Rhythm of the Road (Lost Kings MC 16)

“What if he visits the booth during Dawson’s set?”

While I considered that, I also want to get Shelby out of here as soon as possible. Going forward, Jiggy or I should probably monitor things until the end of the show.

The asshole probably has front-row seats and ran straight for them when the doors opened. With Trent’s help, we secured a small camera to Shelby’s mic stand. I’ll be able to get some video of her audience but it’s not like she can swing the damn thing around, David Lee Roth style. I’ll look over that once we’re at the clubhouse.

We stalk through the mostly empty corridors. A few of Dawson’s people nod as we walk by. I pull the pass around my neck out so it’s clearly visible and check to make sure Jiggy has his. Last thing I need is some rent-a-bouncer giving me shit. I’m so worked up, I’m liable to knock a motherfucker out.

I hit the bar across the door that opens into the left side of the arena. The sound triples in intensity. I glance toward the front of the room, catching a glimpse of Shelby. So tiny on that wide stage. So powerful the way she has the audience’s full attention tonight.

Pride and love curl together in my chest.

I scan the crowd from where we’re standing, the rows and rows of packed seats. There are fans on their feet, hands over their heads. Little girls sitting on their father’s shoulders waving glitter-heart-sprinkled signs bearing Shelby’s name.

Determination to protect my girl fuels me.

Anger burns through every other emotion. Someone out there wants to ruin all of this for Shelby.

“Like looking for salt in a pickle jar!” Jigsaw shouts.

“What? Never mind. Come on.”

The merchandise area is busier than I expected. As usual, Dawson’s table has the most activity. The stacks of T-shirts at Shelby’s station are much lower than they were a few hours ago, though. That’s a good sign.

I nod to the girls behind the table before we start dismantling the booth.

Jigsaw secures the screen and other equipment in a cushioned crate while I break down the three-sided box and fold the black curtain.

“We should Lysol this all down.” Jigsaw lifts his chin at the box he’s carrying. “Probably crawling with germs now.”

“Great observation. Add Clorox wipes to the list of improvements for next time, ya fuck nugget.” I jerk my head toward the corridor leading backstage. “Can we get moving now?”

I want to make it to her dressing room before she does, and the last notes of Shelby’s final song are already floating through the air.

“Hey! You two. Stop right there.”

The command rubs against my awareness but they can’t possibly be talking to us, so I keep moving.

Something heavy slams into my back, shoving me into the wall. Everything I’m carrying clatters to the floor.

“What the fuck!” My shout ends up muffled as my face is smooshed against the cold, filthy, white, cinderblock wall.

“You better start praying to your gods, motherfucker!” Jigsaw snarls as he gets the same face-into-the-wall treatment.

The need to get to my girl, to protect her, crawls down my spine.

The timing of this can’t be an accident.Chapter Sixty-OneShelby

Backstage is packed tight after my set. Bane’s waiting for me and tucks me under his arm. Trent flanks my other side.

“Did Rooster catch anyone?” I ask Bane.

“Don’t know.”

“Is Greg with him too?”

“I think he’s with Dawson,” Bane answers.

Trent elbows me. “CMA nominations are supposed to be announced tomorrow. Are you excited?”

A lick of fear twisted with excitement and doubt coils in my stomach. “Maybe.”

We keep walking. The din from the crowd drowns out most of the conversations around us. The pain in my throat prevents me from keeping up my end of the conversation.

Is it too much to hope that they find this creep tonight so we can stop this silliness? My heart pitter-patters. Rooster’s going to join me on tour. I want to spend as much time as possible with him. Not force him to monitor boring videos every night.

Bane opens my dressing room door and waits for me to go inside. Trent quickly searches the space behind the couch. He frowns at an orange handcart in the corner. “Want me to load your trunk now?”

“Not yet.” I glance down at my dress. I need to change and pull out some clothes for the next two days.

“Don’t go anywhere.” He lifts his chin toward the makeup table. “Drink some water. You’re soundin’ a little raspy.”

I rub my fingertips under my chin. “I’m glad we have the next two nights off. My throat’s killing me,” I whisper.

His mouth turns down. “You’re so good about taking care of your voice. Maybe the tour is too much?”

I lift my shoulders. “It’ll get better as I get used to it Just muscles I gotta condition, right?” I force a smile, but tonight, even that hurts.