Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2) (23 page)

“He’s just so . . . amazing. I mean, obviously, he’s hot. Not that I noticed your boyfriend is hot or anything. And he’s so talented and mysterious. I just . . . how do you
stand
it?”

I knew Ella loved Rhyson’s music, but this is her first full on gush, and it’s something to behold.

“He
is
amazing.” I stretch out on the couch, grateful to finally surrender to the respite my body has been begging for. “But he’s also just a guy. I mean, he’s
my
guy.”

I can’t help but laugh thinking of our day at the beach. Him in his thick moustache singing “I Got You, Babe” by the beach.

“He’s a goofball. He’s a genius. He makes me laugh.”

My lips quirk to a wry angle, memories of our infamous video imprinting my mind.

“He makes me cry sometimes, too.” I shrug. “He’s not perfect, but then neither am I.”

“And all the drama between you two at the beginning of the tour?” Ella settles into the seat in front of the mirror, pulling spikes into her short hair. “All resolved?”

“I don’t know if ‘resolved’ is the right word,” I mumble, barely able to keep my eyes open as exhaustion takes me under. “But we’re working on it. I have no choice.”

“Why’s that?” Ella swivels the seat around to stare at me.

I see only a slice of her through sleep-slitted eyes.

“I’m in love with him.” My words slur, but I’m sure she heard them. The words I’ve only ever admitted to a handful of people.

“You’re a lucky girl.”

I barely manage a sleepy smile, my last conscious thought the truth that’s gonna get me through this last show, even though my body doesn’t seem able.

Don’t I know it.

AS A KID, I COULD BARELY
make it through a performance without a healthy dose of Xanax. So much so that it became a crutch I couldn’t walk without. The anxiety, the pressure every time I stepped onto the stage overshadowed my early years of performing. So when I reinvented myself as a musician, I did it for me and me alone. Not for my parents or the money or the acclaim, but because I had, for whatever reason, been given a gift that not many people in the world had. I could play just about anything . . .
really
well.

And though my early life left me so cautious I only let a few people past the gate, only lowered my guard by inches, when I take the stage, I hold nothing back. I’m all heart and soul every time, and what the audience gives me in return is like nothing I’d ever imagined I’d experience as a musician. It’s a sonic freefall, and those people who love my music, who
get
it, are the net that catches me every time.

So nerves don’t really come into play for me anymore when I perform. But tonight, I’m in an arena packed with fans, the air vibrating with their anticipation. My foot bounces a frantic rhythm on the sticky floor. I’m sweating through my t-shirt. My stomach knots up. The nerves, man, the nerves before this performance are like old times. Like everything rides on this next set.

And I’m nowhere near the stage.

I’m halfway back, just in sight of the soundboard so I can geek out over the equipment they’re using to mix the show. I’m smack dab in the middle of a row of people, wearing Dickies. I’m carrying glow sticks and drinking flat beer while we wait for the opening act, the only thing I care about tonight. I’m here to see my girl perform, really perform, to a packed house, and this room can barely contain me I’m so high on possibility.

Other people take this for granted, standing in a crowded concert, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of fans. It’s wonderfully novel for me, though, to be on this side of the stage. I approached this outing with the stealth and missional strategery of Jason Bourne. I worked out my disguise. I plotted an elaborate plan to get out of my neighborhood, undetected and all plebeian in the used Corolla Marlon secured for me. I parked and walked to the venue like everyone else. On my back, standard issue Luke Foster t-shirt. On my head, my Dodgers cap. I’m wearing the Magnum P.I. moustache, which has never let me down. My own mother would be hard-pressed to recognize me. I’m drinking cheap beer and chomping on a pretzel like everyone else on my row.

It’s exhilarating.

All the pre-show stuff is coming to an end, and my heartbeat picks up speed. Is she nervous? Does Kai suspect that maybe, just possibly, I’m in the audience? We spoke earlier, but only briefly. Partially because she was getting ready for the show, and partially because I knew if we spoke too long, I’d give something away and she’d know I was coming.

Tonight she’ll be in my bed because finally the longest month of my life comes to an end. Over the last three weeks, Kai and I have texted and Facetimed and talked every day, despite the time difference, but now we’re in the same state. She doesn’t know it, but we’re in the same place. The same arena. She has to at least suspect that I’m coming, but we haven’t talked about it at all. The only part of the show I’m not looking forward to is that lap dance she gives Luke during his set. That shit ends tonight, and she won’t be anywhere near his lap ever again.

The announcer welcomes everyone to the show before introducing the opening act. The crowd erupts for Kai. In three months she has rocketed to her own prominence. I can’t stand John Malcolm, but I have to hand it to him. He knows how to transform a talent into a star.

But at what cost?

The last few Facetime calls, Kai looked worn down, exhausted. That skin-deep sparkle that’s always been so much a part of her was absent. As if the tour weren’t demanding enough, Malcolm added mall stops along the way. And because of all the hype surrounding Kai, he’s had her doing multiple early morning radio and TV interviews in every city. It’s too much and it’s taken a toll.

She promised me after this tour we wouldn’t care who knew we’re still together. She promised me we’d be together again. I hope she meant it because I’ve already booked our vacation from the rest of the world, and it starts as soon as this tour stops.

