I turned the corner and blinked against the bright stage lights.
During Lauren’s performance, the bargoers had been subdued, but now the floor was mostly full. People swayed to the rhythm and a few held up their beer bottles to pay respect to the band. Energy vibrated through the crowd, making the atmosphere as electric as the guitar the singer strummed.
It was a hot, dirty Nashville sound filling the space that was all sticky floors and neon beer signs.
I was thrilled the guy could sing and play decently, and for a moment, I was distracted by his practiced fingers on the fretboard. But awareness tingled the hairs at the back of my neck. Something was off. No, not off . . .
Familiar.
With his powerful, throaty voice, I’d expected to find a man in his forties or fifties with a flannel shirt, a beard hanging down to touch his belly, and a cowboy hat. And while he had on a blue plaid shirt, it was fitted snuggly to his tight frame, and the sleeves rolled back to the elbows to show off his forearms. A swath of leather cuffed his wrist. It gave him an edgy, youthful vibe, just a little too punk rock to be pure country.
Not that he needed help looking young—he was only twenty-four.
Sound faded from my ears, so the only thing that registered was the thump of the bass drum and the pounding of my heart. Each beat slammed into my chest as I stared up at Troy’s handsome face.
SEVEN
Erika
It was as if someone had struck a match and lit a fuse inside me. Excitement buzzed through my bloodstream as I stared at the boy on stage while he cradled his Fender and leaned into the microphone to sing about barbed-wire fences. Either the lights or the pressure of performing had Troy already sweating. A thin gloss sheened his face.
But he didn’t look uncomfortable.
Just like the intimate performance he’d given me, he had an easy swagger on the stage. He wasn’t stiff or tight like most inexperienced performers could be. His shoulders were relaxed, and his stance solid, so he could both sing and play to the best of his ability.
It was the opposite for me. Every muscle inside my body was corded tightly with awe and excitement. He could sing. How the fuck did I not know this? Why had Jenna never mentioned it to me?
The manager and agent side of my mind was focused on the details. He had presence, but it could be packaged even better. It was difficult to see if he was enjoying himself because concentration lined his face. He was a man determined to hit each note perfectly, who hadn’t yet learned to focus on the experience instead of his execution. As his manager, I could help him with that.
But the side of me that wasn’t focused on her job, the one that was simply a woman, struggled to breathe. I’d seen him stark naked and thought he couldn’t possibly have looked better, but seeing him bathed in the warm stage light with a guitar strap slung over a shoulder threatened to melt my insides. His music seeped into my body, making me smolder.
I was rooted to the floor, mesmerized by him, and it wasn’t until the song was over that I could move again. I went to the darkest corner at the back of the bar, sat on a stool with a cracked vinyl top, and watched the remainder of his short show.
It’d been thrown together last minute, and they stuck to a setlist of tried-and-true favorites to keep the crowd engaged, all until the final number. The rest of the band exited as Troy switched out to an acoustic guitar and then settled at center stage.
I couldn’t place the song after the first sets of chords, but when he belted out the first line of the lyrics, my mouth dropped open. It was U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,” but he’d put a country spin on it, filling his voice with twang.
The song showed off his impressive vocal range. The high notes were packed with power, and the low notes soft and beautiful. It was up-tempo, but the audience was frozen. Like me, they were riveted in place. Troy had us all in the palm of his hand as he sang a stripped-down version of a song about elusive love.
I couldn’t stop the sensation creeping along my nerve endings or the thought from storming into my head.
I wanted to be what he was looking for.
His performance gripped me until the final chord, and it wasn’t until the applause and cheers began to die off that I came out of my stupor. I lusted after him, both professionally and as a woman who was twenty years too old for him. And I was jealous of the younger girls in the audience who smiled up at this gorgeous singer and probably dreamed of going home with him.