I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to see my face. Liam knows me too well. He’d probably follow me. But I don’t need him trying to comfort me for the millionth time. I’m sick of his sympathy. He needs to get over it already. Fuck. I shake my head at myself. “Pot meet kettle,” I say to no one.
I work my way through hundreds of sweaty people, mostly girls. One of them grabs my junk as I go by. “Aren’t you the singer of that other band?”
Normally I’d be reeling at getting recognized, but all I want is to get the hell out of here. “You think I’d be out here if I was? Hell, I’d be backstage partying.”
She eyes me up and down. “You look like him.”
“Thanks,” I say, moving away.
When I find the door we came through, I walk up to it but am stopped by a security guard who puts his arm over the door and shakes his head.
“I’m with the band,” I say, sounding like an idiot. “I mean, I’m in the opening band. You saw us, right?”
The guy doesn’t even look at me. He continues to block the door. He’s one big mother. The girth of his arm is bigger than my leg. I reach for my phone, then realize it’s backstage with the other shit we left in the small dressing room assigned to us.
“Dude, listen,” I yell over the music. “I’m Chris Rewey, the singer for Reckless Alibi. I was up on that stage an hour ago.”
He finally looks at me. “I’ll give you points for originality, but fuck off.”
“I came out to watch their set and didn’t think about how I’d get backstage. My bad.”
He ignores me.
“Jesus, at least look me up on your phone. If it’s not me, I’ll fuck off.”
He looks irritated, but he gets out his phone. He raises his brows at me. “Well?”
“Look up Reckless Alibi,” I tell him. “I’m the lead singer.”
He taps on the phone, then holds it next to my head, presumably to compare me to the online picture. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and opens the door. “Don’t forget your credentials next time.”
“Thanks, and just so you know, my three bandmates are still out there. They’ll try to get through this door later.”
“Wonderful,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t mind in the least if you messed with them.”
He laughs. “Name’s Hulk.”
I try not to react, because this guy could pummel me with two fingers. “People call me Crew.” I extend a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He shakes and nods at the hallway. “Get out of here.”
Not many people are behind the stage. Everyone is in the wings. I stop in the doorway of White Poison’s dressing room. Someone is setting up a bar. He looks up, and I keep walking, knowing I shouldn’t be here.
I step on something and lean against the wall to examine the bottom of my shoe. Fucking wad of gum. I pick up a piece of paper off the floor and try to get it off my shoe when I hear voices around the corner.
“God, Aimee, you’re so lucky,” a woman says.
“I know, right? I’ve waited so long for this, and it’s finally going to happen. He texted me earlier and told me to meet him at midnight. He said I could stay for half an hour and if I told anyone, he’d never shag me again. Oh, my God. I’m going to shag Adam Stuart!”
The other woman squeals. “Exactly what did it say?”
“Here, look.”
A second later, they’re both squealing.
I roll my eyes. Why do women lose all sense of worth and decency when it comes to rock stars? Hell, even in the small venues we’ve played, girls came out of the woodwork. They offered to sleep with anyone in the band or even just give us a blow job, and we’re nobodies.
I’m not much better than Adam Stuart, however. I’ve occasionally taken advantage of those situations, welcoming women into my bed. I’ve never gone so far as to give them a time limit, but they all know it’s a one-time thing. It could never be anything but.
I clear my throat before turning the corner. The women look at me from head to toe. Then they look at each other and smile. I wonder which of them is Aimee.
One takes a step forward. “You’re the singer for the opening band,” she says with fuck-me eyes, leaning forward so I can see her impressive cleavage.