The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,111

mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence, but the second the door opens and an older, gray-haired man steps out and meets my gaze, I clear my throat and straighten my spine.

“You first?” He points at me, speaking in an East Coast accent.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, silently reminding myself to be cool.

“Get your phone ready if you want pictures.” The man swings the door open. “You’ve got one minute in there. Make it count.”

Case Malbec. Landon Spencer. Kieko Ayoshi. Alec Bastion.

I know all of their names. Their birthdays. Their Wikipedia life stories. I’ve seen every documentary, every music video, every interview.

And now they’re here, in the flesh, seated before me.

A few other people are in here as well, makeup artists, groupies, roadies …

But all I see is them.

Case, the lead singer, sits shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his shoulders. He smiles when he sees me, and while I’m sure he smiles at all his fans, his stare pierces through me, like he’s curious and studying me.

“I’m Case,” he says, reaching for me. He slips his arm over my shoulder like we’re just a couple of old friends who go way back. The rest of the band assumes their practiced, photo-ready positions around us. “And you are?”

“Maritza,” I manage to say, proud of my voice for not squeaking, cracking, or cutting out.

Case takes my phone from my hand. “Isaiah, can you take our pic?”

Glancing up, I watch as Isaiah Torres takes my phone from Case Malbec’s hand and points it at the two of us. I force a smile, my mind running a million miles a minute as I try to piece this together.

“You two know each other?” I ask, my finger pointing between the two of them once the picture is over.

Isaiah hands my phone over. “Yep.”

“You didn’t tell me you knew them,” I say.

“You didn’t ask.” Isaiah hooks his hands on his hips, towering over me.

“Is this the girl?” Case asks.

“What girl?” My gaze narrows at Isaiah.

Case smirks. “He called me this morning, asked me if he could get a VIP pass for some girl.”

This is all happening so fast it’s hardly comprehensible.

“Time’s up,” the gray-haired man says, motioning for me to head to the door.

“Dude, it’s okay,” Case says, “she can have more than thirty seconds with us.”

The man presses his chin against his chest. “You see that line of people at the door? It stretches down the hallway then around the next. Sorry, Case. We gotta be out of here by two AM. I don’t make the rules.” He turns away, calling, “Next!” and a group of giggling girls shove their way inside the already cramped space. “When you’re done, just head out to the bar. The band will be out in about an hour. You each get one beer on the house. One.”

I’m ushered out of the room, my head spinning, and I head to the bar to find a place to wait. Never really been much of a beer enthusiast, but I’ll be damned if I miss an opportunity to have a drink with Case Malbec.

The bartender delivers a glass of ice water while I wait, and a staffer runs a wide broom across the floor, sweeping up remnants of tonight’s show, I wait in a quiet, lit bar, spinning a cardboard coaster between my fingers while simultaneously scrolling through my phone.

Minutes later, the screech of the bar stool beside me grinding against the concrete floor pulls me out of my moment. “Never got a chance to apologize for yesterday.”

It’s Isaiah. For the millionth time.

“You get your Porsche to start?” I ask.

His brows furrow. “Yeah. Why?”

I lift a shoulder. “It explains why you’re being so nice now.”

“All due respect, you don’t know me.” His jaw tightens and he adjusts himself in his seat.

“Thank God for that.” I say. “I may not know you, but I do know you were perfectly fine being rude to a complete stranger yesterday—not once but twice—and that says a lot about you as a person. So yeah, thanks for the ticket tonight, but your apologies aren’t needed because they won’t change the fact that you’re a miserable asshole.”

My face turns numb. Shock? Disbelief maybe? I’ve never gone off on anyone like that before, but I had to say those things. He needed to hear them. People like that need to hear words like this.

“Jesus.” He exhales. “You’re, uh, you’re kind of intense when you’re angry.”

“Now you’re just being offensive.”

“Offensive?” He jerks away, fighting a