Chapter One
Samantha Russo
Eyes wide, I plop my ass down on a plush red seat. “This place is amazing. I’ve never been here before. Have you?”
“Never.” Suds glances over his sunglasses and slips a hand into his leather jacket to finger his revolver.
“Chill, Rambo. It’s a date.” I tug his belt until he sits, then point up at the sparkling ceiling lights.
When they dim, he pockets his shades while I hold my phone over the playbill. “Built in 1908, the Brooklyn Opera House seats over three thousand.”
“By the looks of things, tonight sold out.” My partner, still in bodyguard-mode scans the room and stands to let a couple of latecomers squeeze by.
“It’s a concert, not the Inaugural Ball, and you’re not secret service. Tell me, do you see any suspicious characters?” After he parks his fine butt down, I poke his right armpit, the only place he’s ticklish.
“Only you, sugar.” Still hyperaware, he squeezes his muscles to trap my offending fingers and when our eyes meet, his heat with desire.
That’s more like it.However, before we can kiss, the room darkens and we applaud as the star steps under the spotlight.
“How y’all doin’ tonight, Brooklyn?” Sienna Quinn, dressed in sequins and jeans, grabs the mic and holds it out to her adoring fans.
Holy shit, I need to thank our lawyer for the front row tickets. I still can’t believe he’s married to a famous country singer.Who knew?
“How about we do one of my favorites?” The beautiful blond nods at the band, the drummer smacks a cymbal, and the lead guitarist hits a chord. The bassist however, plays a silent lick. Brows raised, he squats beside his amp, searches until he finds a cable and plugs it in.
Something buzzes, the sound stops, and flickering, the lights go dark.
Well, that sucks.
“Fuck!” Suds hops on stage and shouts, “Stand back. Don’t touch him.”
Huh?I light up my phone and scan the area. Next to my fiancé, the wide-eyed bass player shudders with his mouth open in a silent scream.
What the hell?It isn’t until Sienna tugs on a power cord I get a clue. Hey, not my fault. I’ve never seen someone electrocuted, except in the movies.
“Sam, call 911!” Suds presses two fingers to the collapsed man’s neck and starts CPR.
Seconds later, the crowd goes nuts, the auditorium brightens, and I shout so the operator can hear. “I’m at BAM. The Sienna Quinn Concert. Send an ambulance. A guy plugged in his guitar, the lights went out, and… shit. I think he got fried, I mean electrocuted.”
After setting down my cell, I hoist myself onto the wood platform, and crawl to where Sebastian pumps the bass player’s chest.
Sweat rolls off his brow. “When I stop, you breathe into him.”
“Okay.”Shit, I’m not even sure I remember how.
“Excuse me folks?” A man in his fifties taps the mike and waits for the noise to subside before leaning in. “It appears Calvin has had a slight accident. Please make your way to the back exit. You can check online for your refund.”
“What happened?” A tearful young woman yells from the back and a bun-head near the front answers, “Cal plugged in his bass and got zapped.”
“Is he dead?”
Noise swallows the young man’s response and as he’s ushered toward the back door, my phone squawks. I forgot I left the operator hanging.
“Sorry, kinda busy here.” Trying to recall my first-aid training, I take a deep breath, pinch the man’s nose, and blow until his chest rises.
The star of the show notices my android and puts it to her ear. “She says to stand by. Help is on the way.”
“Excuse me. I’m a doctor.” Thank God, a heavy black man in his forties squeezes through the crowd, jogs up the side stairs and drops to his knees.
