Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I did the only thing a sane person would do.
I stalked the guy online.
Nathan Walker. Guitarist of Cherry Lips. I'd seen their music videos a couple times and their songs were great, but I wanted to know more about him specifically.
As I scrolled through the search results on my phone, I found accolade after accolade, music journalists gushing about his natural talent and passion, along with lists of awards, both industry and fan-based.
Speaking of fans, he apparently had hordes of them, and from what I'd read, he plowed through those girls like tissues. Unlike some of his band members who were in committed relationships, it seemed Nathan had never slept with the same girl twice.
I nearly snorted. Typical rock star.
He had been telling the truth when he said he'd done some modeling. My eyes grew wide when I found a series of ads for a brand of boxers. I couldn't see the point of those ads. With the way he held his guitar in a suggestive pose across his lower body, the boxers weren't even visible. And considering he wasn't wearing anything else…
I hastily shoved my phone into my pocket.
I'd never been to a concert before. I had looked up the venue, wondering what it might be like. Cherry Lips usually sold out stadiums, but this was a smaller one-off performance, invitation-only for diehard fans.
When I looked up, I found myself standing in front of a large Victorian mansion converted into a music hall. Hundreds of fans were already lined up at the door, snaking around the sidewalk, and continuing down the street for blocks. Most kept to themselves with quiet murmurs, but there were small pockets playing songs on their phones at max volume and singing along at the top of their lungs. The line was moving, albeit slowly, as the concert attendees filed into the venue one-by-one.
I couldn't help but wonder what to expect. Would there be mosh pits? The thought made me a bit panicky. I didn't know if I'd be able to handle that. But Nathan said to go to the side door. Maybe my ticket gave me access to a special section away from the pit. It did say VIP on it, after all.
I walked around the building until I found a dented metal door with a beefy guy standing in front of it, arms crossed. His expression remained stern as I approached.
"Hello." I gave him a small wave and immediately felt stupid.
"Line's that way," he grunted with a nod of his chin.
"Yes, I know."
His eyes narrowed. I powered on.
"I'm supposed to tell you Nathan invited me. He said something about a list…?"
The guy, who was either a bouncer or bodyguard, blatantly scanned me up and down. A doubtful look crossed his face. "You?"
The emphasis on the word was almost insulting. What was so wrong with me?
"Yes, me," I said stiffly. I brandished my ticket. "This thing here says VIP."
"Name?" he barked.
I felt the urge to straighten my back and salute. "Becca Miller."
Without a word, he pounded on the door and stepped aside. It swung open to reveal a frazzled looking woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.
"Got one for Nathan," the bouncer/bodyguard said.
The woman scrutinized me, eyes lingered on my feet, clad in well-worn sneakers, then trailed up the rest of me, a simple black top and jeans. I was graced with my second doubtful look in one night.
Maybe I'd dressed wrong and they didn't think I belonged here. Maybe I was supposed to be wearing fishnet tights or a band t-shirt or something.
"Do you have a ticket?" the woman asked. I showed it to her. Her eyes flicked to the bouncer. "She's on the list?"
"The only name on the list tonight," the beefy guy replied.
She handed me a green lanyard with a VIP label. As I put it around my neck, she gestured quickly for me to step through the door and shut it behind us.
We were in a large room full of people rushing back and forth. Some were carrying large pieces of equipment while others spoke into the same kind of headsets the frazzled woman was wearing.
"Concert starts in thirty minutes," she said. "Pit's down there if you want a front row seat or you can watch backstage over here. Artist lounge is back there."
She paused for a second, eyes going distant. She touched her earpiece and scowled.
"Shit," she said into the mic. "Okay. I'm on it." Her eyes returned to me. "Whatever you do, don't get in anyone's way."
"Thank—" I began to say, but she was already moving along. "—you…" I followed her with my eyes as she went over to a young-looking girl with a cherub face and started chewing her out.
I looked around helplessly. I thought I'd be led to some special seat where I could watch the concert up close. Instead, I'd been unceremoniously dumped backstage with no other instruction aside from don't get in the way.
I stood with my back to the wall and observed for a few minutes to get my bearings. Everything seemed rushed and intense. It was stressing me out, and I was only watching.
But I soon noticed that, if you really paid attention, there was a sort of calming flow to it all. Everyone knew their role and they all deftly maneuvered around each other as they completed their tasks.
"Hey, you there," a harried looking man said to me. I thought he might yell at me to get out of the way but instead he shoved a flashlight into my hands. "Point it over there," the guy demanded.
Confused, I did as he asked, lighting up a small metal box in a dark corner of the wall. He pried it open and used both hands to twist knobs and flip switches. He closed the box, took the flashlight back and hurried off without another look.
"You're welcome," I called out as he hurried along.
"Hey, gorgeous."
A familiar voice spoke from behind me. I turned.
I gaped.
Nathan Walker stood in front of me.
But this Nathan Walker didn't look like the creeper guy skulking through the hospital. There was no ball cap in sight.
This Nathan Walker wore an open leather jacket and bare chest, showing off every well-defined muscle and a colorfully inked torso. His black jeans looked spray-painted on. He wore studded accessories all over — belt, wrists, even a leather collar around his neck.
