Chapter 7
VAN
Regan and I stood in the foyer of the venue, looking out through the stained glass windows that flanked the front entrance.
Her team on the outside radioed to say that the crowd around the theater was at least a hundred people and growing.
It wasn’t unusual for word to get out about rehearsals and for superfans to line up in hopes of catching a glimpse of the band as they entered or exited the venue. And the guys loved that sort of thing, taking impromptu selfies with fans and signing autographs.
But for our security team, it was a fucking nightmare.
Our location, near Bourbon Street, was in a busy section of downtown. Between cars and pedestrians, it was chaotic, especially as more and more people gathered.
My concerns about someone trying to push through our security people began to mount. I’d seen people rush the band before and nearly topple them over.
It was scary as fuck.
“Call the local police. We need them to work crowd control. This is more than the usual.”
“Already on it,” Regan replied as she pulled out her phone. “I’ve got a contact from the last time we were in town. He’s sending over several squad cars.”
Then she tapped her earpiece and spoke to her staff, giving clear, concise instructions.
Regan worked in the military and private protection for over a decade before joining the security company this year. She knew her shit. The band members liked and respected her, even when she had to lay down the law.
Some of my nerves settled, but not all of them.
Of course, most of it had to do with Brodie. About protecting him. Protecting all the guys in the band, but Brodie most of all.
He’d been the target of crazed fans before, and sometimes the attention on him was overwhelming. The rest of the guys were popular in their own way, but they didn’t trigger the kind of frenzy that Brodie did.
Between his intense performance style and his knack for spouting off whatever crazy shit was on his mind, he was a fan favorite.
My favorite.
Then I heard someone call out his name.
The crowd was loud and getting louder. Voices roared, and then suddenly, there was the boom of music. With Halloween festivities starting early and all the bars open, we were in the thick of party central.
As usual, we had four security members at each exit, front and back, and two inside with the band. That was only ten in total. Would it be enough?
We headed outside to get a better view of what was going on.
And fuck, it was a street festival. There were loads of people with cups and bottles in hand, dancing and singing. The band’s most popular song, “Filthy Pain,” was blasting—from someone’s cell or a nearby bar, I couldn’t tell.
More people walked out of the bars and restaurants lining the street and joined in.
Then I spotted the news van parked nearby.
A reporter and his cameraman pushed through the crowd, getting in front of the four security guys we had around us.
With short brown hair and dark glasses, the reporter shoved his mic in my face as his colleague stood behind him.
“Are you the band’s rep? Can we get a statement? How long are Wayward Lane here in town?”
I looked at Regan and nodded. Then I turned to the reporter. “No cameras for this part. Just you.”
Regan stepped forward and waved the reporter through, telling his cameraman to stay where he was. Neither guy seemed happy given the circumstances but tough shit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted blue and red flashing lights flickering in the distance.
Regan stayed with her team, and I ushered the reporter into the foyer so I could hear above the din.
I loved a good party as much as the next person, but down here, things got wild. The last time we did a concert here, the afterparty alone had gone on for two days.
I held out my hand. “Ivan Cross, I’m—”
“The band’s manager, I know,” the reporter replied and shook my hand, a cocky grin on his face. “You’re always in pictures with Brodie and his security team. You work very closely with him, right?”
I ignored that question. I was his manager, so my work with Brodie was self-explanatory.
And if it wasn’t, it was none of this guy’s business.
I cleared my throat. “The concert Wayward Lane’s hosting on Halloween was an unscheduled event based on the band’s interest. The guys loves this city and the fans here.
All the proceeds from the concert will be donated to a local charity that focuses on helping low-income families throughout the year, especially at Thanksgiving.
If you’d like to conduct an interview with the band after the concert, please contact me to book it in advance. ”
I pulled a business card out of my back pocket and handed it over.
The reporter did the same.
“Sorry, I forgot my intro. I’m Beau St. Germain, the entertainment reporter for Channel 10 News. A pleasure.”
I nodded. “You too, Beau. If you want a formal interview with the band, fire off an email and I’ll add you to the schedule.”
