“Better?”
“I guess we’ll see.” He jerks his chin at my trunk. “What else do you need?”
I grab my bag of dirty laundry, praying he wasn’t kidding about the washing machine at the clubhouse. A few clean items, a gift pack for my Dream Makers visit, and other assorted things I like to have with me get shoved into a plain tote. “Anything else, I’ll stuff in my backpack.”
Rooster picks up my guitar case before opening the door.
I stare down at my sad little bags. “I feel like a vagabond.”
He slips his hand around mine, guiding me through the crowded backstage corridor leading to the loading dock. “Why?”
I hold up my laundry bag, which actually has “laundry” printed on the side, and the other plain bag. “Not exactly fine luggage.”
“You really don’t need it where we’re going.”
No one stops us on the way out. My pass is firmly around my neck and my cell phone’s in my pocket. Still, the feeling that I’m a naughty kid sneaking out after curfew clings to me all the way to the parking lot.
Rooster checks his phone again. “He’s here.”
A plain black, windowless van idles next to one of Dawson’s tour buses. As we approach, a husky man with the same Lost Kings MC cut Rooster’s wearing steps out.
“Hey,” he greets Rooster with a handshake, and lifts his chin in my direction.
“Thanks, brother.” Rooster nods to me. “Shelby, this is Birch; Birch, Shelby. I don’t think you two met before.”
“Hey, Birch.”
“Good show, Shelby.”
“Thanks.”
They arrange my stuff in the back of the van. A twinge of fear has me checking on my guitar twice before they shut the doors. I don’t like to be too far away from it.
Rooster seems to sense my dilemma. “Birch won’t let anything happen to it,” he assures me. Simple as that. No teasing or telling me I’m silly.
“Promise,” Birch swears.
We say goodbye and Rooster searches the grassy knoll around the parking area. “I think this leads to the lawn seating area if we follow it to the right. Then we should be able to get back into the pavilion. That okay?”
“I’m just excited to be out with you instead of cooped up in the dressing room.”
He takes my hand again as we hike up a gentle slope to reach the small dirt path curving to the right. “What do you usually do after your show?”
“Chill in my dressing room. Sometimes Dawson invites us to hang out on one of his buses.” I lower my voice because you just never know when big ears are listening. “Thundersmoke kinda keeps to themselves. We never really see them unless they’re onstage.”
“That’s…weird.”
I shrug. It had seemed odd at first, but I haven’t given it much thought lately.
We come to an eight-foot high chain-link fence and stop. Farther down, there’s a gate and Rooster leads us toward it. One flash of our passes and the guard lets us through. We hit a sidewalk that leads to a semi-circle of tents selling everything from thirteen-dollar cans of beer to cotton candy.
“You sure you’re not hungry?” he asks.
“Nope.”
To our right, a couple of booths are set up selling merchandise for the bands. Dawson’s is obviously the biggest and busiest tent. But mine has a longer line than I expected stretched in front.
Rooster squeezes my hand. “Think they sell a Shelby Morgan T-shirt big enough to fit me?”
I giggle at the thought of him in one of the pale pink T-shirts. “Probably not. Maybe I’ll have some input on the next batch and they won’t be girly pink.” I point to the flamingos on my shirt. “I want to design one with a flamingo in cowgirl boots.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Cute. Maybe it should have a little guitar too.”
“I like it.” And I really like how he embraces my idea instead of mocking it like other people have.
He pulls out his phone again and sends a quick text. A few seconds later, he searches the lawn where the “seats” are made up of blankets and chairs people brought from home. Greg said the inside tickets sold out the first day they went on sale. Lawn seats were still available until a week ago, and now I see why. Every available square inch of grass is claimed by someone or something.
“They’re to the left.” Rooster points.
Even though the lawn’s crowded, somehow the bikers have managed to maintain a wide swath of grass between them and everyone else.
Rooster presses his finger to his lips as we creep closer. Murphy laughs when he spots our approach but that doesn’t provide Jigsaw with enough warning before Rooster jumps on his back, tackling him to the grass.
“Motherfucker!” Jigsaw shouts, pushing Rooster off him.
Rooster rolls to the side, laughing. “That was too easy.”
Heidi shakes her head as she approaches me. “Are you supposed to be out here?” she whispers.