We were in a large room full of people rushing back and forth. Some were carrying large pieces of equipment while others spoke into the same kind of headsets the frazzled woman was wearing.
"Concert starts in thirty minutes," she said. "Pit's down there if you want a front row seat or you can watch backstage over here. Artist lounge is back there."
She paused for a second, eyes going distant. She touched her earpiece and scowled.
"Shit," she said into the mic. "Okay. I'm on it." Her eyes returned to me. "Whatever you do, don't get in anyone's way."
"Thank—" I began to say, but she was already moving along. "—you…" I followed her with my eyes as she went over to a young-looking girl with a cherub face and started chewing her out.
I looked around haplessly. I thought I'd be led to some special seat where I could watch the concert up close. Instead, I'd been unceremoniously dumped backstage with no other instruction aside fromdon't get in the way.
I stood with my back to the wall and observed for a few minutes to get my bearings. Everything seemed rushed and intense. It was stressing me out, and I was only watching.
But I soon noticed that, if you really paid attention, there was a sort of calming flow to it all. Everyone knew their role and they all deftly maneuvered around each other as they completed their tasks.
"Hey, you there," a harried looking man said to me. I thought he might yell at me to get out of the way but instead he shoved a flashlight into my hands. "Point it over there," the guy demanded.
Confused, I did as he asked, lighting up a small metal box in a dark corner of the wall. He pried it open and used both hands to twist knobs and flip switches. He closed the box, took the flashlight back and hurried off without another look.
"You're welcome," I called out as he hurried along.
"Hey, gorgeous."
A familiar voice spoke from behind me. I turned.
I gaped.
Nathan Walker stood in front of me.
But this Nathan Walker didn't look like the creeper guy skulking through the hospital. There was no ball cap in sight.
This Nathan Walker wore an open leather jacket and bare chest, showing off every well-defined muscle and a colorfully inked torso. His black jeans looked spray-painted on. He wore studded accessories all over — belt, wrists, even a leather collar around his neck.
My tongue went dry and thick. I couldn't form proper words.
Was that a hint of eyeliner rimming his deep blue eyes? I'd never thought that was my thing but I was being proved wrong with every passing movement.
Nathan cocked his head. "That was cool of you."
"What was?" I managed to ask.
"Helping that tech," he said. "You could have told him to shove it."
"I was just being nice," I said.
"Nice," he repeated.
"What?" I asked, unnerved.
"Nothing." A small smile played on his lips.
I wasn't going to let him patronize me. I lifted my chin. "What's wrong with being nice?"
"Nothing at all. I like it," he said. "Most people in this industry are self-absorbed bastards."
"Yourself included?" I asked.
Nathan laughed. "Only sometimes." His eyes left mine, flicking down my body in a quick pass. Then he looked up slowly, taking his time, lingering over every inch. When his eyes met mine again, there was a teasing glint in them. "I can be very generous in some situations."
