Chapter 29

Nicole

Like in every other city, a large crowd had flocked to the radio station for the interview. Even from within the limo I could hear the fangirl screams building to a deafening volume. I was used to seeing the crowds, but they had been nothing like this. And I suspected they’d be far more common now that the latest Pushing Limits single had hit number one on the U.S. charts.

Brian climbed out from the front passenger seat while we waited for the limo driver to open the side door, then one by one the guys from the band emerged. I winced at the thunderous noise greeting each man…and realized how much I missed Desert Springs. My life had been simple back then, if you could call running a business simple. Instead of the loud, enthusiastic fans, the sounds of nature and small-town life had filled my days.

A pang squeezed my heart. I was in love with Mason, no doubt about it. But that love wouldn’t bring me happiness. It would bring me only turmoil. My brain understood that…but my heart was not so sure. I mentally went through the list of what made a perfect husband. Nowhere on it was a mention of him being a rock star. Nowhere on it was a mention of this kind of life—a life I wasn’t so sure I wanted.

Once the guys had exited the limo, I followed behind them. Unlike in the hotel, I didn’t hold Mason’s hand to show my support. Out here, it was all about the fans. Sure, Mason and I had admitted our feelings for each other, but we still hadn’t talked about what it meant. So for now I just pretended that Mason was nothing more to me than a job.

A job that was ending in a few weeks.

Nolan, Jared, Kirk, and Aaron all interacted with their fans the way they normally did. Mason didn’t even spare the fans a second glance. He stalked to the building, yanked the door open, and entered. It was like he hadn’t even seen them.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed his disappearing act. Screams for Mason followed after him. Despite what he had said earlier, the fans’ reaction proved he was loved. They wanted to see the energetic, highly entertaining drummer as much as they wanted to see the rest of the guys.

Hearing the frustrated cries from the crowd for Mason, the guys in the band scanned the area. When they didn’t see him, they glanced back at me, puzzlement in their expressions. But I didn’t have time to answer their unspoken questions. I rushed after Mason.

I found him inside the building, pacing across the tile floor. A twentysomething guy was standing to the side, looking a little lost as to what to do. My guess was he was an intern.

Ignoring him, I joined Mason. “Hey, are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, but his stooped shoulders suggested he was as fine as Anne Boleyn had been just before her beheading.

The main door opened and fangirl screams spilled into the lobby, accompanied by the guys in the band. I could tell his friends wanted to check on Mason, but once they spotted the intern waiting for us, all they could do was follow him onto the elevator.

The interview itself went fine. Mason was more subdued than normal, but the rest of the guys made up for it. It was as if they were doing it on purpose, to distract the radio personalities from zeroing in on Mason’s atypical behavior. Anyone who had ever listened to him in an interview knew he was the boisterous one.

With the interview over, we drove to the arena. Mason’s knee bounced the entire way as he stared out the window. The moment we’d climbed into the limo, he’d grabbed hold of my hand. Not once did he let go. Even when we arrived and were hustled into the arena through the back entrance, he held on tight.

The bands still had twenty minutes before they had to be at the meet-and-greet. We headed for the greenroom, and Mason immediately went for a beer. He gulped it down like it was water, then grabbed another one. By the time I had to herd them into the other room so they could meet their fans, he had polished off two bottles. While two beers in that time frame would have done me in, Mason didn’t so much as sway or slur his words. So I let it go. He was a grown man who was grieving. Who was I to judge, as long as he didn’t do anything to hurt himself or anyone else?

I watched the meet-and-greet, making sure things went smoothly. With their handler recovering from food poisoning, I had taken on her role here too. But after nine weeks of watching her manage this part of the concert, I pretty much had it figured out. It didn’t hurt to have Brian, the ex-Marine, by my side. No one would dare question my authority with him next to me.

“Is Mason okay?” Brian asked. “He’s acting strange.”

“His father died the other day.” No point discussing the rest of the details, especially since I had no idea how much Mason was fine with me sharing.

“That would explain things,” Brian said, and didn’t say anything more on the subject.

As soon as the meet-and-greet was over, the guys returned to the greenroom. All grabbed a beer. Like with his first two, Mason downed his in record time. He pulled another one from the ice chest and flopped down on the worn couch. With each second that ticked past, his restlessness grew. He fidgeted, and when someone tried to ask him a question, he didn’t reply. It was like he was no longer in the room. After a while, people quit trying to talk to him—and the once outgoing drummer seemed perfectly fine with that.

