Unashamedly Us (Offbeat Shifters #4) - Colette Davison Page 0,4

bears onto the

stage, and then I jogged off to catch my breath. I downed half a bottle of water before pouring the rest over my

head. Damn, I was hot.

“Are you okay?” Pete asked.

I bounced on the spot and rolled out my shoulders. “Yup. I’ve got some energy left. How d’you think it’s gone?”

“You’ve had them eating out of the palm of your hand,” Wulf said.

Trent and Greg were outside the auditorium, working directly with venue security to make sure no one got

backstage unless they had a pass.

“They want you back,” Pete said.

He was right. The audience was stamping their feet and clapping their hands while chanting my name over and

over. It gave me the fire I needed to go back out and sing three more songs.

“God natt, Stockholm. Jag älskar er!” I shouted once I’d finished.

I did another round of bowing and blowing kisses. I made a point of picking some of the flowers off the stage,

clutching them to my chest with one hand as I waved with the other, and then walked off the stage.

“And we’re done,” I said, heaving out a sigh.

Even though the crowd began chanting my name again, the house lights came up, signalling to them that the

concert really was over.

“Let’s get you back to the changing room,” Pete said.

He put an arm around my shoulders, half supporting me as we walked from the backstage area to the changing

room. I had just enough time to take a shower and change into clean clothes before the fans who had backstage

passes were allowed in to chat with me. Depending on how I was feeling, that could take anywhere from twenty

minutes to a couple of hours.

My close protection team watched me closely throughout, deciding when I’d had enough, often before I’d realised

it myself. I was always too high on adrenaline to make a good judgement call. I loved sitting and chatting with a

small handful of dedicated fans, plus the birthday boy of the night. It was so much nicer than a brief ‘hello’ as I

signed an autograph.

We talked, I asked each of my fans questions to show I was genuinely interested in them, I signed everything

they’d brought with them, and I posed for dozens of photos. Robin made sure to take several pictures—with

permission—that would go up on my website and social media.

I had no idea how long I chatted before Pete gave us all a ten-minute warning. I said my goodbyes and gave

plenty of hugs before my fans were ushered out of the room.

The second the door was shut, and I was alone with Robin and my protectors, I wilted. It always happened. What

goes up must come down and all that. Post-concert fatigue was a big thing for me.

“Let’s get you back to the bus,” Pete said, helping me to stand.

“You did good tonight,” Wulf said enthusiastically. “Your best performance yet.”

“You say that after every concert,” I mumbled wearily.

“And I mean it every time too.”

“You were great,” Pete said.

He helped me as far as the backstage door, at which point I stood tall on my own. There were always fans who

waited outside, no matter how long I spent with those with backstage passes. I smiled, signed autographs, had

brief conversations, and took photos with them all. I didn’t miss a single one.

It took another forty minutes or so to actually get onto the bus. Because none of us ever spent the night on it, I’d

only been provided with a single-decker. It was lavish inside, though, with plush seating at the front. The middle

section was taken up with bunks in case any of us wanted to catch up on sleep during the day while we were

driving to the next destination. I knew I’d be making use of them, either to get some extra rest or if I was in

recovery from a seizure. Next there was a small kitchen area and then more seating at the back, which wrapped

around the three walls.

I headed to the bunks and collapsed onto one of the bottom ones. It wasn’t far to the hotel we were staying at,

but I was crazy tired. Pete laid a blanket over me and sat on the opposite bunk. The backing band walked past to

the seating at the rear of the bus.

“What time is it?” I murmured.

Pete checked his watch. “Almost one.”

“Late.” Or early, depending on which way you looked at it.

Would it be too late

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