What Goes on Tour (2 page)

***

Libby ran a thumb over her aching hand. Kent had a strong grip. She checked for signs of bruising and flexed her fingers, trying not to wince. She needed a bag of ice.

She turned toward Kent to see if he was all right. He lounged in the armchair as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but one hand clutched the armrest tightly while the other was fisted. He was still recovering. She tried to catch his eye to give him a reassuring smile, but Kent didn’t acknowledge her. Not even a glance, a nod or a smile of thanks.

Disappointment flashed through her and she was annoyed with herself. What had she expected, a rush of gratitude? It was typical of a man not to admit to any weakness. In her experience, men had little time for women. It would probably ruin Kent’s image if he was seen talking to a writer.

The crew member gave Brian the torch and left. Brian raised his voice. “It’s going to be dark for a few more minutes, folks. They’ve found the problem and are working to fix it. Now we have some light, why don’t we have some questions from the audience?”

“Will you marry me, Kent?” a woman yelled.

The crowd laughed.

“I’d hate to put Kent on the spot,” Brian said and shone the torch over the audience. “Any
other
questions?”

Hands sprung up, and they spent the next half an hour answering audience questions. To Libby’s surprise, there were a number of questions for her as well. Kent had completely recovered and he flirted with the crowd, showing no trace of his anxiety.

Finally the lights came back on and the audience cheered.

“Where were we?” Brian put a hand to his ear and then turned to Kent. “I’ll repeat my last question to you before the lights went out and we’ll go from there.”

The interview began and Libby cradled her bruised hand in her lap. It was throbbing and she desperately wanted to ice it so it would be fine for her book signing tomorrow. She should have said she’d knocked it in the dark and got the efficient assistant to bring her something.

Brian wound up the interview. “Now, folks, we’ve got a treat to close the show. Kent is going to sing something from his latest album.” He motioned Kent to the stage and Kent rose and strode to where a microphone was set up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Houston, Texas, here is Kent Downer with his latest song, ‘To Be Hurt.’”

The applause was thunderous and then died down. Libby was expecting a loud, thrashing tune, but instead it was low and melodic. A ballad.

Kent’s voice was soft and wistful. Libby listened to the words.

Kent barely moved. There were no theatrics, no gestures, he just clutched the microphone as if it was the only real thing in the room and sang.

Libby was mesmerized. His voice flowed over her and resonated with the part of her that knew what it was to hurt. The part of her that had known love and had it thrown back in her face. Kent didn’t know what he was asking for. That kind of hurt shouldn’t be longed for, it should be shied away from.

The words and melody entwined around her.

Maybe Kent wouldn’t treat a woman as she’d been treated. Maybe he would be gentle and kind. Her heart reached out to him.

What the hell was she thinking? Men like Kent weren’t interested in women like her.

Libby ripped her gaze away to see how the audience was reacting. They were equally entranced. No one shifted in their seat, no one murmured to the person next to them – they all sat still and silent as this magician weaved them into his world.

The song ended and for a moment all was quiet before the audience came back to life and applauded, shouting and whistling their approval.

Kent blinked, took a small step backward and smiled, saluting to the frenzied listeners.

“And that’s all for tonight, folks,” Brian shouted above the noise. “Please thank all of my guests – Tony Giuseppe, Libby Myles and the amazing Kent Downer. I’ll see you again the same time next week. Goodnight.”

None of the audience heard him.

“I’ve got to hand it to him, the man has presence,” Tony said to Libby and stood up. “I’m off.” He strode off stage as she rose from her seat.

“Thanks for coming on, Libby.” Brian was all smiles, holding out his hand.

She took it and then winced as he shook it. Her hand had already begun to bruise.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s my hand. I bumped it on something when the lights went out,” Libby said, removing it from his grasp. “It’s a little sore.”

“Let me get someone to check it for you.” He motioned behind her and the efficient assistant strode out. “Can you get some ice for Libby?”

The woman’s eyes widened as she saw the hand. “Come with me.”

