She is absolutely yelling.
The VIP pit is jammed full. Fans crush forward whenever Lola hits a high note. The rail digs into everyone’s hips. People spill beers. Someone behind us keeps screaming "SING IT, QUEEN!" directly into my left ear.
Annabelle grips her badge like it’s a flotation device.
I shift a little closer, close enough to keep her steady if the crowd surges again.
I don’t touch her.
But she notices. Her shoulders tense like she’s fighting an internal war.
The next surge knocks her off balance. She tips.
I grab her waist.
Heat. Contact. Flashback to that damn balcony.
She freezes.
So do I.
“You good?” I ask, low.
“I’m perfect,” she says and glares at me like she wants to launch me into the sun.
And damn if it doesn’t make me want to smile.
And to make matters even more interesting, Lola scans the pit between songs and finds me.
Every. Single. Time.
Smiles.
Winks.
Does a hair flip I’m 100 percent sure is illegal in twelve states.
I nod politely.
Annabelle? She goes rigid. Jaw tight. Mouth pinched.
She looks like the human embodiment of “no.”
I lean close. “Everything okay?”
She nods like a bobblehead having a nervous breakdown. “Never better.”
“Liar,” I whisper.
She kicks my boot.
Worth it.
***
Halfway through her second set, Lola grabs the mic and purrs: “Since we’ve got some of the Nashville Outlaws in the building… Bryce Blackhorn, get up here!”
The arena detonates.
