CHAPTER 11
TYLER
Tyler arrived at the stadium a few hours later, tied a lanyard around her belt loop, and shoved an all-access pass into her back pocket. She was there as a music industry professional, not as a Kinger, even though she considered herself an honorary member.
Cary’s visit to the office was a bit of a let-down so she was determined to fix it—to save face if nothing else.
Her phone buzzed. It was Kim.
Green Room.
She walked backstage and found her bestie directing Cary’s team like a Navy SEAL commander.
“How’s it going?” Tyler asked.
“So far so good,” Kim said, adjusting her headset. “But they’re, like, working with a skeleton crew—bare-bones. It’s kind of weird for something of this magnitude.”
Tyler craned her neck. “Is Vegas around?”
“Over there.” Kim pointed across the room. Vegas was hobbling around on elbow crutches—regular ones were too short for him.
“Vegas!” Tyler jogged over. “How are you, buddy?”
“I’m pissed,” he said, balancing on his good leg. “I’m out for at least six weeks. No pay.”
“Not even a per diem?” She tightened her topknot. “You got hurt at work.”
Apparently, he’d tripped over some cables that should have been cleared hours ago. Somebody on the crew had definitely dropped the ball.
“Sebastard refused to file an insurance claim.” He shook his head, frustrated, but knowing Sebastien, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.
“That sucks.”
“It more than sucks.” Vegas turned his head and pointed at Kim. “But thanks for finding this gem. The guys are already afraid of her.”
“They should be afraid.” She laughed. “They need to know who’s in charge.”
“I’m already calling her the Boss, like Springsteen.”
That made Tyler laugh even harder.
Meanwhile, the SDM team walked down the hall. Everyone wore laminates with lanyards around their necks except for Cary—not a shocker.
“Fucking Tommy,” Vegas groaned. “I’m not in the mood for one of his epic monologues.”
Tyler frowned. “Why is Lara with them?”
“She’s been here since five,” Kim grumbled. “Fucking Tommy brought her.”
“I see you got the memo!” Cary shouted.
She squinted and mouthed, What?
“Black,” he said, gesturing between them. “We’re both wearing black.”
She started toward him, arms out for a hug—only for Tommy to swoop in and block her like a human traffic cone.
Fuck off.
“We’re having a bash at the casino later,” Tommy said. “An after-afterparty. You should come. Bring some friends.”
As if.
“Hi, Tyler!” Lara beamed, all teeth and cleavage. “How are you?”
Tyler frowned at her skimpy red dress and leopard-print heels. Jesus, put some clothes on.
When Lara started at SDM, Tyler told her to buckle down and roll up her sleeves. Instead, she unbuttoned her shirt. In the music industry, that kind of attention from men always came at a price—and a reputation.
“We’re heading up to the fucking suite,” Tommy said.
“Free drinks,” Sebastien added.
Tommy pointed at Tyler. “You’re coming.”
“I need her down here.” Cary’s voice was stern, demanding. “She’s helping me with something.”
Yeah, Tommy.
Lara raised her hand. “I can stay and help—”
“We’ve got it,” Kim snapped.
“Good,” Sebastien said. “Let’s get out of here.”
After they left, Cary turned to the women. “I take it you guys don’t like Lara?”
The Price Is Right music rang in Tyler’s head.
Kim fiddled with a knob on her headset. “She’s annoying, dude.”
“Super thirsty,” Tyler muttered, patting her back pocket to make sure her pass was still there. “But it’s not really her fault Sebastien hired her on the spot.”
Lara had sent him a link to her demo. He never listened to it—but he did like the pictures on her website.
“Are you ready?” Kim asked Cary with her hand on the green room door.
“Ready.” He winked at Tyler and followed Kim inside.
Twenty minutes later, Vegas’s phone lit up. He glanced at the screen. “Uh . . . do you know how to sew?” he asked Tyler.
What a weird question.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Her Grandma Mary—on her dad’s side—had taught the girls when they were young. After Tyler’s mom passed away, Grandma practically moved in, stepping into the mother-figure role without hesitation. She’d died five years ago, leaving Tyler without a shoulder to cry on.
“Cary’s button fell off,” Vegas explained.
“I bet he has a million black shirts.”
“I didn’t ask. I’ll tell him you’ll fix it.” Vegas resumed texting. “He’ll meet you in his dressing room. There’s a sewing kit in his wardrobe case.”
Does he need babysitting?
Tyler walked into his dressing room and opened his wardrobe case. Aha! Ten identical shirts hung in a row like half-window blackout curtains. Damn. She hated being right when she didn’t want to be.
Seconds later, the door flew open, and Cary rushed in. “Thanks for fixing this,” he said, handing her the orphaned button. “It popped off while I was signing autographs.”
