walking. The din from the crowd drowns out most of the conversations around us. The pain in my throat prevents me from keeping up my end of the conversation.
Is it too much to hope that they find this creep tonight so we can stop this silliness? My heart pitter-patters. Rooster’s going to join me on tour. I want to spend as much time as possible with him. Not force him to monitor boring videos every night.
Bane opens my dressing room door and waits for me to go inside. Trent quickly searches the space behind the couch. He frowns at an orange handcart in the corner. “Want me to load your trunk now?”
“Not yet.” I glance down at my dress. I need to change and pull out some clothes for the next two days.
“Don’t go anywhere.” He lifts his chin toward the makeup table. “Drink some water. You’re soundin’ a little raspy.”
I rub my fingertips under my chin. “I’m glad we have the next two nights off. My throat’s killing me,” I whisper.
His mouth turns down. “You’re so good about taking care of your voice. Maybe the tour is too much?”
I lift my shoulders. “It’ll get better as I get used to it Just muscles I gotta condition, right?” I force a smile, but tonight, even that hurts.
“We can talk about it another time. Rest your throat.” He flashes a quick smile. “I’ll be back for your trunk, so keep it decent when Rooster gets here.”
I mouth “shut up” and push him toward the door.
After he’s gone, I grab the bottle of water on my dresser and twist off the cap, sucking down almost half of it in deep, greedy swallows.
A salty tang coats my tongue and I stare at the bottle for a second before setting it down. Have to remember to ask for a different brand from now on.
I open the door and nod to Bane. “Have you seen Rooster?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m going to…” I mime taking off my dress and stepping into a pair of pants. He gives me a half-smile and reassuring nod.
“Thanks.”
I grab my phone and send Rooster a quick text.
Me: Where are you?
No response.
Me: I’ll be in bathroom changing. Can you grab a bottle of water or Sprite on your way back? Stuff in room is nasty.
I stare at the phone for a few minutes, waiting for an answer.
Still nothing.
Odd.
Maybe they actually caught Mr. Creepy Letters.
I hurry into the bathroom to change. Inside, it’s stuffy as hell. I glance up to the bathroom window. It’s wide open, letting in all the evening heat. I slam it shut but unless I stand on the toilet, I can’t latch it.
“Shelby?” Bane calls out.
“Yeah?”
“I gotta run down to Dawson’s. I’m locking the door. Don’t open it for anyone except me or Rooster, okay? I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” The outer door clicks closed. I scurry to check that it’s actually locked.
I send Rooster another text.
Me: Door locked. Knock three times.
I close and lock the bathroom door behind me.
A wave of dizziness washes over me and I stagger to the sink, bracing myself against the cool porcelain, setting my phone on the edge.
Can’t breathe.
Get dress off. I’ll feel better once it’s off.
I work the zipper as far as I can and squirm-wiggle my way out of the rest of it, allowing the dress to pool at my feet.
That’s better.
Beads of sweat roll from my temple, down my cheeks. I flip on the faucet and lean over to splash water on my face.
Mistake. Now I’ve made a mess of all my stupid stage makeup. Where’s my remover? Out in the other room?
Fuzziness clouds my mind.
I splash another handful of water on my face and snag a paper towel to blot my skin.
Get dressed.
I yank off my boots, almost falling on my ass.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
First, pants. One leg. Then the other. I wobble and bump my butt against the wall, leaning back to fasten my jeans.
My T-shirt seems to have sprouted three armholes. I jam my fist through the neck, then have to take it off and try again. Finally, the long, loose cotton flows down to my hips. I scoop the ends, attempting to tie a knot but my fingers don’t seem to want to work.
Whatever. It looks fine.
I stuff my feet back into my boots and stagger forward. My palms land on the slippery sink and slide.