He examined the pass then handed it back, and I looped it over my neck. “Well, you’re late. Show’s almost over.”
Shit. Right. “I’m cleanup crew, but I was hoping to meet the band.”
He hesitated, and I wasn’t sure he was going to let me in when he said, “They’re good guys.” He stepped aside and opened the door into a long hallway. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” I hurried inside before he changed his mind and immediately was bombarded with the sound of the music vibrating through the building. A thrill of excitement mixed with nerves filtered through me.
Music did that to me. It was as if everything else disappeared, the overdue rent, the pile of bills, the fear that I’d lost my one chance at my dream.
But that was why I was here. I wasn’t giving up on dancing. It was all I had left. The one thing that stuck with me through the loss of my dad, my mom, then the four foster homes I’d been shuffled around in until I ended up with sweet Ms. Evert with her greenhouse and flowers.
The crowd roared as the song ended, and it sounded as if the roof would come down as they cheered and stomped. Tear Asunder were amazing, but it wasn’t only because they had great music, but because of the charity concerts they did like this one for a children’s center. I found out the center was started by Tristan Mason of Mason Enterprise. He had been one of the most eligible bachelors in Toronto along with Brett Westhill, a commercial real-estate mogul, among other things. And the other things was why I was here.
Tristan Mason was now off the bachelor list as he was with Chess, a girl who the media still hadn’t managed to dig up any info on, but there were certainly rumors. One of them being Chess had been in jail for the last ten years, and that was why no one knew of her. Another being she was a mail-order bride. Of course, they were all rumors and likely lies, much like the ones about me in the dance community.
I walked down the hallway, looking at the signs on the doors as I passed. Tons of people bustled by, but no one paid attention to me. I had no clue what went on backstage of a concert, but it was chaotic, although an organized chaos as it seemed like everyone knew what they were doing.
The sound of the crowd died down, and the band was more than likely going to be coming back stage any minute.
Shit, I was hoping to find his changing room before then. But maybe he didn’t have a specific room? Maybe the band shared one?
How on Earth did Trevor convince me to do this? At the time, it sounded simple. At least it did after a few drinks and seeing the unopened bills on my kitchen table. But it wasn’t the sneaking into the concert part that scared me, it was facing Killian Kane.
I turned the corner and slammed into a hard, broad chest.
“Sorry,” I murmured keeping my head down and shuffling past the guy.
But I only made it one step before his hand snagged my arm and brought me to a halt. Uh-oh. “Who are you?” he asked.
Shit. Shit. Shit. “Umm, I’m cleanup crew.” Did they call them a crew?
I held up my fake ID while glancing at him. I immediately knew I was in trouble because I’d seen this guy in the background of pictures of the band on social media. He was security for Tear Asunder, and if he was any good at his job, which I suspected he was, he’d know I didn’t belong here. He didn’t even look at my ID.
“Cleanup crew? For who?” he asked.
“This place.” Oh, God, that was pathetic. “For Richard.”
He snorted. “The only Richard I know is the band’s manager. And I know every single name who is back here tonight.” His fingers tightened on my arm. “Come on. You’re out of here.”
He hauled me down the hallway toward the back door. Okay, I’d have to go with honesty. “Please, I just need to talk to Killian Kane for a minute.”
The guy stopped so fast I banged into him and stepped on his heel. But he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. “How do you know that name?”
His fingers dug into my arm. “Do you mind letting go of me? I won’t run. Besides, you can always shoot me in the leg if I do.” He snorted, but his scowl eased as he released me.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I don’t have a lot of time here”—he glanced at my fake ID and his brows rose—“Sara Smith.”
Trevor’s idea. A generic name that wouldn’t draw attention. “It’s not really Sara Smith.”