Chapter Six
A MEDIA BADGE FLASHED under the work lights before I saw the woman wearing it.
She came out of the east corridor in black pants and a loose gray shirt, a camera braced against her ribs and a collapsed monopod gripped in one hand. Her brown hair was pinned off her face. She didn’t hurry. She walked straight toward me like the rest of High Tide Pavilion had emptied for us.
Cassidy’s fingers brushed my wrist once without turning. I shifted with the touch and left her room to move.
Her hand left my skin. I wanted it back for every reason except the one in front of us.
“Melanie Keene, set the monopod on the floor and keep both hands where I can see them.”
Melanie slowed, but she didn’t obey. The camera bumped once against her hip.
“You know who I am.”
“Your credential got you inside,” Cassidy said. “It won’t get you any farther. Put the monopod down.”
Melanie looked past her and fixed on me. “You can still stop this. Tell them you’re canceling.”
“Jesse wrote the songs people cared about,” Melanie said before I could answer. “He made Sunday Drive, and you walked away with the spotlight again.”
Beyond the walls, a distant roar rolled through the pavilion. They still expected a concert, and so did I.
“Jesse has his own career,” I said. “He didn’t send you, and he doesn’t need you doing this for him.”
“You took everything.”
“I lost four years too.” I kept my voice even. “I’m not taking anything from Jesse by singing my own songs.”
Her fingers tightened around the monopod.
Cassidy’s voice stayed calm. “You need to put it down now.”
Melanie’s mouth twisted. “He should be here.”
“Jesse isn’t coming,” I said. “And I’m taking that stage.”
The monopod snapped open in her hands.
Cassidy shifted in front of me.
“Back,” she said.
I moved behind the protected line without arguing.
Melanie swung the monopod toward Cassidy’s head.
Cassidy stepped inside the arc before it could build force. She raised one forearm to deflect the metal shaft while her other hand locked around Melanie’s wrist. The impact cracked through the corridor.
I started forward.
Cassidy turned her shoulder and drove Melanie’s arm downward.
I stopped.
I kept my feet planted behind the protected line.
Melanie tried to wrench free. The camera swung from its harness and struck her ribs. Cassidy trapped the monopod against her side, shifted her hips, and used Melanie’s momentum to turn her into the wall.
The weapon hit the concrete.
Cassidy kicked it out of reach.
Melanie shoved backward and twisted, but Cassidy hooked one of her arms behind her and folded her over the corridor rail without slamming her face into it.
“Stop fighting me.”
“He doesn’t deserve this!” Melanie shouted.
Cassidy shifted her grip higher on Melanie’s wrist. “You’re done.”
Rafi and two SBS agents reached us from stage access. A uniformed officer followed from the opposite end of the corridor.
Cassidy didn’t release Melanie until the officer secured both wrists and one of the agents had the monopod.
“Preserve her camera and credential,” Rafi said. “The false post and credential scan are already documented.”
Melanie craned her neck toward me while the officer pulled her upright.
“You told the police everything,” she said. “You destroyed them, and now they’re letting you pretend you were the victim.”
“I’m not pretending anything.” My voice came out rough. “Vince almost died. Telling the truth didn’t destroy Sunday Drive. What happened that night did.”
“You made Jesse lose his career.”
“Jesse has a career.”
“He should have yours.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
The officer moved her down the east corridor. The bass rolling through the walls swallowed the scrape of her shoes and the voices closing around her.
Rafi spoke into his comm. “Suspect is contained. Maintain the west-gate response and continue the hold at the public doors. Isabel, confirm the entrances remain controlled.”
Cassidy bent and picked up Melanie’s camera by the strap before handing it to another agent.
A red line crossed her left arm where the monopod had struck.
I waited until the officer and Melanie cleared the junction.
Then I went to her.
“Let me see your arm.”
Cassidy glanced down as though she’d forgotten it existed. “It’s a bruise.”
“That sounded like an assessment you made without looking.”
“I felt it happen.”
I reached for her, then stopped before touching the reddened skin.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Do you need a medic?”
“I need ice after the route is secure.”
Rafi stepped closer. “The venue medic can check it now.”
Cassidy flexed her fingers and rotated her wrist. “Nothing’s broken. I have full movement.”
“I’d still like the medic to confirm that,” he said.
She nodded once. “Fine.”
I didn’t argue with her answer or try to pull her away from the work still moving around us. I followed as she crossed to the stage-access hold, where the medic met us with a small kit.
The medic examined her wrist and arm, then pressed gently along the bone. “Open and close your hand. Now rotate your wrist.” Cassidy followed each direction.
