Chapter 11
“A Sky Full of Stars” - Coldplay
Saylor
It’s stupid, I know. I’m in New York City for a full day, with an Amex Black Card, for god’s sake, and a personal protection officer who has assured me he’s willing to escort me anywhere I wish to go. I’m guessing the hotel swimming pool and spa were not what he had in mind.
But here I am. I shift on the massage table, the hot stones on my back now cold.
I didn’t know where else to go. I’ve never been here before, and I don’t have a NYC bucket list as long as my arm. If Timie were here, we’d have the time of our lives exploring. But she’s not, nor does she have any desire to be.
I haven’t seen Rhett all day. I debated texting him a few times but decided if he wanted to check up on me, he would. Maybe I’m supposed to stay tucked out of sight until he needs me. If that’s what he wants, I can’t complain about the arrangement.
We never discussed the concerts. I have no idea what he expects. Does he want me to attend? Do girlfriends usually attend? Do I want to attend? I ponder that last question as the massage therapist works the knots out of my shoulders.
I’ve been to my fair share of concerts, but always firmly in the back, where the view is sketchy and the tickets are cheapest. Special front row privileges might be kind of nice, at least for one show.
After leaving the spa, I ask my newly-assigned personal protection officer, Leo, what I’m meant to do during tonight’s concert.
He assures me he’d be happy to escort me to the venue whenever I’d like.
He’s a big guy with fists the size of my neck and a buzzcut that reminds me of Nate.
I squash that thought as quickly as it appears.
As I’m choosing my outfit, I realize this is yet another thing Rhett and I haven’t discussed.
A quick “what do rock stars’ girlfriends wear” Google search yields no helpful results.
Maybe he expected me to shop for a new wardrobe today, hence the credit card.
But if that’s what he wanted, he should have said so.
As it is, he’s stuck with the clothes I packed, all of which suddenly seem woefully inadequate for the level of fame I think Rhett is on the cusp of.
I settle on a pair of light wash jeans and a cropped black T-shirt—classic and put together without drawing unwanted attention. I give last night’s heels a disdainful look as I pull on my Docs. I still have a blister on my ankle from the thin straps.
Leo has arranged for a private car to take us to the venue. We both sit in the back seat, and I make small talk at first, but when he seems less than eager to chat, I shut up and take in the sights of the city through the window.
The concert hall is massive, and a huge billboard with Rhett’s grinning face is posted out front. There’s already a line of people forming at the door, and the show doesn’t start for another two hours.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs as the car slows. Leo leans across the front seat and says something to the driver, who continues past the venue, then circles the block and pulls up in an alley at what I assume is the back entrance.
My heart is thudding behind my ribs. Everything so far has had a dreamlike quality to it.
Meeting the band, the plane ride in our ridiculous suite, the glamorous dinner, the exquisite hotel.
I’ve been living in a bubble up until now, but it’s all about to become very real.
Rhett and I will have to put on the show of our lives if we’re to convince anyone that we’re so in love we can’t bear to be apart for six weeks.
Leo escorts me inside, one hand on my elbow at all times.
I’m not sure if he’s afraid I’ll trip or run away, but the tiny gesture is comforting all the same.
The back of the venue is dark and slightly claustrophobic, with tight corridors and flickering lights.
Even with the haunted house vibe, there’s an energy buzzing through the place.
I can feel my blood start to hum the minute we enter.
We walk down one hallway and up another, winding our way through the belly of this place until there’s no way in hell I could find the exit again. Finally, we stop outside a door labeled “Practice Room.”
I almost tell Leo I’ve changed my mind. “Thank you,” I say instead, and take a deep breath. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I’ve seen Rhett, and that thought alone is responsible for at least half the butterflies in my stomach.
I turn the doorknob, praying to anyone listening that I won’t be interrupting. I expect one of those sound rooms like in the movies, where you can watch the musicians through a two-way mirror without them seeing you. I definitely don’t expect to waltz directly into the band’s practice session.
As the realization hits me, I freeze. The band keeps playing, even though their eyes all flick to where I’m standing just inside the door. I wince and give a little wave. The guy on rhythm guitar—Jamal, I think—grins and nods.
Rhett is on the far side of the room, intently playing his guitar.
If he’s noticed me, he isn’t showing it.
I watch him, completely mesmerized. His videos have always entranced me, but seeing him in person is something different altogether.
He moves as though he’s one with his guitar, and the sounds pouring out of it are raw and vulnerable. My throat tightens the longer I stare.
He leans toward the mic in front of him and lifts his eyes. They connect with mine, and time stands still for one brief instant. Then he swings the instrument behind his back and walks over to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His guitar cord trails behind him, the music trails off, and my thoughts trail away, but he doesn’t slow down. When he reaches me, he brings both hands up to cup my face. I’m terrified he’s going to kiss me—I am not prepared for this—but he just leans in close and whispers, “Trust me?”
I give a barely perceptible nod, and then his lips are on mine.
Have I imagined this moment? Maybe a few times.
Was it ever this good? Definitely not. It should be noted that Rhett Cole has gotten much better at kissing.
I don’t even know what to do with my mouth, but it doesn’t matter, because he is doing enough for both of us.