She scrunched her nose, not understanding why he needed it fixed. “You have a bunch of shirts just like this.”
“I know, but I sound-checked in this one.”
“Are you superstitious?”
“Big time.”
Rock stars and athletes.
“Okay, how do you want to do this?” she asked.
Could she handle seeing him half-naked? Who was she kidding? She’d dreamed about it every night since September.
Cary shut the door and unfastened his buttons from the top. “It’s probably easier if I take it off.”
She focused on threading the needle instead of watching him disrobe. The shirt dropped onto the armchair beside her and a waft of cologne went up her nose.
She grabbed the shirt and the loose button. “This is the problem with these cheap shirts,” she teased, fingering the expensive material. “Crappy buttons.”
“Funny,” he said. “And thanks again for Kim—she’s a force to be reckoned with.”
Tyler focused on sewing the button like she was reattaching a limb.
“I want to keep her on,” he added. “At least until Vegas is back.”
“Yeah, try convincing Sebastien.” Her tone had a dusting of sarcasm.
“He works for me, not the other way around.”
Tell him that.
“Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the garment.
“Tomorrow night,” he confirmed. “Kim’s trying to get on our flight.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have your own plane.”
“I’m conscious of my carbon footprint.”
Right, the environment.
“All done.” She handed him the shirt without making eye contact but caught his reflection in the full-length mirror. Jesus Christ! He was seriously in good shape, and not just for thirty-eight.
A wave of heat traveled up her spine and she wiped the back of her neck.
“Thanks for the assist,” Cary said.
She snapped out of her daze and turned on her heel. “No problem.”
“Wait.”
She froze, then spun around.
Cary gave her an awkward smile. “How about a kiss for good luck?”
She shrugged, keeping her cool. “Sure. For good luck.”
She clasped her hands to stop their trembling and stepped toward him. His gaze met hers, and the chaos in her chest quieted—just for a breath, just for him. He leaned in, slow and certain, eyes flicking to her lips.
Almost.
His mouth parted.
Knock knock.
Of course. Foiled by the universe. Again.
“Ten minutes, Cary!” Her best friend’s voice came through loud and clear, then they burst out laughing.
“I’ve never noticed your freckles,” he said. “They’re cute.”
She covered her nose with both hands. “I hate them.”
“They’re perfect.” He lifted her hands away from her face. “How about meeting me for a drink later?”
“Here?” She blinked, confused.
“No, definitely not here. The Wine Bar. I’ll meet you around eleven?”
“Okay.” She walked toward the door and turned around. “Break a leg.”
“Don’t say that to Vegas,” he called after her with a grin.
Stick to your day job, Cary.
The November air was crisp but mild, considering the time of year. After the show, Tyler strolled along Pacific Boulevard, reliving the kiss like a broken record.
Is my dream finally coming true?
The Wine Bar was crowded, so she sat at their table on the patio to give them some privacy. He’d just performed in front of forty-thousand people and she wanted him all to herself. To hoard him like Sebastien.
“Have you decided?” a man holding a pen asked. She could tell by his vacant stare that Kevin didn’t recognize her from two months ago.
“I’m waiting for someone.” She checked her watch. “He should be here any minute.”
The server nodded and excused himself.
Tyler’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Cary.
Is he canceling?
Granted, it was almost impossible for an artist to leave after a show, especially a “hometown” show.
And her boss was throwing an afterparty.
Groupies. They were everywhere. It wasn’t lost on Sebastien that women used him to get access to rock stars, but he used them too, mostly because he was a user.
Tyler read the message.
Sorry! En route. Some jerk’s concert is holding up traffic! xo
She laughed out loud and surveyed the patio, but she knew no one there. Her phone was just sitting there, so she scrolled through Cary’s Instagram.
“Rory!” she cheered.
Cary had posted a picture of her dog wearing Mutt Muffs and had captioned it: I love this little guy! #goodboy
Tyler smiled, but unease prickled at her.
Thank god Sebastien didn’t check Instagram.
He avoided apps on his phone, claiming his fingers were too “wide.” Instead, he preferred to sit behind a computer, slinging insults about the music industry from the safety of a firewall.
What he didn’t realize, though, was that she had access to his emails.
He was too cheap to hire an in-house IT person, which worked just fine for her.
Moments later a shiny black SUV pulled up to the curb. Cary stepped out of the truck wearing the same beanie but without the glasses.
“Sorry, traffic,” he said, almost out of breath.
“Why didn’t you walk?” She twisted her mouth and bit her lip.
“I don’t know. I forgot it was an option.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek like they were an old married couple. “I’m glad our table was available.”
Our table.