It’s just two weeks.
Two weeks.
I tap my foot on the floor for a moment before replying.
“I will do the homecoming run,” I concede. “You can find someone else for the rest of the tour. Close quarters with Reed for six months would never work. I love my brother, but he would be a protective asshole and threaten to throttle anyone who I might flirt with—or even smile at, for that matter.”
“As if you would be any different,” Cynda mutters.
“I mean, no. You’re not wrong,” I reply, knowinghow many people I’d turned away from him.
Cynda grins. “Spoken like a true sibling,” she says. “Very well. I’ll find someone to start in November. Two weeks gives me enough time to vet a few candidates. I’ll have payroll go ahead and send you an advance for your plane ticket and hotel.”
CHAPTER TWO - MADDOX
THE SCREAMS OF adoring fans echo off every wall in the theater.
I strum the last chord and peer at the crowd as Reed jumps onto one of the speakers at the edge of the stage, his long, tattooed arms extended as if he’s the only true god in this room.
And as he holds his microphone out to the audience, every single person sings the lyrics to our most popular release back to us.
I’ll never get tired of this.
I’ll never tire of the euphoria and disbelief that people know our music—loveour fucking music.
The glee runs through my veins and kicks into every muscle, forcing me to shift on my feet as our drummer, Bonnie, begins counting back the break.
I laugh at the insanity of it all.
It’s unreal.
Reed, our lead singer, and my best friend, turns toward me as the crowd continues singing, and he grins my way.
How the hell are we, two poor, sad bastards from the back streets of North Carolina,here? How are we standing on the stage at the Tabernacle Theater in Atlanta, Georgia, with a sold-out show—a sold-outtour?
Reed can’t see me grinning back at him behind my mask. I wave him the horns in front of my bass before strumming a chord.
Bonnie is on her third four-count.
The notes amp up the horde. The strobe lights flicker. Smoke strokes over the stage in billows of anticipatory thrill. Tension rises between us and the crowd as if they know what’s coming. Like they know the drop will send the entire theater into a frenzy.
I love this fucking part.
Zeb, our guitarist, plays the leading notes.
And as the fans erupt and we strike into the chorus once more, Reed jumps into the crowd.
He lands on a throng of people ready to surf him through—and he makes it look easy, too. He’s never been afraid of the mob, getting brought down, or even breaking a bone. All he gives a damn about is singing that fucking chorus in the middle of the crowd and giving them a show they’ll remember.
I have one eye on him at all times.
Always.
The crowd practically screams the chorus back to him as he steps and crawls from person to person. Fans grab onto his hands, his legs, his shirt. It’s halfway ripped off him in the five seconds since his landing.
I see venue security in the space between the stage and the barrier trying to get to him, and I laugh. Some hadn’t believed us before the show when we told them Reed was chaos onstage and that they’d get their workouts trying to catch him.
The poor bastards.