But not before I get to see her performing live for myself. She’s phenomenal. Many singers learn to dance because you kind of have to these days. Unless you’re
this
guy, anchored to your piano and not giving a fuck. But Kai
is
a dancer. She’s not just competent. She’s masterful. Combine that with her incredible voice and magnetic stage presence, along with being gorgeous, which never hurts, and you’ve got a rare package.

I’m so damn proud of her when she starts her set. I completely get why people want more from her, why she’s gained so many fans of her own opening for Luke.

“Rhyson Gray is one lucky son of a bitch,” the guy beside me says to the person on the other side of him. It jars me to hear my name when I’m supposed to be knee-deep in anonymity.

Concert-goer number two agrees, eyes fixed on Kai as she dances across the stage. “Didn’t they break up, though?”

“But he got to fuck her first.” The guy cackles, licking his lips like he can taste my girl. “How else you think a chick from Nowhere, USA gets here this fast? He probably wasn’t the only one she fucked to get on that stage.”

I knew there were some people who thought like that. Hell, that was Kai’s greatest fear, but to hear someone talk about her that way when she’s worked her ass off to get where she is; when she’s trained since she was a kid, sacrificed all her life and pressed through every delay, including her mom’s illness—it makes me furious. If I give in to this, I jeopardize my disguise and maybe cause a small commotion when people realize who I am. I can see those headlines now. Kai would never let me live that down. I jerk the reins on my control, pulling my own ass in line. I can’t resist some retaliation, though, however small.

I bump my shoulder against douchebag’s like someone jostled me, dumping my beer into his lap.

“Dude, what the fuck!” He drops his pretzel, patting the huge wet spot on his jeans.

“My bad,” I mumble. “Sorry, man.”

“Just stay in your lane,” he snaps, looking at me an extra minute like he’s trying to place me. I pull my hat lower over my brow and bend, pretending to retrieve something from the floor. That wasn’t the ass-kicking he deserved, but at least I get to see my girl without causing a brawl.

She’s on her second song when I realize something isn’t right. She misses a step, and even though she recovers quickly, I know from her face something is wrong. She loses her place in the song, the band and the dancers moving forward without her. It’s like I’m watching it all in awful slow motion. One minute she’s standing in her skimpy little outfit, small and alone at the center of the huge stage, a choreographed spectacle behind her. The next minute, she presses her hand to her forehead, her face crumpling, her eyes rolling back in her head, her slim body falling into a glittering heap on the floor.

And taking my heart down with it.

I don’t make a conscious decision to rush toward the stage, but that’s what happens. I’m shoving everyone on my row, barreling down the aisle until I slam into a mass of flesh and bone and muscle. I jerk against two sets of hands gripping my arms on either side.

“Let go,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Man, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” one of the security guards says. “Return to your seat or we take you out.”

“No, you don’t understand.” I can barely get the words out because my heart is stuffed in my throat. “That’s my girlfriend. I need to get to Kai.”

“You and every other guy in this place.” The other guard starts dragging me back into the crowd. Onstage, the music still goes on, but the dancers have stopped, several of them running center stage where Kai lies completely still.

“No!” I dig in my heels in. “She is. Why won’t you . . . you have to let me . . .”

They’re dragging me backward. I’ve never felt so completely helpless in my life. She’s gone. A burly security guard scooped her up, taking her limp body offstage. A few dancers straggle back, but the whole crew is leaving. The announcer asks for everyone’s patience. Patience is a completely foreign concept to me right now. I strain against the strength of two massive security guards when it hits me. They don’t know who I am.

“I’m Rhyson Gray.” My eyes zipline between them. I try to keep my voice low when everything inside of me is rising and surging and clawing to get backstage.

“Geez, man,” Guard number one says, shaking his head. “You’re taking this fantasy kinda far. You gotta go.”

“Listen to me, shithead,” I ground out. “I’m Rhyson fucking Gray. I’m wearing a disguise because I wanted to watch the show in peace, but my girlfriend just collapsed, and I need you to get me to her right now, dammit.”

Despite the death grip on my arm, I manage to get my hand to my mouth, peel the moustache away, and push my Dodgers cap back just enough for them to see.

Guard number one is still pulling me back, but the other one squints, studying me more closely before his eyes widen, recognition on his face.

“Curt, it’s him,” he says. “I think he
is
Rhyson Gray.”

Curt stops in his tracks, peering at me.

“Shiiiit. You sure?”

“Look.” I channel the coldness of my mother’s negotiator voice. “I
am
Rhyson Gray, and I promise you that if I’m not backstage in the next minute, both your jobs are mine. I need you as discreetly and quickly as possible to get me to my girlfriend. Now.”

They look from me to each other for a few seconds before shrugging in synch and dragging me again, this time toward a side door.

“This’ll get you backstage fast,” Curt says. “But we’ll need to see your license as soon as we get back there to confirm.”

“Whatever.” I nod, quickening the pace so I’m practically dragging them.

As soon as we’re backstage, I dig out my license. With that hurdle behind me, I’m not sure what should be next. There’s a flurry of activity as Luke’s dancers scramble to go on earlier than anticipated. There’s no sign of Luke or Malcolm or anyone I know.

“Where’s Kai Pearson?” I demand of one of the dancers rushing past. “Do you know where they took her?”

“To the hospital, I think. Not sure which one.” She tilts her head, curiosity clear on her face. “Rhyson Gray?”