The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)
“I know,” Sam said. “This is the zoom and focus.” He put the camera to his eye with me in the frame. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, one knee bent. Sam took my picture, then showed me the image
“I’ve had my photo taken thousands of times, Sam,” I said. “Too many. But this one is my favorite.”
He beamed with pride, and my damn heart cracked. I jerked my chin. “Go. Take as many pictures as you want.” I turned to the photographer, cranking up that I’m famous smile. “You don’t mind, right?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.”
“Thanks!” Sam said and wandered, photographing everything in the room, including close-ups of the food on that goddamn buffet table. The journalist trailed after him and his thousand-dollar camera.
I called Brenda over. “Can you do me a favor? Let me know what these kids need. Anything they want, just tell me.”
She smiled. “I will, thank you.”
“Sam needs a camera. Send me the bill, okay?”
Brenda looked about to gush more thanks, but she read my expression. “Very well, Mr. Stratton.”
“Everything okay?” Violet asked, joining me as I blinked hard, watching Sam take his pictures and smile and laugh like a little kid’s supposed to.
“Everything’s perfect.”
Chapter Thirty
Showtime arrived. That night, the air felt electric. The crowds were pouring into the Key Arena at the Seattle Center, and Violet listened to the thunder above and around us from the green room, her eyes shining.
“They’re all here to see you,” she said.
An assistant poked his head in. “Yo, Miller. Time to roll.”
“You know how crazy it gets in the front row,” I said as we headed for the door. “You sure you can handle it?”
She ringed her arms around my neck. “I’m going to drown in it and love every minute of it, watching my rock star.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hate that word.”
“But you wear it so well.” She kissed me softly, then grinned. “It won’t throw you off, will it? Me being out there?”
I hauled her to me. She wore a tight white T-shirt and short black skirt. My gaze swept over her, taking in every detail. “Every show I’ve ever done, you’re out there.” I brushed my thumb against her lip. “I told you, Vi. It’s all for you.”
I watched her delicate neck move as she swallowed. “I love you too, Miller.” She closed her eyes and kissed me, then hurried out where another assistant waited to take her down to the front row.
I joined the band and we took the stage together as the lights went down. A thunderous roar from the crowd went up. We huddled in the dark around Chad’s drum set.
“You guys have been really fucking great, every show,” I said. “I don’t say that enough.”
“Or ever,” Antonio said with a laugh. “We’ve only been on tour with you for about six months.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got my head out of my ass. Better late than never.”
“It’s all good, man,” Robert, the other guitarist said. “Let’s give them a hell of a show.”
And we did. Goddamn, I’d never felt so alive on stage before in my life. The music flowed through me, amplified by the guys in the band. And Violet was there in the front row, swaying in a sea of faces, so goddamn beautiful.
I poured my heart out onto that stage, into the microphone, laying it all out there, leaving nothing back. And when it came time to sing “Wait for Me,” it was just me on the stool, my acoustic guitar, and Violet.
Everything I hadn’t said to her in the last two years rushed out of me. The longing, loneliness, love. God, the endless well of love I had for that woman, as if I were born with it already inside me, in my marrow and cells. She was in every part of me that was whole and good, and what was broken in me, she had dedicated her life to healing.
When the last note of the last song dissipated, the applause and cheers rolled through me. I absorbed every single bit of that energy until I felt invincible. Sweat-soaked and powerful. I strode off stage after performing for fifteen-thousand screaming fans, and for the first time, I let my ego have a moment. My blood ran hot in my veins with the dire need to have Violet.