her, her hands trying to catch hold of something—anything—but all her desperately clawing fingers found was empty air.
Twenty-Five
Logan was having the time of his life releasing pent-up energy until the music stopped abruptly. The men in the mosh pit continued bounding off each other for several seconds before stopping to face the stage in confusion. Logan stared up at the band with the rest of the audience, wondering what had drawn their fun to a sudden halt. When he saw a familiar brown boot poking out from behind a riser on the stage and several concerned faces peering down at the figure attached to that boot, his heart skipped a beat.
“Toni!” he yelled, shoving his way through the crowd toward the stage.
He scarcely heard the whispers of his name in his wake. “Logan Schmidt. Isn’t that Logan Schmidt? That is Logan.” The whispers became yells, and then the crowd rushed in on him, surrounding him, trapping him in a press of bodies and enthusiasm. He was oblivious to the dozens of hands on him as he fought his way forward inch by inch. He focused on the neon yellow shirt of one of his security team and pushed and shoved his way through the crowd until he finally reached the metal barrier fence. The entire pit audience tried to follow him over the barricade; he’d apologize to the security crew later. Now he had to find out what had happened to Toni. Why was she lying on the floor? He’d thought she’d be safe on the stage—far safer than she’d have been in a mosh pit—but apparently he’d thought wrong.
He galloped up the steps and weaseled his way through the group of onlookers surrounding Toni on the stage. He breathed a sigh of relief to find her sitting up and smacking at a medic who was trying to shove an oxygen mask over her face. “I said . . . I’m fine. I . . . I don’t . . . need . . . oxygen,” she said between wheezing gasps for air.
“Did you have the wind knocked out of you or not?” the medic asked, following her twisting face with the mask in one hand and the stretchy strap in the other as he tried to affix it to his target.
“Yeah, but . . . I’ll find . . . my wind . . . myself. Thanks.”
“So you’re refusing treatment?”
“Yes!”
The paramedic backed off, shaking his head at her stubbornness.
Logan squatted next to Toni and brushed her hair behind her ear. “What happened?” he asked.
“Where . . . are . . . my glasses?” she wheezed, shoving his hand aside and struggling to her feet.
She was still gasping, but apparently had no intention of waiting until she caught her breath before causing an additional scene.
“And my camera? If it’s . . . broken, I swear I’ll . . . I swear I’ll . . . ” Her bottom lip quivered as she glanced from one person to the next as if trying to figure out who they were. Maybe she had a concussion or something.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked.
“No!”
Logan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and slowly urged her from the stage. “Find her glasses and her camera,” he said to a stagehand, who jumped at the opportunity to do his bidding.
“Well, that was a bit of excitement,” the lead singer of Riott Actt was saying to the crowd. “But the show must go on.”
Logan helped Toni down the stage steps. She was trembling so badly, she could scarcely stay on her feet. He would have scooped her into his arms and carried her, but somehow he figured that would upset her even more. He led her into a corridor—where it was a bit quieter—found an empty equipment case and promptly forced her to sit on it. Once seated, she slumped forward, elbows resting on her knees as she sucked in deep ragged breaths. He knew she was seconds from a monumental meltdown, and he was okay with that, but he didn’t think she’d be okay with it. He squatted before her and tilted his head into her line of vision.
“Now tell me what happened,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ve been better,” she snapped and then she started gasping again. “I can’t breathe . . . I need . . . inhaler.”
“Why didn’t you let that medic help you?”
“Shut . . . shut . . . shut,” she said between gasps. “Shut up. Y-you.”