Provoke_ A Seaside Pictures Novella (Seaside Pictures #3.7) - Rachel Van Dyken Page 0,35

him so tightly that I started to get hot.

Finally, he pulled away, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “We’ll figure it out, all right?”

“I believe you.”

He groaned as his phone went off. “That’s probably Zane. Let me go put on a shirt real quick.”

“Wear that gray beanie I like too!” I shouted after him. I knew what was coming; he didn’t.

“On it!” he called back.

Within minutes, we were in his Jeep headed toward downtown. There were a ton of people. Not just a few clusters, more like hundreds, all going in the same direction we were.

“Shit, is there an event going on?” Braden asked.

“It’s Seaside, who knows?” I answered. “Just park wherever, we can walk.”

“If we can find parking.” He laughed and then a car magically pulled out. We pulled in, and I felt like puking. “God provides.”

“Ha.” I pressed a hand to my stomach as we joined the crowds of people walking toward the beach, in the direction of the circular drive of the Seaside boardwalk where a stage was set up.

It was already starting to get dark.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach as we finally got close enough to see the stage and the name in front of it.

Adrenaline.

AD2.

Zane “Saint” Andrews.

With special guest, Braden Connor.

He stopped walking and dropped my hand, his gaze on the giant stage with its two TV screens.

There were at least a thousand people already cheering, holding glow sticks. The guys were going on in a few minutes.

“You knew,” Braden said in a broken voice.

“It was my idea,” I confessed.

“The hell?” He pulled away, his eyes searching mine. “Why? Why would you do this to me? You know I’m not ready! This crowd is huge, and I haven’t performed since—”

“Since you freaked out on stage. And before that, since you were shot in the leg by a crazed fan. Since the world heard your name and said prayers that you’d recover, since fans swarmed your social media pages with well wishes and kind words. Yes, I know. Not because I’m your life coach or your friend, or the person who wants to keep you forever, but because I’m a fan. A true one. And because I know that what you have inside here”—I tapped his chest—“is something they need to hear. The world is waiting, Braden. So with each step you take toward that stage, own that fear. Own the way it tastes, the way it tries to choke your truth, tries to silence your voice. Get on that stage and sing the loudest you’ve ever sung.” I dug into my purse and pulled out the pictures of the fans who had died. Most of them were from them posting on social media wearing his merchandise. “Most of all, do it for them.” I handed him the pictures.

He looked down and swallowed, his eyes filling with tears. “What if I can’t?”

“What if you can? You’ll never know unless you try.”

With a sigh, he turned and started walking toward the stage. As he walked, the crowd parted, and slowly, so slowly, the fans lifted their glow sticks like a salute as he made it through. And then he saw it.

The front of the stage where the pictures of the people who had died were surrounded by candles.

He stopped and stared while the crowd started chanting his name.

He slowly faced each picture, made the sign of a cross over his chest, and then pointed to the sky.

Cheers erupted from the crowd as he took the stairs up to the stage.

Zane was there, handing him his guitar.

I couldn’t hear what they said, but it didn’t matter, did it? Because Braden Connor was home.

Chapter Fifteen

Braden

My body was shaking. It was impossible to stop or control. I’d freaked out at a smaller concert, and now this—this was double the size, and they were screaming my name.

The rest of the guys were backing me up, which helped.

I searched the crowd for Piper and found her near the back, smiling. I focused on her face, and then I closed my eyes and thought about all of the people affected by the shooting.

Because it hadn’t been an incident, had it?

It was a mass shooting.

Caused by music.

But not caused by me.

I didn’t control the guy who’d lost his shit. The only thing I had control over was my reaction.

And I’d let it affect me and my music like a disease.

Suddenly it clicked.

I opened my eyes as a sense of peace descended, because hell if I was going to let that bastard win.

I grabbed my pick