Chapter Five
THE EMPTY SEATS AT High Tide Pavilion didn’t scream, surge, or ask Shane for selfies, which made them my favorite audience he’d had all weekend.
They also didn’t make the place feel safe.
Stage lights heated the taped floor marks while camera shutters clicked from behind the limited-media barrier.
The photographers had been confined to one area.
Isabel still hadn’t received the final roster from the outer desk, which meant Melanie Keene’s name remained a possibility instead of a confirmed presence.
Shane walked beside me through the service corridor as though none of that could touch him.
He wore a sleeveless sand-colored top, light-gray performance trousers, and the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly what the fabric did to his shoulders. I wore dark navy, charcoal, an earpiece, and no patience for the way my attention kept drifting to him anyway.
“Still with me?” I asked.
“Physically, emotionally, and against several recommendations from my management team.”
“That wasn’t an emotional check-in.”
“It could’ve been.”
An SBS agent opened the secured door ahead of us. White light spilled across black cables, instrument stands, and the empty rows facing the Atlantic.
I touched two fingers to Shane’s forearm before he crossed the threshold. “Hold here.”
He stopped without arguing.
Rafi stepped out from the stage-access corridor, polished despite the heat building beneath the canopy. “The artist suite is clear. The corridor and stage route are clear. Isabel’s chasing the roster.”
“Any unverified movement?”
“Nothing inside the protected area.”
I nodded and lowered my hand.
Shane glanced at his forearm, then at me. “Do I get a reward for following directions?”
“You get to rehearse.”
His grin widened. “You’re learning what motivates me.”
I led him onto the stage.
The empty pavilion seemed to expand around him.
Crew members adjusted cables and monitor wedges while the musicians checked their instruments. Two dancers marked a turn near the left wing. “Switching to the gold wash,” a lighting technician called from the rear platform, and the overhead rig shifted from white work lights to gold.
Shane stopped on the center mark.
His shoulders settled. His attention moved across the band, the dancers, the camera positions, and the empty seats. He checked the microphone against his palm, rolled one shoulder, and glanced toward the sound booth.
“Let’s run the full opening sequence,” he said. “I want the entrance, jacket cue, first chorus, and dance break without stopping.”
The drummer raised a stick. “Do you want the revised count?”
“Yes. Give me four.”
A wardrobe assistant brought out the champagne bomber he’d wear that evening. Shane slipped it over the sand-colored rehearsal top and zipped it halfway.
He caught me looking.
“Security concern?” he asked.
“The jacket wasn’t searched.”
“It was.”
I glanced at the agent stationed near wardrobe.
The agent nodded.
Shane smiled. “Sometimes other people do follow procedure.”
“Enjoy the novelty.”
The drummer counted them in.
The first bass hit traveled through the platform and up my legs. Shane entered from the rear riser on the fourth count, hit the light, and took the opening line without wasting a breath. He crossed the stage as though thousands of people already filled the seats.
His voice carried cleanly over the track.
He didn’t strain for the high notes or hide behind the backing vocals.
He shifted the microphone for each inhale, landed the choreography without losing the lyric, and gave the dancers enough space to look strong beside him instead of turning them into scenery.
At the end of the first chorus, he caught the bomber at the collar and pulled it free on the lighting cue.
The photographers’ shutters accelerated.
Shane tossed the jacket toward the marked wardrobe position without looking. It landed exactly where it was supposed to.
I scanned the media barrier again.
Three photographers stood behind it with cameras raised. A venue employee remained at the entrance to the section. Every badge had been checked against the preliminary list, but until Isabel sent the completed roster, none of those faces meant enough.
Shane moved into the dance break.
Friday’s shortened soundcheck had shown me the mechanics. Saturday’s rehearsal showed me the scale of the production.
Lighting followed him. Cameras tracked him. The dancers finished their turns on his marks. The band changed dynamics when he lifted one hand, and the next transition waited on the way he shaped the final word.
Shane pivoted through the final turn, caught the microphone, and hit the next lyric without sounding winded. Sweat darkened the sand-colored fabric between his shoulder blades.
I remembered exactly how those muscles had shifted beneath my hands.
I faced the left access point.
Nothing moved there except an SBS agent changing position.
The song ended on a sharp lighting blackout. One second later, the work lights returned.
Shane lifted the microphone. “The jacket cue was late.”
The lighting technician answered through the house speakers. “You dropped it half a count early.”
