Chapter 6
Chapter six
Bryce
She’s jealous. She can deny it all she wants, but jealousy looks cute on her.
That’s the first thing in my head tonight. Not the crowd. Not the bass rattling the floor. Not the fact that I’m supposed to avoid creating PR nightmares.
No.
I’m thinking about Annabelle.
Specifically, the way she keeps pretending she’s NOT checking on me every ten seconds.
She’s terrible at pretending.
Colby elbows me. “Dude. She’s eyeing you like you’re a bad decision she wants to rewrite.”
“I am a bad decision,” I say.
Dex leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Yeah. Her favorite one.”
Annabelle hears that part.
She snaps her head around, gives us a death glare so potent I flinch. A tiny bit.
I wink.
She makes a strangled noise, and Dex immediately pounces.
“Come on, Annabelle,” he shouts over the music, “you’re staring at him like you’re trying to decode ancient runes.”
“I am not staring,” she fires back.
Colby laughs. “You’re staring. It’s okay. We support your journey.”
“I do not have a journey,” she says, voice sharp enough to cut steel.
Janie giggles from two seats down. “Sweetie, you’re sitting in the VIP pit at a sold-out concert with a man who looks like he was genetically engineered to ruin good decisions. It’s always a journey.”
“I’m here to supervise,” Annabelle insists. “And also enjoy the music. You boys love to make up stories in your heads.”
Mia leans forward and taps Annabelle’s arm. “No shame in enjoying the view though. We all do.”
Annabelle sputters. “I DO NOT...”
“...enjoy the view?” Harper finishes, smiling knowingly. “Sure, honey. Whatever you say.”
Annabelle folds her arms and glares at all of us like we’re a panel of unruly toddlers.
It’s adorable.
"Thank you, ladies. You know flattery will get you everywhere. Or is it, flattery will get me everywhere?" I chuckle.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh bursts out of her, and she mutters, "Unbelievable."
Perfect. I think she likes me.
A few minutes later the lights drop. The crowd shrieks. Lola McRae hits the stage in a blast of gold glitter and screaming fans.
Annabelle jumps like a firecracker.
“This is FINE,” she yells over the music. “Everything is CONTROLLED.”
“You’re yelling,” I shout back.
“I AM NOT YELLING.”
She is absolutely yelling.
The VIP pit is jammed full. Fans crush forward whenever Lola hits a high note. The rail digs into everyone’s hips. People spill beers. Someone behind us keeps screaming "SING IT, QUEEN!" directly into my left ear.
Annabelle grips her badge like it’s a flotation device.
I shift a little closer, close enough to keep her steady if the crowd surges again.
I don’t touch her.
But she notices. Her shoulders tense like she’s fighting an internal war.
The next surge knocks her off balance. She tips.
I grab her waist.
Heat. Contact. Flashback to that damn balcony.
She freezes.
So do I.
“You good?” I ask, low.
“I’m perfect,” she says and glares at me like she wants to launch me into the sun.
And damn if it doesn’t make me want to smile.
And to make matters even more interesting, Lola scans the pit between songs and finds me.
Every. Single. Time.
Smiles.
Winks.
Does a hair flip I’m 100 percent sure is illegal in twelve states.
I nod politely.
Annabelle? She goes rigid. Jaw tight. Mouth pinched.
She looks like the human embodiment of “no.”
I lean close. “Everything okay?”
She nods like a bobblehead having a nervous breakdown. “Never better.”
“Liar,” I whisper.
She kicks my boot.
Worth it.
***
Halfway through her second set, Lola grabs the mic and purrs: “Since we’ve got some of the Nashville Outlaws in the building… Bryce Blackhorn, get up here!”
The arena detonates.
Annabelle goes statue-still.
Dex screams, “GO, PRINCE OF CHAOS!”
I glance sideways.
Annabelle’s eyes are saying: Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.
So naturally… I go.
I hop onstage.
The crowd roars.
Lola circles me like she’s choosing a karaoke sacrifice. “Look at him, ladies,” she says into the mic. “Isn’t he pretty?”
The audience shrieks.
Annabelle looks like she wishes for an asteroid...aimed at Lola.
Lola starts her new single... slow, sultry, deliberately intense.
She sings it to me.
And I let her.
She launches into the chorus, voice smoky and dramatic: “Darlin’, I fall too fast, too hard, too soon… End up crashing every time I look at you.”
She points straight at me on that last line.
The crowd screams. Lola slow-walks around me, dragging her fingers through the air like she’s tracing heat waves.
When she hits the next verse about "a bad boy who breaks all the rules," she leans in, lifts the mic toward my face, then circles me like I’m a prop in her music video.
Phones flash. Fans lose their minds.
And I stand there taking it, letting her perform the entire song at me.
Hands in my pockets. Playing along. Giving the crowd what it wants.
But I keep glancing toward the VIP pit.
Annabelle’s eyes never leave me.
Not once.
And something about that… hits.
Hard.
When the song ends, Lola gives me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning to the crowd with a grin. "Bryce Blackhorn, everybody. Love those Nashville Outlaws. Thank you, Bryce."
While I hop back down, Dex is losing his mind. “brO, YOU DIDN’T EVEN BLINK. KING BEHAVIOR.”
Annabelle won’t look at me.
But her cheeks are flushed.
Her breathing is shallow.
She’s jealous.
And I like it.
“See?” I say lightly. “Easy.”
She still doesn’t look at me.
But she heard me.
She definitely heard me.
And damn… something pangs in my chest.
***
During a break between songs, the crowd crushes forward again. Now that people recognize me, a girl with a glittery foam cowboy hat leans over the rail. “Bryce! Selfie?”
I step closer.
But she slips.
Falls sideways.
Right into Annabelle.
Annabelle slams backward into the rail with a startled gasp.
But from the angle? From the cameras? From the fans filming?
It looks like I shoved her.
Great.
Flashbulbs explode.
People gasp.
Security rushes in like we’re in a hostage situation.
Cameras catch every angle.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing Annabelle’s arm. “Come on.”
“Bryce…”
“Nope. Not debating. We’re leaving.”
I take her hand and pull her toward the side access door. Fans reach for us. Security clears a path. Someone yells, “Did he push her?”
Absolutely not.
My jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t snap.
We break out into a dim alley behind the building. The door shuts. The noise muffles.
Annabelle leans against the wall, breathing hard.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes. I think so.”
She looks shaken.
I feel worse.
My hands are still shaking. Not from the music. Not from the stage. Not from the cameras.
From the moment she got hit.
Because something inside me snapped.
“I told security we were fine,” I say.
She lifts her gaze. “Fine about what?”
I swallow hard.
“About you, really,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
I take one step closer without even meaning to.
“Because the second you got pushed by that fan,” I say, “I saw red.”
Annabelle’s lips part. Her eyes widen.
We stare at each other in the flickering alley light.
The air changes.
Thickens.
Pulls tight between us.
And for one suspended heartbeat, just one, I almost close the distance.