My tongue went dry and thick. I couldn't form proper words.
Was that a hint of eyeliner rimming his deep blue eyes? I'd never thought that was my thing but I was being proved wrong with every passing movement.
Nathan cocked his head. "That was cool of you."
"What was?" I managed to ask.
"Helping that tech," he said. "You could have told him to shove it."
"I was just being nice," I said.
"Nice," he repeated.
"What?" I asked, unnerved.
"Nothing." A small smile played on his lips.
I wasn't going to let him patronize me. I lifted my chin. "What's wrong with being nice?"
"Nothing at all. I like it," he said. "Most people in this industry are self-absorbed bastards."
"Yourself included?" I asked.
Nathan laughed. "Only sometimes." His eyes left mine, flicking down my body in a quick pass. Then he looked up slowly, taking his time, lingering over every inch. When his eyes met mine again, there was a teasing glint in them. "I can be very generous in some situations."
There was no doubt in my mind what he meant by that.
"I'm glad you're here," he said. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Why?" I asked.
"I didn't think you were a fan."
I'd meant, why was he glad I was here, but I didn't ask again. I wasn't sure what kind of answer he would give.
"I like your music," I said. "I just didn't recognize you the first time I saw you. Especially with that ridiculous ball cap."
He spread his arms out, gesturing to his current outfit. "Is this better?"
Leather jacket and eyeliner? I couldn't think of anything that would suit the guy better. As I stared at him, my eyes went hazy again, taking in the delicious sight.
"Like what you see?" he asked.
I snapped my eyes back up to his to find a wide smirk creeping across his lips.
"It definitely does look more rock star," I managed to say. "You're only missing a guitar to complete the look."
His eyes drifted over my shoulder and he nodded his chin. A crew member came over and handed him exactly that. He shrugged the strap around his shoulders and settled the body of the instrument against his hip. My face grew warm when I remembered that familiar pose from his modeling ads.
"You're stroking that thing like it's your lover," I noted.
Nathan paused with his hand flat on the body of the guitar, stopping his slow caress back and forth. He blinked down at his instrument as if he hadn't realized what he'd been doing.
"This girl's been with me a long time," he explained. "I don't like to play favorites, but there's something special about her."
"It's a her?"
"All my guitars are hers."
"I suppose they would be," I said, "considering you spend hours feeling them up."
"We do make sweet music together," he grinned.
"Have you been playing for long?" I asked.
"My mom bought me my first guitar at nine," he said.
"Is this one her?"
"No. I had to get a kid-sized guitar. But once I started growing, I bought this one myself."
"Yourself?" I raised an eyebrow. "Aren't those things expensive?"
"Sure are," he said. "I saved up all my money from odd jobs. Paper routes and mowing lawns, stuff like that."
"That's very mature of you." I tried not to sound surprised and insult him, but I had a feeling maturity and Nathan Walker didn't really go together. "Most kids wouldn't think to save like that."
"Wait, say that again." Nathan cupped his hand to his ear in an exaggerated motion. "I need the guys to hear someone call me mature."
"That rare of an occurrence, huh?" I asked with a laugh, knowing my suspicions had been right.
"It isn't the first thing that comes to mind when people think of me," Nathan said. "What about you? Were you mature? Did you save up money from your odd jobs for something cool?"
How weird would it be to admit I'd never had the opportunity to do odd jobs as a kid? Didn't most girls at least babysit or something?
"I never really saved for anything special like that." I nodded to the guitar again. "So the two of you go way back. No wonder you seem so fond of her."
"You sound jealous," he said. "Maybe you'd like my hands caressing something else?"
I might have protested, but that leather jacket and eyeliner was doing something to my insides.
I couldn't deny a part of me was jealous of the way he fingered those strings.
"Hey asshole!" someone yelled from near the stage. "Stop flirting, we're on in five."
Nathan threw whoever it was the middle finger, not bothering to turn his attention to them.
"Show starts soon," he told me. "You watching from the pit or from backstage?"
"I'm not really a mosh pit kind of person," I said. The thought of being jostled and trampled sent a pang of anxiety running through me.
"You'll be safe if you watch from the wings," he said.
"It is kind of exciting," I said, "being able to watch your concert backstage."
"You've never seen Cherry Lips perform live before, have you?" he asked.
"I've never seen any rock band perform live," I confessed.
Nathan looked shocked before a delighted grin spread from ear to ear.
"So you're a virgin?" he teased. "I'm going to be your first?"
My tongue went heavy and thick again.
"Nate, come the fuck on," the guy called again.
"Sorry, sweetheart, gotta run." He eyed me thoughtfully. "Stick around after the show, all right?"
"Why—?"
But he'd already sauntered off. I stared after him as the lights went low and he took his place. I hurried toward the curtain. The audience had reached a fever pitch.
Lights blasted from the ceiling, shining down on the stage. The female lead singer shouted something into the microphone and the crowd cheered. Each band member positioned their instruments to start playing. Fans in the front row shouted out names and waved their hands widely.
I barely noticed any of it.
My eyes were focused solely on Nathan Walker.