“I dropped it on the vocal.”
“You anticipated the vocal.”
“I sang the vocal.”
The drummer tapped a stick against his knee. “You were early.”
Shane turned toward him. “I’m surrounded by betrayal.”
“You’re surrounded by people who can count,” I said.
He turned toward me below the stage. “You’ve chosen their side?”
“I’m always on the side of accurate timing.”
“That explains our relationship.”
A dancer laughed near the wing.
My fingers tightened around the barrier rail at the word relationship.
Nobody reacted to it. To everyone else, Shane was flirting with his bodyguard. He’d probably flirted with makeup artists, bartenders, dancers, interviewers, and women whose lives came with private jets and dresses that cost more than my first car.
Shane turned back to the crew. “Reset the entrance. I’ll wait for the count this time.”
“You waited last time,” the drummer said. “You counted wrong.”
“I liked you better when you needed me for a paycheck.”
“You still sign the checks.”
“Then show some gratitude.”
The rehearsal restarted.
I moved along the stage perimeter while Shane ran the opening again. The second jacket cue landed cleanly. He made it through the chorus, changed formation during the dance break, then stopped the band with one raised palm.
“The second camera is crossing too early,” he said. “It’ll catch the dancer line before they clear.”
The camera operator checked the floor tape. “I can delay two counts.”
“Do that. The audience should see them finish the turn.”
The dancers turned toward him.
One of them nodded. “Thank you.”
Shane answered with a quick smile, then moved to the acoustic section.
A crew member passed him the guitar. He adjusted the strap, checked the tuning, and played the opening progression while the sound engineer balanced the instrument against his vocal.
I’d watched celebrities use charm to make a room revolve around them.
Shane listened when he worked. He corrected what mattered, gave the dancers their moment, and gave the band room to play. When a young stagehand stepped in front of a rolling keyboard stand, Shane pointed. “Watch your ankle.” The stagehand jumped back before the equipment reached him.
Musicians trusted his cues. Crew members waited on his decisions. By nightfall, enough people would fill those seats to make Friday’s breakfast crowd look small.
The guitar section ended. He handed off the instrument and crossed to the piano at stage right.
I checked the time. “You have twenty-two minutes.”
Shane sat at the bench. “That sounded almost affectionate.”
“It was a number.”
“You say numbers with feeling.”
“Play the song.”
He placed his fingers on the keys.
The opening chords quieted every conversation near the platform.
His voice dropped with the arrangement. The ballad had been stripped to piano, bass, and a soft guitar line. He held the quiet notes without crowding them and let the silence carry between the words.
The final chord faded.
A phone vibrated against the piano.
Shane read the screen and went still.
I climbed the stage stairs.
“What is it?” I asked.
He turned the phone toward me.
VINCE:
Take the stage for yourself tonight. You earned this one. I’m glad you’re back.
Shane read it again.
His thumb hovered above the screen.
The band remained quiet behind him. The photographers couldn’t see the display from their section, but their lenses were still pointed toward the stage.
I shifted enough to block the clearest angle without making the movement obvious.
Shane typed.
SHANE:
I will. Thank you for saying it.
He sent the message and locked the phone.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes.” His voice came out rougher than usual. He cleared it. “I didn’t know if he’d watch.”
“He wants you to take the stage.”
“For myself.”
“That’s what he said.”
His gaze dropped to the piano keys.
I rested my hand against the back of his shoulder. The contact was brief and hidden from most of the pavilion by my position.
“He didn’t have to send that,” Shane said.
“No, he didn’t.”
His fingers closed around the edge of the bench.
Then he drew one slow breath and stood.
“Let’s finish.”
He didn’t show the text to the band or turn it into part of the comeback story.
He put the phone in his pocket and returned to center stage.
They ran the final transition, the piano exit, and the last vocal cue. Shane followed every route I cleared. When I held him at the wing for a camera cart to pass, he waited without trying to bargain away the delay.
At the end of the set, the musicians broke into applause.
Shane bowed with both arms spread. “Please save some enthusiasm for the paying customers.”
The drummer pointed a stick toward me. “Your bodyguard clapped once.”
Shane’s grin widened. “Cassidy, is that true?”
“I acknowledged the rehearsal concluded.”
“That counts.”
“It didn’t.”
“I know what I saw.”
I scanned the stage-access corridor. “What you’re going to see next is your artist suite.”