“Bruising and some swelling,” the woman said. “No sign of a fracture. Ice it when you can. Come find me if the pain increases or your grip changes.”
“I will.”
I waited until the medic stepped away.
“You heard her,” I said.
“I usually hear people when they’re speaking directly to me.”
“You’re icing it.”
Cassidy looked up. “You’ve learned a dangerous amount about giving instructions.”
“I’m making one request.”
“You phrased it like an order.”
“It comes from a place of deep concern and excellent cheekbones.”
One corner of her mouth lifted.
Rafi touched his earpiece. “Law enforcement has Melanie in the service office. Isabel confirms the public entrances are stable. The false announcement has been corrected, and the west-gate line is dispersing to the main doors.”
“How long until the route is cleared?” Cassidy asked.
“Ten minutes if the sweep remains clean.”
The distant crowd roared again. The lights were still down, and every minute of delay made the sound louder.
Tracy hurried into the hold from the artist-suite corridor. Her chestnut bob had lost its perfect shape for the first time since I’d arrived in Sunbreak Harbor.
She stopped in front of Cassidy. “Are you hurt?”
“Minor bruise.”
Tracy turned to me. “And you?”
“I followed instructions.”
Cassidy glanced at me. “He did.”
Tracy released a breath and pressed one hand to the center of my chest. “I don’t know whether to hug you or yell at you.”
“I strongly prefer the first option.”
She hugged me once, hard.
Then she pulled back. “The label wants an answer. Are we canceling?”
“No.”
“Shane—”
“Melanie wanted the cancellation. I’m not giving it to her when the route can be secured.”
Tracy searched my face. “Are you ready to perform after that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m taking the stage,” I said.
Tracy nodded. “Then I’ll tell them we’re holding the start until you’re in position.”
Rafi touched his earpiece. “The stage corridor is clear. Law enforcement swept the photographer section and recovered Melanie’s bag. They found no sign of an accomplice. The performance route can reopen once Isabel releases it.”
Cassidy faced me.
“You still want to do this?”
“I do.”
She checked the corridor behind me, the agent at the door, and the timing display on the wall.
“Then we get you changed and move on my signal.”
I laughed.
Cassidy raised one eyebrow. “What?”
“You’re the only person here who heard I’m performing and immediately started worrying about my clothes.”
“You’re wearing your concert trousers and half your shirt.”
I glanced down. The ivory henley hung open over my chest, and one shoelace had come loose during the confrontation.
“I still look good.”
“You’re one untied shoe away from falling off the riser before Melanie gets credit for anything.”
I looked at Tracy. “You heard affection.”
“You heard a safety concern,” Cassidy said.
Tracy stepped aside. “I’m going to let wardrobe save your comeback.”
Cassidy escorted me back to the artist suite.
The champagne bomber waited on its hanger. A wardrobe assistant smoothed the pale-stone trousers, fixed the henley, straightened the gold chain, and retied both shoes as though I might have forgotten how.
Cassidy remained near the door while another agent held the corridor. The mark on her arm had begun to darken beneath the work lights.
I caught her eyes in the mirror.
“Give me one minute.”
The wardrobe assistant checked the mirror. “You have forty-five seconds.”
“I respect your optimism.”
She stepped out.
Cassidy crossed to me. “The route should open in five.”
I touched the inside of her uninjured wrist.
“You put yourself between that weapon and me.”
“It was my job.”
“You got hit.”
“I also won.”
“You did.”
I lowered my voice. “I wanted to get to you.”
“I saw you start.”
“You told me to move back.”
“And you listened.”
“I hated it.”
“You stayed where I needed you.”
I looked at the darkening mark again.
Cassidy placed her palm against my chest. “I needed you to trust me to handle the danger.”
“You had it.”
Her hand stayed over my heart.
“What do you need from me now?” I asked.
“Perform because you still want it. Not because Melanie tried to take it.”
“I want it.”
“Then go earn the four-year wait.”
I covered her hand with mine.
“Will you be at the wing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I need.”
Rafi’s voice came through her earpiece. “Route is clear. Two-minute call.”
Cassidy pulled away first.
The wardrobe assistant returned and helped me into the champagne bomber. The thin gold details caught the mirror lights. My in-ear monitors were fitted and tested. Someone handed me a microphone.
The bass from the opening track pulsed through the floor.
Cassidy opened the door.
“Move.”
I followed her into the corridor.
Crew members pressed against the walls to leave the route open. An SBS agent moved ahead. Rafi held the junction. Cassidy remained beside me, close enough that the back of her hand brushed mine once as we reached the wing.
Noise surged through the pavilion.
Thousands of people chanted my name.