“I’ll do that, Ivan. And I’ll look forward to meeting you again on the thirty-first.” He smiled. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” I motioned to the door again.
Beau glanced back at the lobby. No way in hell was I going to let him in to see the guys now.
I pushed open the front door for him. Beau shifted his gaze to look at me again and nodded.
Thick humidity and the barrage of noise hit me full force. Regan greeted us, and the reporter made his way back through the crowd.
“We okay?” I asked Regan.
“Police have arrived, so I’m coordinating with them.
It’s probably best if the band leaves by the back entrance tonight.
I know they like to see the fans but let’s leave it until the concert.
I don’t feel good about letting them out in this.
There are too many people who are drunk as fuck already.
I’ve also called up some of my staff who were on leave today, just in case. ”
“Sounds good. I’m heading back in. They’ve got a private party at ten tonight; we all set for that?”
Regan nodded. “I’ve been in touch with the organizer.”
I left Regan to deal with the nightmare outside while I ventured back to deal with the one inside.
Not that watching the band rehearse was a nightmare, far from it.
The power going off, however, was definitely a pain in my ass.
Not only that, I didn’t trust myself with Brodie. My professional mask was getting harder and harder to wear.
I couldn’t wait until this week was over and I was off. Distance would be a good thing.
I stepped into the lobby and glanced up at the gold art deco ceiling, soaking in the history of the place, wondering about all the musicians and artists who had come and gone through these doors. The place held a lot of memories.
As I wandered through, I thought about all the interesting places I’d had the privilege to witness in my life. And where I was going next.
Not just professionally but personally.
I hadn’t considered, until recently, that I might be bi or pan.
Was it the gender or the person I was attracted to?
I thought back to previous women I’d hooked up with.
There was physical attraction there, but that was it.
Once the sex was over, I was ready to bolt.
And sometimes, the sex wasn’t all that great.
I wanted to feel something beyond basic lust, but I never did.
If I were being totally honest with myself, there had been men that I’d noticed in recent years.
At parties, press junkets, on tour. But as I got older and years passed, it felt like I’d missed my opportunity.
Like I was too old to explore my sexuality, or maybe I just didn’t have the courage. I don’t know.
Everything in my life, especially over the past four years, was focused on my career. As friends coupled up and had families of their own, I found myself an outsider.
Alone.
Then I lost my parents.
First, my mom died from cancer, and then my dad from heart disease. I still hadn’t closed their home in Montreal yet, the memories too fresh and painful.
And after my dad’s death, I questioned everything.
What was going to tether me as time wore on? What was going to fuel me outside of work? I hadn’t really thought about those things until I lost my folks, but now it was always on my mind.
I found solace in my songwriting. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. It was familiar, cathartic, and comforting.
And I also took comfort in my friends, most of whom I worked with.
But especially Brodie.
I’d never had a more stimulating partnership than working with him. We were years apart, but when it came to music, there was an understanding between us, an unspoken synergy. I’d even been tempted to tell him I was the songwriter he admired, but I didn’t.
Maybe someday.
And yeah, all this to say, I was spending way too much time reflecting.
More so this year when I was making my way through grief. But as the pain evolved, my body’s needs resurfaced. But I didn’t want a hookup. I wanted more.
And all those questions about my love life, or lack thereof, came rushing back.
I always recognized Brodie’s attraction. But now? Now, I couldn’t think about anything else.
Brodie had already ruined my concentration. Fuck, even my songwriting had changed. Everything became more intense. Like “Sideline,” my words conveyed all the stuff I was feeling inside but could never voice in real life.
Less hard-edged and more heartache.
Not that my heart was involved; that would be crazy…
I opened the door to the theater and slid inside as quietly as I could.
There was Brodie, standing under the spotlights in those painted-on jeans and a loose tank top, his tattooed arms bare. Turning his head over his shoulder, our eyes met.
Despite the distance between us, my breath caught.
Like the first time, like every time since. I didn’t recognize what it meant four years ago, but I sure as fuck noticed now.
The beautiful Brodie James.
Why would he want me when he could have anyone?
Would I risk my career to have one night with him rather than nothing at all?
My body knew what it wanted.
My head told me to get the fuck gone.