Maurice grabbed his drumsticks from his back pocket. “And you got to chill with teasing the audience with that stripper act of yours.”
One of the backstage helpers gave me my acoustic guitar, which I promptly placed over my Darius Rucker t-shirt. “Did Wendell put you up to this?”
“Yes.” He folded his arms. “Except this time, I agree with him. Your music isn’t about sex like some of these other artists. You don’t need to be practically naked on the stage.”
The tech person slid a bud in my ears as I argued, “Every damn body who can sell sex does. By the end of the night, this shirt is always off. My concerts don’t just sell out because people love my songs. They love the fantasy of it all…of being with Freedom Cade. I feel the vibe and go with the flow.”
“What vibe ever says pull down your pants?”
“The screams as soon as I step on the stage.” I grinned. “I’m a big tease with a bigger dick. Women love it. Wendell will get over it. He’s too scared that Zo Taylor will change his invite to be on his tour since overseas they can be funny about sexuality. Like I give a fuck when Zo has always done whatever the fuck he wants to do.”
Maurice frowned. “I thought you and Zo were cool?”
“Thought so too until he resurfaced after five years and has yet to reach out,” I mumbled. “Reaching out to my manager instead of me when he has my cell, hurt worse than his silence.”
We started walking to the stage as the people around me buzzed with activity and energy.
“Don’t take it personally. I hear he did that to Justin Ray before they toured together, and you know they were tight.” Justin Ray was also a popular singer who’d worked with Alonzo and me in the past. He’d gone on tour last year with Alonzo and Jacob Rivers, another pop star. The tour had been a smash, reintroducing Alonzo Taylor. Now, he wanted to tackle the world.
“Exactly… before they toured together. Bet Zo did the same thing to him. When he needed Justin for business, he reached out. I don’t like shit like that if we’re supposed to be friends.”
He nodded slowly. “So, do you want to tour with Zo or not? With the record sales we’ve had from this tour, we can easily do our own international tour. Pick some scrub who just started out, as Zo did for you, and let him or her open the show. You have the juice now, Free. You really don’t need nobody else.”
From the other side of the arena, the stage manager beckoned Maurice impatiently before I could answer.
“Use the headset, bitch.” He spoke into his mic and addressed me, “We’ll finish this convo later. In the meantime, do nothing more than unbutton your jeans if thevibehits.” We chuckled and dapped each other before he jogged onto the stage, where the rest of my band waited to take his place behind the drums. Maurice picked up the sticks and started playing a random beat. The dull noise of the crowd suddenly became louder as my members, one by one, began matching his beat that would soon flow into my first hit,Another Sunday Without You. The rush of excitement and anticipation of performing filled me in ways that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Jamaica would be here tonight. Knew it with every fiber of my body, though I hadn’t heard from her. She would come to me tonight.
“Your cue.” The stage manager yelled in my ear as the curtain slowly opened.
I bounced from foot to foot and shook my arms, trying to get rid of unwanted negative energy that suddenly crept up, taunting me that I wasn’t good enough. The alcohol or pills usually drowned the voices, and I had been clean for the last two weeks. A mighty feat in itself, given that I didn’t go longer than a week when I wasn’t on the road, and used every day while touring.
With my cowboy hat firmly planted on my head and my guitar strapped to the back, I strolled on stage to the screaming fans, waving and blowing kisses, feeling buoyed that some in this audience knew me before I became famous. I approached my mic stand and opened my arms wide to thunderous applause, bopping my head to my band.
“Hey, Dallas,” I greeted without picking up the mic, allowing the loud adulation to travel over me. “Shit, y’all ready for me?”
More yells and screams.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for you.” I grinned at the many people reassuring me. Over fourteen thousand people clamored for me. Then my breath caught in my throat. Jamaica.
Sexy as fuck with an orange dress that caressed her breasts, giving enough of a glimpse of her brown globes to make my mouth water. The material hugged her hips and thighs. The pink and orange heels tightened her calves. Her hair, wet, wavy, and tousled, framed her pretty, round face. Jamaica strolled down the small pathway near the front of the stage, surrounded by three of my men, escorting her to the private sitting area where she could watch the show without the crowd. Our gazes locked, and she smiled timidly. I whistled into the mic before I realized it and quickly recovered by grabbing the mic and greeting Dallas again. “We have the sexiest women in Texas. That brisket and potato salad does a body good down here in Dallas. Lord, have mercy on my soul.”
She ducked her head to hide the blush I could see from here.
“Come on, y'all, it’s about to go down in my hometown.” I started clapping my hands in a rhythm, and the audience, including my bashful Jamaica, joined in to my delight. Underneath the vixen she wanted to be for me tonight was my Jamaica, and she wanted to be mine again.
The show hadto be one of the best I’d ever done, especially sober. The audience stayed on their feet for the hour-and-a-half show, during which I performed my own songs and a medley of rap and country hits by other artists. Knowing the very reason I chose this life, waited for me, sparked a flame of energy andcreativity I hadn’t experienced while performing live since that very first time I stepped before a critical crowd twelve years ago. She was my inspiration for this life. I’d been numb so long because my impetus for this career no longer loved me. As the years flowed into one, I’d given up hope that I would ever be truly happy.
I jammed with the band, only playing my guitar instead of rapping or singing as I finished my encore. Sweat dripped down my face and bare chest. Maurice threw me a towel without missing a beat on the drums. The air cooled my skin once I dried myself and pranced back toward the crowd, taunting them with a towel. I knew I would hear it from my manager as I squeezed the terry cloth together, launched it as far as it could go, and laughed at the rabid fans who tore my poor towel into pieces. He was lucky that I didn’t lower my pants in this raunchy, lively crowd of fans, which would’ve happened if Jamaica weren’t watching. Not that I worried she would disapprove or be jealous. I wanted to save any sexual teasing and energy for her. I might only have tonight to forever stake my claim on her heart.
Taking my final bow, I signaled to my band to wrap up in three minutes and jogged off the stage. The backstage teemed with people trying to get my attention. From media, to stagehands, special guests of my band, my team, and my groupies, who always managed to sneak in anywhere I performed. Hands touched me as I moved through the people who congratulated me on a great show.
Peace seemingly came out of nowhere to hug me and whistled, “You get better and better. Truly amazing.”
“You know how we do it,” I bragged and hugged him again. “Glad to see you.”
He grinned wickedly. “Guess who was all up under me in the suite? Why didn’t you tell me she would be there?” Peace held his hand up. “Never mind. You forgot I was coming.”
“No…um…I wanted it to be a surprise.” I laughed while people were around, waiting impatiently to speak to me. “Listen, before I hit the road tomorrow, we eating somewhere good. Sorry, I can’t hang. I got to run.”
