Penelope Ward is a New York Times, USA Today, and #1 Wall Street Journal Bestselling author. With over two-million books sold, she’s a 21-time New York Times bestseller. Her novels are published in over a dozen languages and can be found in bookstores around the world. Having grown up in Boston with five older brothers, she spent most of her twenties as a television news anchor, before switching to a more family-friendly career. She is the proud mother of a beautiful 16-year-old girl with autism and a 14-year-old boy. Penelope and her family reside in Rhode Island.
Connect with Penelope Ward
Facebook Private Fan Group
Facebook
TikTok
Website
Twitter
Instagram
I couldn’t take my eyes off the tattooed Santa gyrating his hips hypnotically behind his bass guitar. With the stage lights and the distraction of the crowd around me, I couldn’t be sure but it felt like the silver fox was looking directly at me with each thrust.
Maybe it was a final “screw you” to me after he’d single-handedly ruined any shot I had at my dream job.
I wanted to hate Vonn Barlowe, but the man was so damn talented and I’d been a fan for so damn long, there I was in the front row grooving to the punk-rock version of “White Christmas” along with the rest of Hershey, Pennsylvania.
“I can see why it’s a farewell tour.”
Apparently my date, Mark, wasn’t as impressed. He smirked in the direction of the stage, and I sighed. The man was wearing a tie to a punk show. What had I expected?
“Not a fan?” I asked over the screaming guitar riff.
Someone bumped me from behind and I caught myself against the waist-high security fence.
Mark didn’t notice. He was too busy pulling out his phone. I had to stop myself from telling him to put it away. He was my boyfriend—sort of—not one of my kids.
“I gotta take this,” he yelled, holding up his phone to indicate a call from his office.
I waved him off rather than reminding him it was Christmas Freaking Eve and I’d been out of town for two weeks. Two wasted weeks. And wasn’t that exactly what I’d been doing with Mark? Wasting time.
Okay, Vonn definitely just winked at me.
I glared back at him.
“Ohmygod! He’s so hot!” squealed a young, pretty blonde next to me. She was with a posse of girlfriends.
Before I could reluctantly agree, I was jostled from behind into the security fence that separated the front row from the stage. The mosh pit behind us was getting wild as the band stirred the audience up with punk versions of their Christmas favorites.
Back in my twenties, I wouldn’t have hesitated to join them. Two decades, two now-grown children, and a middle-aged body prone to second-day soreness ruled that out. But I was forty-six, not dead. I’d at least dressed the part in skinny jeans, a ripped black tank, and a cropped leather jacket.
Garrett, the youthful lead singer with a voice so similar to his father’s it was eerie, carried them into an energetic “Run Rudolph Run.” I closed my eyes and grooved to the music.
They were a great band. Even after the tragedy. I wasn’t the only one sad that this was the end of the road for the Sonic Arcade. And if it wasn’t for the stubborn, sexy bassist, I could have been the one to tell the story of their farewell.
A pointy elbow connected with my kidney pushing me into the bubbly blonde. “Shit! Sorry. Are you okay?” I asked the girl.
I didn’t get an answer because an entire sweaty body rammed her at full speed sending her into the waist high security fence. I turned around and shoved the guy. “Back off, man!”
He had at least fifty pounds on me and was staggeringly drunk. With the momentum of my push, he careened backward into the center of the mosh pit. Everything happened at once as all hell broke loose. I saw security fighting their way forward as Drunk Guy came back at me.
My last coherent thought before he yanked me into the fray was that Vonn looked way too close to the edge of the stage.
Bouncing off bodies like a pinball, I knew I needed to stay on my feet. Going to the floor in a situation like this was asking for a trip to the hospital.