Libby glanced to where Kent was surrounded by the crowd before following the woman off the set and back into the maze of beige corridors. They passed the green room and Libby ducked in to grab her bag on the way to a first-aid station.

The first-aid attendant pushed her into a chair and gave her a cold pack. “How’d you manage to do that?” he asked.

Libby shrugged. “Hit it against something when the lights went out.”

“Against what?”

“No idea. I couldn’t see a thing.” She looked down at the cold pack as she spoke. She didn’t know why she was covering for Kent. He’d not acknowledged her help in any way. But somehow it didn’t seem right to mention it to anyone.

“Sit there for a minute with the pack on.” The attendant turned to fill out some paperwork.

To Libby’s surprise the assistant was still hovering. “Do you think you could have broken something?” she asked, her eyes fluttering back and forth.

She wasn’t worried about Libby – she was worried Libby might hold the station accountable.

“No, I’m fine. Really, I’m sure it will be all right by tomorrow. I can be a bit clumsy at times.”

The efficient assistant let out a breath. “Good. Have a nice evening.” She was out of the room before Libby could reply.

Ten minutes later Libby was climbing into the taxi the attendant had called for her. She couldn’t afford to stay for the after-show drinks. She had work to do.

Kent’s song kept playing over and over in her head. There had been such longing in his voice and it tugged at her.

She was being ridiculous. She wasn’t lonely. Besides, it was better to be alone than with someone who didn’t love her. Her ex had taught her that. Not that she’d ever thank him for it.

Kent was good at what he did, making his audience believe he was singing just to them.

Besides, someone probably wrote his songs for him.

The taxi pulled in to her hotel. She quickly paid the driver with the cab voucher her publicist had given her and got out. She didn’t have time to dwell on Kent or his song. The deadline for her next book was creeping closer and she needed to get some words written before she called it a night.

She covered her yawn with her hand. One day she’d be able to quit her day job and write full time, but in the meantime she had to write whenever she could.

Which meant now.

***

Adrian shut the hotel door behind him and leaned back against it. This wasn’t home but it was his safe space for the moment. The entrance light was on and down the corridor there was more light and the flicker of a television screen. He bathed in the security of the glow.

“Is that you, Uncle Adrian?” Kate’s voice called.

Adrian pushed away from the door, letting out a breath. “Sure is, kiddo,” he called. “I’ll get rid of Kent and be in.” He moved into the bathroom.

Christ, what a night.

He reached for the make-up remover, squirted some on cotton wool and began to scrub at the mascara under his eyes. Normally the routine of removing the traces of rock star Kent Downer was soothing, but not tonight.

He hadn’t had a panic attack like that in years and his throat closed over again now thinking about it. He hadn’t been prepared for total darkness, and if it hadn’t been for the writer, he would have gone to pieces in front of everyone. His tough, rock star persona would have been obliterated. He would have lost everything he’d worked so hard for, everything Daniel and George had helped him to achieve, and let everyone down.

But the writer had sensed something was wrong, or perhaps she had been scared herself and had reached out and touched his hand. It had grounded him, proved to him he wasn’t alone in the abyss. Afterward, it had taken him so long to extricate himself from his fans that she’d left before he could thank her.

Damn it. Grown men weren’t supposed to be afraid of the dark.

Adrian took some more cotton wool, squirted on the liquid and worked on his other eye.

He’d thought he had it beaten. Every night at every concert he stood in the darkness before the lights came up and the music began. Every night he fought the hysteria. Every night he won the battle against the demon. But one unexpected blackout and he was right back to a quivering mass of Jell-O.

Turning on the taps, he waited until the water ran warm and washed the remnants of his alter ego away. Patting his face dry, he looked in the mirror.

Hi, I’m Adrian Hart and I’m scared of the dark.

He grimaced and threw the handtowel on the sink. There was no time to dwell now. His ten-year-old niece was waiting for him and her nanny was ready to go home.

