pickup line.”
“That sounds like respect.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It sounded a little like respect.”
Cassidy picked up a cold bottle from the console and handed it to me. “Drink.”
I opened it. “I love it when you get commanding.”
“Drink quietly.”
I took a long swallow.
Her phone vibrated. She read the screen, then typed with both thumbs.
“Is the post still up?” I asked.
“The original diner photo is still public. The account that called it an informal appearance deleted that post.”
“After sending half the boardwalk to breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“Do we know who runs the account?”
“Rafi’s checking the repost chain. Right now, we know someone used a real sighting to make a crowd gather.”
Yesterday’s messages had come through a screen. The photograph outside my cottage had been taken from a distance. This morning, somebody had changed the movement of real people while I ate eggs.
Cassidy’s gaze stayed on me.
“You don’t have to cancel soundcheck,” she said. “High Tide can bring us in at the controlled service gate. Isabel’s reducing access, and Rafi has an agent moving ahead of us.”
“You expected me to argue.”
“I expected you to ask what changed.”
I screwed on the cap. “What changed?”
“The public route is out. The pavilion route is tighter. The soundcheck gets shorter.”
“But it still happens.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not arguing.”
Cassidy held my gaze for a moment. “Good.”
I faced the window, grinning.
HIGH TIDE PAVILION faced the ocean from the far end of the boardwalk, its white canopy rising above rows of empty seats. Production trucks lined the service road. Thick black cables crossed the concrete beneath bright tape, and bursts of bass rolled underfoot as the crew tested the sound system.
The SUV stopped beside a closed gate.
A woman with shoulder-length dark hair, a venue lanyard, and a sleeveless navy blouse waited on the other side. She unlocked the gate only after checking the driver and Cassidy.
“Shane, I’m Isabel Navarro,” she said as I stepped out. “I’m coordinating the venue. I’m sorry about breakfast.”
“Unless you posted that invitation, you don’t owe me an apology.”
“I didn’t, and no one here will advertise your movements.” She turned to Cassidy. “The west access is closed. Your route to the artist suite and platform is clear, and no guests are permitted.”
“How many people remain inside?” Cassidy asked.
“Essential technical staff, the house team, Shane’s band, and his dancers. I’ve suspended the limited media access for today.”
“Thank you.”
Isabel turned to me. “We lost some setup time, but I can protect forty minutes for you.”
“I can hit the necessary cues in forty.”
Cassidy glanced at me. “Thirty-five.”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Do you negotiate with everyone like this?”
“Only people who mistake numbers for invitations.”
Isabel smiled. “I’ll tell the house you have thirty-five.”
Cassidy led us down a service corridor that smelled of fresh paint and citrus cleaner. She checked each crossing before I entered it. I waited when she raised two fingers and moved when she lowered them.
My artist suite held a rack of performance clothes, cases of water, bowls of fruit, and my rehearsal bag. I ate a few pieces of fruit, then changed into dark movement pants, stage sneakers, and the white tank I’d packed for soundcheck.
When I came out, Cassidy stood near the corridor door speaking quietly with Isabel. Her eyes dipped to my chest and stayed there for one full beat before returning to my face.
I stopped beside her. “Should I put the linen shirt back on?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“You need to rehearse.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
Cassidy opened the corridor door. “You have thirty-four minutes now.”
I followed her toward the riser. “You took one away because I changed clothes?”
“I took one away because you’re still talking.”
The pavilion opened around us in white glare and empty seats. Beyond the canopy, blue water flashed between the railings. My musicians waited near their positions, instruments ready. Two dancers stretched beside the stairs while the sound crew adjusted levels.
The microphone felt right in my hand.
I stepped onto the center mark.
“Let’s start with the opener,” I said. “Full vocal through the first chorus, then jump to the dance break.”
The drummer lifted a stick. “Do you want the live count?”
“Yes. Give me two bars.”
The kick hit under my feet.
I caught the first verse on the downbeat.
I crossed the front line in three steps, quarter-turned, shifted my weight back, and moved the microphone away for the inhale.
The chorus climbed, and I let it open through my chest without forcing the top note.
The dancers joined at the wing. I moved through the break with them, hit the final turn, and brought the microphone back before the next lyric.
“Hold,” I called.
The band cut.
I pointed toward the monitor near my feet. “I need more keys and less track in this wedge. Keep the bass where it is.”
The sound engineer answered over the house system. “More keys, less track. Try the chorus again.”
We ran it.