I expected him to take me down an empty hallway to make out, as per our normal routine, but he didn’t. It was a routine that I wouldn’t be doing for much longer. Did it mean that once I returned home, other women would be taking over my role?

For a second I was tempted to grab a beer myself, to help me forget that my time with the guys was ending in a few weeks. By the time the band had to go onstage, Mason had consumed five beers since arriving at the arena. Even the guys were throwing him worried glances. It wasn’t that they thought he was too inebriated to play—which he wasn’t. Maybe if he had finished a sixth beer, things would’ve been dicey, but as it was, I was confident his playing would be fine.

It was everything else I wasn’t so sure about.

I watched the show from my usual spot backstage. They finished the final song of the night and the audience went crazy, which was no different from what had been happening lately at each of their shows. They waved their appreciation and walked off the stage—to the thunderous demands for an encore.

“You should give them what they want,” I told the guys. Hell, I wasn’t ready for their show to be finished either.

“We can’t do that,” Jared explained.

“Yeah, I know. They have to set up for Endless Motion.” Except it didn’t sound like the audience agreed. They continued chanting for an encore.

“Your call,” the stage manager said, having overheard our conversation, “but I think you should go for it. It’s just one song.”

Mason shrugged, then walked onstage and waved at the audience. This only made them more excited, cheering louder than when the band had left the stage. He headed for his drum set.

“I guess we’re going on.” Nolan grabbed his acoustic guitar from the roadie, and the guys joined their drummer onstage, to cheers from the crowd.

The stage manager grinned. “I was hoping they’d do that. I know opening for Endless Motion is big, but Pushing Limits shouldn’t be still playing as an opening act. They’re bigger than that now.”

As if agreeing with his words, the screams and hollers from the audience grew. The first beats of “My Song for You” filled the arena, and my mouth flopped open. I had already heard the story behind the song, which they never played in concert. It wasn’t even on their albums. I lifted my phone and began videotaping them. A moment later, Jared’s sexy voice filled the arena, and I was positive the reaction of the audience would cause the roof to cave in. Their excitement at hearing the song was undeniable.

Once the final bars of music faded away, I sent the video to Callie. Then I braced myself for the return of the five extremely sweaty men.

They bounced down the metal steps, their energy level higher than before they’d played the song.

“You guys were amazing,” I said, caught up in their enthusiasm. “And they agree with me.” I gestured toward the stage and the audience. “That song better be on your next album. I love it.” I grinned at Jared. “And I just sent Callie the video.”

He whipped out his phone from his back pocket, probably to text her.

Normally I didn’t touch Mason once he’d finish performing, at least not until he had showered. But given the past few days and given that the guys now knew how we felt about each other, I didn’t hold back this time. I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him, letting him know how much I loved him and how proud I was of him.

He returned my kiss. I vaguely heard the guys chuckling. Then Aaron suggested we go somewhere to celebrate their first encore performance.

“Before Remar finds out about it and chews us a new one,” Kirk said.

I unlocked my lips from Mason’s and looked over my shoulder at the guys, my arms still around Mason’s shoulders, his arms around my waist. “Remar? Who’s that?”

“Ronald Remar. The president of the record label.”

“Why would he chew you a new one? Do I need to send him the video of how the audience responded to the encore?” I would if it would make a difference.

Nolan smirked. “That might help. Although in the case of Remar, who knows. We’ve been trying to understand him since we first signed with the label.”

“Well, the man’s an idiot if he doesn’t see why you need to be doing encores.” Maybe I should storm the proverbial castle and have a chat with him, businesswoman to businessman. But I would refrain from calling him an idiot, even if he was one.

The guys decided to return to the hotel to shower first. Mason appeared as eager as them to go out and celebrate, which was surprising given how little sleep he’d had in the past few days. I guess the adrenaline high made all the difference.

While Mason showered, I freshened my makeup and changed into the dress I’d bought while Callie and I were shopping the other day. It was nothing like my usual style. The body-skimming black dress with spaghetti straps hit high on my thighs and was covered in black lace, revealing my arms and a portion of my chest. I got it for New Year’s Eve. Heidi had bought us tickets to some gala event back home—the same gala event she had promised flowers for.

Mason stepped out of the bathroom, this time wearing jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. He did a double take when he saw me, then looked around the room as if searching for the real me. “Wow,” was all he said, which pretty much summarized what I was thinking about him. The man could make even jeans and a T-shirt look amazing.

An image popped into my mind of what he would look like in a tux. I was certain even my imagination didn’t do it justice—and in my imagination Mason was pretty damn hot.

