CHAPTER ONE
Billie
“Dad, you’re the best.” I throw my arms around his shoulders and give him a tight squeeze. “I can’t believe it. Aaron Blaze. I’m going to see Aaron freaking Blaze!”
Dad laughs and backs away, hands raised, grinning over at my mom. “Help me. She’s going crazy over that rockstar.”
I shake my head, smiling, but there’s no denying the truth of it.
I’ve been obsessed with Aaron Blaze ever since I was a teenager. I’m nineteen now, almost twenty, working as a waitress, and I never would’ve had enough money to go to his concert in the city.
But dad works as a janitor at the arena. He’s going to get me in.
Mom tsks from the kitchen divider, a bright towel over her shoulder as she angrily kneads some dough.
“I think it’s a bad idea. For the record. If anybody is interested.”
“Mom, why?”
“Why? Why?” She’s kneading the dough like it owes her money now. “Because it risks your father’s job. We’re living hard enough as it is.”
“Janet.”
Mom looks up. “Andy.”
“This is something she wants. It’ll be easy, and it’s almost her birthday. Let’s do something to make our daughter happy, instead of complaining about money all the time.”
Mom raises her hands, dusting them off. “Fine, do it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Dad turns to me with his eyebrows raised, a soft smile on his lips. He and my mom are built differently from me, tall and wiry, whereas I’m the opposite. Dad’s hair is a wild ring around his bald pate giving him the look of a mad professor.
“Shall we go?” Dad asks.
“She was really annoyed,” I say as we settle into the car.
“She’s just looking out for us.”
“Is it that much of a risk? I don’t want to put your job at risk, Dad.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I promise. Are you excited?”
Part of me niggles at how easily I accept his explanation. But mom and dad have been arguing about money for as long as I can remember. They always make up in the end, dad sometimes making extravagant romantic gestures involving rose petals and candles. They’re a good example of what a marriage can be, solid, trusting, and loyal.
Maybe that’s my excuse, as I let my mind drift over to Aaron Blaze.
“Yes, I’m excited.”
Aaron is a towering inferno of a man at forty-three. My whole body warms just thinking about his six foot six frame, rippling with muscle, his silver hair cut long at the top and buzzed at the side, his tattoo-covered muscled arms on display in a black leather vest. I love his energy, he gets so freaking worked up on stage, looking like a wild man. He’s...
“Billie, we’re here.”
I look across the street at the arena. Lights flash softly at the entrance, and people walk from cars in droves, spilling into the doorway. Dad puts his hand on my back and nods in the opposite direction, towards the dumpsters and an alleyway.
“Sorry about this.”
“Dad, it’s fine.”
He grins. “People forget. To have all that fancy stuff you need people like me trudging through the filth to make it shiny.”
“I know, Dad,” I say in a slightly peeved tone.
It’s probably rude of me to take this tone with him.
But since I’m awkwardly stepping over a spilled trash bag, I’m not in the mood to listen to one of his rants. He gives me his hand and we approach a door. Dad takes out a key and fiddles with it, the metal rasping.
“Always sticks, this thing. Here we go.”
With a click, we’re in, and he leads me down a hallway. My heart is hammering so hard. I draw in a slow breath, but it becomes all ragged.
Aaron Blaze, in the flesh, so close I could run out on stage and grab onto his arm if I wanted. I’m all fidgety, my mind taking me to places I can’t think about right now. Not with dad here, not in public.
Those fantasies are for the nights when I’m sore and tired from a nine-hour shift and I drop into bed. My thoughts fill with Aaron then, his towering silhouette appearing over my bed, leaning down and kissing me gruffly as his hot breath paints my skin.
A rough hand glides up my thigh, slow at first, and then primal, urgent, as he slips his finger into my—
I forcibly stop my thoughts, keeping a neutral smile on my face. I can’t stop thinking about him.
Dad takes us to an area backstage, everyone bustling around. He guides us to an area off to the side, out of the flow of the foot traffic. “Now we just stay here. Anyone asks I’m here to help with the stage clear-up between performances.”
“What should I say if they ask why I’m here?” I’m wringing my hands now, my palms sweaty.
“They won’t.”
“But if they do?”
“Hell.” Dad scratches at his bald head. “I guess I’ll just tell them it’s bring your daughter to work day.”