I had insisted on no tongue during our negotiations, but my mouth doesn’t care, just opens for him as though he holds a members-only pass.
He does not wait for further invitation, just invades my mouth with the skill of a guy who has done this a lot. His hands claim my face with the same intensity with which his lips claim my mouth, like I belong to him. Which I kind of do for the next six weeks.
I don’t know what to do with my hands either, so I rest them on his elbows, holding him as he holds me, and somehow it feels like whatever happens next, I don’t need to worry about anything, because he’s got me. He’s not going to let anything bad happen to me.
It’s a comforting thought that I desperately want to hold on to, but the snarky voice in my head doesn’t care what I want. But what if he’s the bad thing?
It’s the antidote I need for whatever fever Rhett’s lips have inspired in me. I break off the kiss, and the instant I do, reality snaps back into focus.
The band is watching us but pretending not to. Rhett is staring down at me with a kind of wonder that I need to rectify immediately, because no one else can see it, which means it’s not for show.
“God, I missed you,” he says, just quiet enough that I can’t tell if it’s meant for the band to overhear.
I give him a weak smile. “Me too.”
He pulls back then, maybe sensing my unease. “Did you have fun?”
“Not the kind you imagined, I’m sure.” I pull his credit card from my pocket and hand it to him.
He looks from it back to me with an amused look before sliding it into his wallet. “Come on. Let’s grab some pizza.” He slings an arm around my neck and pulls me into his side.
I go willingly, show or not, because something about him changes something about me. It should scare me, because I can’t identify it, but I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m pretending to date a rock star.
Rhett smells like leather and sweat, and as repulsive as that sounds, the last thing it does is repulse me. It feels raw and gritty, a little like him, and something bubbles deep inside me, something that will become dangerous if I pay it any heed.
So I don’t, just let him tuck me against his side as he slips the guitar over his head and hands it to someone. Then we’re walking toward the greenroom, where he assures me several large pizzas are waiting.
“One of them is just cheese,” he says.
I glance up at him from my position under his arm.
“I remembered,” he says with a wink.
The bubbling intensifies, but this cannot happen. He will break my heart if I give in.
As soon as we’re inside the greenroom—which is not green, but decorated like a swanky living room—I slip out from beneath Rhett’s arm, pretending to be completely parched as I guzzle one of the water bottles that have been set out.
Cardboard boxes of pizza are stacked on the coffee table in the center of the room.
Rhett opens one of them, pulling out a slice covered in melted cheese and holding it out for me.
I’m about to take it from him when I realize he wants me to take a bite.
I hesitate, then lean forward when I hear the guys outside the door.
They walk in just as I’m biting through the crust, and Rhett and I share a look.
He hands me the slice along with a napkin, and we settle next to each other on one of the sofas as we munch our pizza. He’s wearing a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his muscled chest and tight black jeans. I look away before the bubbling returns.
“Are you nervous?” I ask after he returns with another piece of pizza for me.
He shrugs with what I’m beginning to recognize as faux nonchalance. “Not really.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Really.”
He looks at me, then back down at his own slice. “Maybe a little.”
“You’ll be great.”
His eyebrows waggle. “Are you going to be watching?”
“I wanted to ask you about that.” I pick at a string of gooey mozzarella. “I don’t know what girlfriends usually do.”
He shrugs again, his shoulder rubbing against mine as he does. “I don’t either. Which means you can do whatever you want.” When I don’t reply right away, he glances at me. “So? What do you want?”
“I don’t want to be in the way.” I don’t know what goes on backstage during a concert, but I imagine lots of bustling around and activity that I would only trip up.
He rolls his eyes like I’ve just said something ridiculous. “You could never be in the way, Saylor.”
Bubble, bubble. I sit up straighter. “Maybe I can watch from the side stage?”
“Sure.” He nods. “Leo can stay with you.”
“You won’t do something embarrassing, will you? Like point me out during the show?”
The side of his mouth quirks upward at a rate that does not bring me comfort. “Of course not.”
When the pizza’s nearly gone, someone wearing a headset sticks their head into the room. “Opening act is up in five.”
“That’s our cue, mates,” Rhett says. He stands, then reaches a hand down to help me up.
We walk to the backstage area, where the din from the crowd is becoming audible. The opening band, Velvet Inferno, plays through their set, and the energy from the audience increases with every song. I’m not even going to be visible, and I’m feeling nervous.
There’s a jitteriness flowing through the band, and they practice various ways of relaxing. Diego takes a puff of vape, Jentry moves his shoulders in circles, and Chase leans against the wall and closes his eyes.
Jamal doesn’t appear to be nervous at all, and when I smile at him, he throws me another wink. I glance at Rhett, but he’s facing the stage.
I wrap my hands around his arm and squeeze gently. “You’re going to be amazing.”
He turns to me with a grim smile. “Sure hope so.”
The radio DJ hosting the show takes over the stage, throwing out tidbits about Rhett, which makes the crowd go wild.
“Do people still say ‘break a leg’?” I ask.
“I’d rather have another kiss.”
I stand on tiptoes and press my lips to his cheek, where his stubble is just starting to break the surface.
“Not the kind I meant,” he growls.
I give him a syrupy smile. “But the only kind you’re getting tonight.”
“We’ll see.” With that, he turns and follows the band onstage.