I slipped on my stilettos, meaning that I was at slightly less of a height disadvantage when it came to Mason, since he was so much taller than me.

He flashed me one of his patented smiles that caused all women within a thousand-yard radius to swoon. “Not quite the cowgirl you were when I first met you.”

I laughed. “When you first met me, I was wearing panda PJs, eating ice cream, and watching Die Hard.”

“I happen to think those PJs are very sexy.” His arms encircled me and he brushed his lips against mine. I melted at his touch, and at the spicy scent that was all man, all Mason. “And I definitely miss eating ice cream and watching Die Hard with you.”

I missed those days too. Back when things were simpler. Back when we were close to being my version of a dream couple—only I hadn’t realized it at the time.

“I bet Bernie misses you.” I laughed softly at the memory of the big, lovable beast gazing adoringly at the equally big, lovable drummer. My heart hurt knowing that none of it was in Mason’s future. But that wasn’t where he belonged. Doing what he and Pushing Limits were doing…that was where he belonged.

I shoved the thought aside—along with the one where I imagined myself by his side on the road for the next twenty or so years.

The guys were waiting for us in the main lobby when we stepped out of the elevator. They were talking to a few people and signing autographs for them.

Mason suddenly stopped, body stiff, palms sweaty. Not far from us, the gambling zombies were busy pouring money into the slot machines. Put the coins in. Push the button. Repeat.

“Oh my God,” a young woman at one of the machines screamed, even though her friends were standing right next to her. “I won a hundred dollars!”

A squeal of excitement rushed from the women as they bounced up and down, hugging each other.

Mason’s hand tightened on mine. “I need to get some air.” He let go of my hand and stalked through the casino to the main hotel entrance. Seeing him leave, the guys pulled away from their fans and we followed him.

It didn’t take us long to find him outside. He was leaning against the gray cinder-block wall, looking photo-shoot ready. His head was turned slightly away from us, as if he was staring toward the road, his left knee bent and the sole of his left foot flat against the wall.

I walked to him and touched his arm. He startled, dropping his foot away from the wall. The pain in his eyes sucked the breath out of me.

“Are you sure you want to go out tonight?” I asked.

He gave me another smile, but this time the smile was painted on and I could feel a wall going up between us. I just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

“Positive.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. He strode over to join the guys, leaving me by the wall, perplexed at his odd behavior.

Jared hailed a cab and we piled inside. Mason didn’t hold my hand this time, and stared out the window the entire trip. I was sandwiched between him and Nolan, and could feel the lead singer glance at him every few minutes.

The line outside the nightclub stretched halfway down the block. But the advantage of being a rock star and having a number one hit on the charts meant the guys got to skip the wait. And because I was with them, I got to appreciate the benefits that came with their newfound fame.

Inside, the club was no different from the ones I’d gone to in college, with the strobe lights and loud dance music adding to the party atmosphere. We found a table at the far side of the room and ordered drinks from the waitress. While we waited for them, I grabbed Mason’s hand. “C’mon, let’s dance.” I stood up and tugged his arm, not giving him a chance to say no.

He peeled his butt off the chair and followed me. The dance floor was crowded, which was fine with me. It meant I could press my body against his as we moved.

We danced for a few songs—his hands all over my body, making it clear he was with me—before returning to our table. As we made our way back to where the rest of the band members were sitting, people stared at us. Some probably recognized him and were simply in shock at seeing him here. Others might’ve been debating if he was really Mason Dell or just someone who looked like him.

Several women watched us, clearly deliberating if they should ask Mason to dance. Even though I’d been touring with the band for more than nine weeks, no one had posted pictures on the Internet of me with them. And there were no rumors of Mason having a girlfriend. Which meant he was free to dance with other women, in theory.

A small Asian woman stepped in front of us, blocking the path to our table. She was pretty, her long black hair streaked with chunks of blue. “Hi,” she said. “You want to dance?”

At first I thought she was talking to Mason, because why wouldn’t she be? But then I realized she was looking at me, dark eyes gleaming with hope.

Mason wrapped his arm around my waist. “Sorry, she’s with me.”

The gleam in her eyes was extinguished, replaced with disappointment. “Oh, that’s too bad.” She turned and sauntered back into the crowd.

“Well, that’s a first for me,” I said, grinning at Mason. “If I never find Mr. Right, maybe there’s a Miss Right out there for me.”

But while I was kidding, something about Mason’s expression warned me he didn’t see it that way. There was no amusement in his eyes, no upward tug at the corners of his mouth.

Nothing more than hollowness stared back at me.