I’d brought a shit ton of cartridges. I dug around inside my bag. “Where the fuck are you?”
The lights went from stark to a hazy green as he swung his guitar around his back and yanked the cover off the piano on the side of the stage.
Not his instrument. Well, that took balls.
He unhooked his microphone and snapped the cord to get some length so he could move to the piano. He snapped it into the stand set up for The Zeps and sat down. “Think they’ll mind?”
The crowd roared their anger.
His voice was far deeper than I’d been expecting. And something else. Accent? Right, he was British. At least I was pretty sure. But that voice…especially compared to the crazy range of his vocals? Yeah, that was delicious. I shook off the distraction and dug for more film, finally finding a pile of cartridges that had slid between the lining thanks to a tear in my bag. Thank fuck. I still had The Zeps to photograph.
At first, he lowered the mic to kiss his mouth and started the song without accompaniment. The change in the crowd was slow. Growls of malcontent faded to murmurs as the effortless power of his voice and the alternately gentle caresses of his long fingers on the keys took over.
The song was low and powerful, then slowly built as he climbed from a soothing tone to a pounding beat and his voice grew with each note.
Phenomenal.
Electric.
Fuck, he was gorgeous and had turned the crowd from bitching to cheering in the space of two minutes. I didn’t think it was possible.
I moved out onto the stage for a better angle.
Pop.
Hiss.
Another photo disappeared into my bag. I’d have to remember about the rip inside. I didn’t want to lose any of these. They all would have to be reviewed for transfer to canvas. I crouched down low and my heart thundered when I realized there was carpeting under my sneaker.
Kinda like the ones scattered on the stage.
Whoops.
He turned in his seat on the bench, spearing me with his shockingly crystalline eyes. Not blue, not green, not gray—a mix of all three. I tried to scurry back to the side stage and fell on my ass.
“You steal my light and now steal my thunder?”
“Shit.” I scooted back to the side of the stage.
“Now, now, love. Don’t go running away.” He stood and followed me. “You obviously wanted a picture of me, yeah?”
His accent held something other than just London. Not that I knew the difference besides a few binge-worthy moments with Sherlock. No, this guy’s was insidiously captivating and made my skin sizzle.
“Dare I make it a little easier for you?” He snatched my camera. “Just how am I supposed to take a selfie with this?” He turned to the crowd and the snickers started.
I lunged for it, but he was even taller than I’d first thought. Add in him extending his long arm above his head and there was no hope of me getting it back. That and I was about as athletic as a toddler.
“No, definitely not one to take a selfie with.” He frowned up at it then back down at me. “Insta? Is that what this is? Are you even old enough to have been born when this was created?”
I was never going to be able to call it a Polaroid after he said it that way. And that annoyed me even further. “Give it back.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I quite like it. I think I’ll keep it. The cost for interrupting my show.”
I jumped. He could not have that camera. Any one but that one. Panic crawled up my spine. “You’ve had your fun.”
A dimple dented his cheek as he looked out at the crowd then back down at me. “Oh, you haven’t seen me have fun. Yet.”
“I’m serious.”