He walked into the sitting area of his hotel suite. Kate and her nanny, Emily-but-you-can-call-me-Em, sat on the couch watching an animated movie.

Emily hit the pause button. “How did it go?”

Adrian shrugged. “Fine.” He wasn’t about to confide in her.

Kate turned around and knelt on the couch, resting her arms on the back and pushing her long, curly red hair out of her way. She grinned. “So who’d you meet?”

Some of the tension in Adrian’s shoulders melted. He always had to give her details about which celebrity he’d met and what they were like. But after what had happened tonight, he completely blanked on the names. “There was a comedian who’d just starred in a movie.” He paused. “The something Games.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “
The Final Games
. That’s Tony Giuseppe. Honestly, Uncle Ade, sometimes I wonder if you care at all.” She smiled. They both knew he didn’t care about celebrities. “So who else?”

Libby’s face appeared before him with vivid, alpine clarity. “There was an author, Libby someone.”

Kate’s mouth dropped open. “Not Libby Myles?”

Adrian looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “She writes adventure stories. The latest has just come out.”

Kate turned and swiped a book from the table, hurrying around the couch to show him the author picture on the back. “This Libby?”

Adrian took the book from her and stared at the picture. It was a good photo – it made her seem approachable and kind. “Yes.”

Kate slapped him on the arm. “Get out!” She sounded disgruntled.

Adrian took a step back. “What’s wrong?”

“You were on a show with
the
Libby Myles and you didn’t invite me to come backstage with you? I can’t believe you!”

“You’re a fan, I take it?”

Kate had both hands on her hips. “Duh. She writes the Jessop Chronicles, my
absolutely
favorite books.”

Adrian flipped over the book he held and checked the cover. He’d bought Kate the book last week when it was first released, but he hadn’t paid any attention to who the author was.

“Argh. I can’t believe I missed my chance to meet her!” Kate stared at him, her face full of the anguish only a pre-teen could pull off. “Thanks a lot.” She snatched the book from his hand and stormed toward her room.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed.” She didn’t turn around and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Adrian rubbed at the ache in the back of his neck. He’d let Kate down. He’d been too busy battling his own anxieties to strike up a conversation with the woman. If he had, he might have remembered buying Kate the book. It wasn’t a mistake Kate’s father would have made.

The pang of sorrow was as strong as the stab of guilt. Kate had been so good on this tour, not complaining about the constant travelling and the hectic schedule. He’d had a fabulous opportunity to do something nice for her and he’d blown it.

Maybe he’d made a mistake bringing her on tour with him. What did he know about being a parent? He was making it up as he went along.

Perhaps Kate should have gone to summer camp like Kate’s aunt Susan had suggested.

Emily switched off the television and stood. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll get over it.”

That wasn’t the point. Emily didn’t understand. He strode over to the dining table where his laptop sat and switched it on. He had to fix this. If Libby was promoting her book, she might be doing a book signing somewhere around Melbourne tomorrow. He sat down, already focused on his task, when he realized Emily was standing next to him. “Why don’t you go to bed?”

He needed a nanny to care for Kate while he was performing or doing publicity, but he didn’t like having a stranger in his space. Emily was nice enough and definitely competent, otherwise he wouldn’t have let her near his niece, but she wasn’t family, or a friend, and he wanted to be alone.

Emily came around behind him and massaged his shoulders. “You look tense.”

He shrugged her off and half-turned in his chair. “I’m fine. I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You know, I could help you release some of your worries.”

She wasn’t referring to a massage. Christ, he didn’t need this now.

He should have gone for the older woman he’d interviewed, but she’d seemed too spacey, so he’d chosen the younger, highly organized and far more attractive Emily, who came recommended by one of Susan’s friends.

“That’s not necessary. I’m going to see if Libby Myles has a book signing tomorrow and then go to sleep myself.” He kept his tone polite but distant. He wasn’t interested.

She didn’t take the hint. She leaned forward, her scent wafting toward him thick and cloying. It was like being ambushed by a rose bush and just as thorny.