He was there.

At my show.

The biker from behind my bus.

When he raised his hand in a peace symbol, my heart nearly fell out of my chest. It was hard for me to focus on my songs when all I could see was the gorgeous stranger staring at me from his spot in the crowd, piercing me with those intense green eyes, making me feel things I’ve never felt before. I didn’t think, I just wanted to touch him, to feel his rough fingers.

When they grazed over mine, I thought my heart was going to stop.

Rough and calloused, but so big, so manly, so safe. I wanted to climb off the stage, tip my head to the side, and let that big hand cup my cheek, let his fingers slide over my skin.

I’m fascinated by this stranger, this man who appeared out of nowhere and won’t leave my head.

Who is he?

Why is he following me?

What’s his name?

I want to know it all.

I need to know it all.

Will he come to my next show? Will I ever see him again?

“Scarlett!”

Susan’s voice snaps me from my thoughts, and I swivel around in my chair, staring at her as she comes into my dressing room. She’s wearing a scowl, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s angry because I started my show a few minutes later than normal. Susan is always on time, always.

“I know,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse from all the singing. “But that girl ... She needed someone.”

“She could have used anyone, anyone but you. You know I don’t like you starting late. It gives you a bad reputation. It gives us a bad name.”

I want to roll my eyes, but I refrain. I don’t think she’d take that well.

“I understand,” I say, keeping my voice calm and placid. The only way she’ll accept it without losing her mind. “I’m sorry.”

“That girl is not your concern.”

“Actually,” I say, “I’m about to go listen to her play.”

Susan’s eyes bulge, and she blinks a few times before crossing her arms. “May I ask what for?”

“I need a piano player, it hasn’t been the same since Samantha left. She’s a piano player. I want to see if she’ll fit the part.”

“She’s partially deaf, Scarlett.”

I stare at her, my face blank. “And?”

“You’re the number one country music star in the country.”

“And?” I continue.

“You can’t afford to have anyone make mistakes on your set.”

I shrug. “I’m watching her play.”

“Scarlett,” Susan warns.

And for the first time, I’m tired of hearing it. I’m tired of being told what to do. I’m tired of not having one single say so in my life.

“I’m watching her,” I say, my voice firm, but not cruel.

I stand and walk out of the room, past my fuming manager and down the hall.

I’m doing this. And I’ll be damned if she’ll stop me.

I find Amalie sitting in one of the main dressing rooms, staring at nothing in particular, her blue eyes wide and curious. There’s something that draws me to her, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. All I know is that she deserves a chance, she deserves to be noticed. I’m going to be the one to give her that chance, and I have a good feeling it’ll pay off.

I walk over and her eyes follow me, her lips parting just slightly, as if she’s still shocked I’m in the same room as her, let alone speaking to her. I don’t want her to see me like that, I want her to feel comfortable. I’m so tired of always being the spotlight, it would be kind of nice to have a friend who just saw me as me. I have a feeling Amalie could be that person. I feel it down to my very bones.

“Are you ready?” I ask her.

She nods and stands and meekly follows me out to a practice room in the back that has numerous different instruments set up. She looks to me nervously, then to the piano. I nod, and for a moment, she hesitates. “Will you play with me?” she asks, her voice so low I can barely hear it.

I nod. “Of course. What do you want to play?”

She picks one of my best-selling songs, a slow, romantic tune. It has a lot of instruments in the long, beautiful introduction. I reach over, picking up a guitar, and then I take a seat and watch her move to the piano. It’s just us, but she looks so incredibly nervous, so I decide to just start playing. I don’t look at her, or put pressure on, I just stare down at my guitar and play.

I strum it softly, humming low under my breath, closing my eyes and letting the music take over. It’s a song that I loved once, whole-heartedly. It reminded me of home, and falling in love, and everything perfect with the world. I miss this kind of music. I’m so lost in myself, I don’t realize that Amalie has started to play. Her fingers glide over the keys, softly at first, and then with more ferocity then I could have ever imagined.

My head jerks up and I watch her, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. She has her eyes closed, and her feet are both oddly touching the base legs of the piano, as if she can feel the vibrations. She’s focused, her fingers moving with ease over the keys, and for a long moment, I’m stunned. I can’t move. Or speak. Or even breathe for a few seconds.

She.

Is.

Incredible.

I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. Never heard the beauty, the passion, or the intensity coming from the instrument she’s so passionately playing. Her head moves a little with the music, eyes closed, mouth slightly agape. She looks like an angel and she plays just like one. Only when she realizes I’ve stopped playing do her fingers come to a grinding halt. She looks up at me, and her cheeks grow pink.

“Don’t stop,” I say, making sure she can read my lips. “That was ... Amalie, that was incredible. I’ve never heard anyone play so beautifully in my entire life.”

Her cheeks burn now, and she smiles. Then she nods. As if asking if I really mean it.

“Yes, yes!” I laugh, standing up and rushing over. “You’re incredible. I’ll pull the strings, I’ll make it happen, and if I do, will you come on tour with me? Will you play in my band? I have some new songs, a new album, that kind of soul is exactly what I need on it.”

Her eyes get wide, and her mouth drops open. “Are you serious?” she asks, voice low.

“Yes!” I cry. “Gosh, yes! You’re amazing. Will you do it?”

She nods, making a happy sound. “Yes!”

I’m beaming, I know I am, and I know she can see it. But this is just what I need. Someone with the kind of soul that can make my music what I need it to be. Amalie is that soul, I just know it.

“I’ll talk to my manager tonight. Please, don’t leave. I’ll get you on my tour, and on my album, if I have to kill someone to do it.”

Her eyes go wide.

I laugh. “I’m joking.”

She laughs too, soft, but it’s there.

“I have to get going, but here’s my phone number,” I say, walking around the room until I find some music sheets and a pen. I use a blank one and write my phone number down on it, then I hand it to Amalie. “Send me a text, so I have yours, I’ll be in touch.”

She signs something, then stops herself. Signing is easier for her, that much is clearer, probably because talking is harder for her to find the right pitch, hence why her voice goes from soft to slightly higher. I make a note to learn how to sign.

“What did you just sign to me?” I ask her, lightly and with a smile.

“Thank you,” she tells me.

I beam. “I’m going to learn to sign, I promise. Oh, and, Amalie, can I ask if you put your feet at the base of the piano so you can feel the intensity, and therefore know your pitch?”

She nods.

I shake my head, in awe. “You’re incredible. Text me, okay?”

She beams.

Yes.

Things feel like they’re looking up for me.

~*~*~*~