Parker blushed, and a smile lit his face. “I can’t wait to hear number three.”
“Oh, no, it’s number five you really want.”
“Why? What’s numbers three and four?”
“Hmm. Three. Visualise your successes and the rewards. Obviously the reward in your case is me.”
“Obviously.” Parker laughed.
“Number four. Don’t try to be perfect. Making mistakes isn’t the end of the world. Just be yourself.”
“And number five?”
“Well, this wasn’t written in the article, but you know how they say when you’re public speaking that you should imagine your audience in their underwear or without their clothes on?”
“You want me to imagine the audience naked?”
“Absolutely not.” Rafe held a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “You need to imaginemenaked.”
Parker chugged the last of the water from his bottle, eyes wide. “And that’s meant to help me exactly how?”
“Easy. You’ll be so busy focusing on your boner and imagining all the wicked things we’ll get up to after the show that you won’t have time to be worrying about anything else.”
Parker laughed, the sound light and happy. “You’re an idiot.”
“In fact, you’ll be the lucky one up there on the stage.”
“How so?”
“Well, apart from getting me as your after-show reward, you get to hold a guitar to hide the bulge in those skin-tight jeans—did I tell you how fucking hot you look, by the way?—but I’ll be standing out front and centre showing all the world just how much I want you.”
Parker leaned against him. “Jesus, Rafe. The things you say.”
“You feel better now?”
Parker chuckled. “You know I do.”
“Then my job here is done.”
25
The day after the Bad Boys gig was a whirlwind of activity, packing up and leaving the hotel early and heading to the airport for a charter flight to Nevada. It turned out they wouldn’t be seeing much of the state beyond the festival, as there’d been a change of plans and they were being put up in a tour bus at the festival grounds. The transfer from the private airfield saw them arrive in a cloud of dust at the festival location at midday.
Parker pulled his jacket around him against the stiff breeze and didn’t have time to take in much of his surroundings before they were hustled away, although it was clear the venue was fucking huge. He regretted asking the capacity when he was told nearly 100,000 people attended each day of the festival. He had no idea how he’d ever manage to perform to a crowd that size, although he supposed they wouldn’t all be watching at the same time. Still, it was a damn sight more people than the small gig they’d played the night before.
You’d think the frenetic activity would have given Parker little time to worry about the upcoming performance, but the gig was the only thing swirling through his mind. The Rocktoberfest organisers had publicity expectations, and there was no time to rest before being dragged all over the place, but all that did was reinforce the enormity of the event. He was conscious of clinging to one of the guys—always with Rafe, RG, or Gibbo—because the thought of doing any of this alone scared the bejesus out of him. Parker felt as if he was being pulled from pillar to post, but that was good because he was sure if he was left alone, he’d be tucking tail and getting out of there. After a sound check that went on for hours, they ended up in large tented structure where the drinks were flowing freely and food was being served. His stomach rumbled as he piled up a plate, loading it with fried chicken and some sort of pasta salad thing. He just hoped he’d be able to stomach the food, as he hadn’t eaten since the muffin he’d picked at back at the hotel. He couldn’t tell if the empty feeling was hunger or the quivery twitch of nerves. He took the meal to a vacant table and sank into the chair.
Everywhere he looked, there were band members and support staff, the room a sea of black, leather, and tattoos. He tried not to stare, but even he was impressed with the top artists that were mingling in his midst.Who’d have thought I’d be close enough to rub shoulders with some of these bands?
His eyes automatically sought out Rafe. Unlike Parker, who was hiding in the corner, Rafe was front and centre. He stood at the other side of the room, dressed in black jeans and what Parker had come to realise was his favourite black Cold Chisel T-shirt. But somehow, even amongst all the similarly clad men, he oozed confidence and radiated star quality, making him stand out in the crowd. Some girl handed him a glass of what looked like whisky, Rafe’s drink of choice, and he bestowed a smile on her, the sort of smile Parker had come to love seeing sent his way.
He didn’t know what he’d have done last night without Rafe’s much appreciated, although ludicrous, pep talk. He’d been so distracted by Rafe’s promises for after the show that before he knew it, the time had come to go on stage. He hadn’t spent the immediate moments in the lead up to the performance stressing about it, so hadn’t fully been able to psych himself out. It felt like he’d barely blinked on stage and the set was over, the crowd giving them a standing ovation as Rafe pumped his fist in the air. Rafe had had the audience eating out of his hand, encouraging their shouts and orchestrating crowd participation. Even now, as Parker watched him, he had a circle of admirers he was no doubt charming.
Parker picked up a chicken drumstick and took a bite, the food turning to sawdust in his mouth as Van approached the group around Rafe. Of course, they all parted as the rock god joined the group, and, as if to rub salt into the wounds, Van chose to stand directly next to Rafe, his hand briefly touching the small of Rafe’s back. Parker tried to be objective as he studied them. Sheila was right—they made an attractive couple, both of them tall and broad, with confident personalities, and they both owned the stage. Even Van’s blond good looks were a perfect complement to Rafe’s darker hair and complexion. It was no wonder the camera loved them. Parker could picture the photos now and had to blink furiously to banish the images from his mind. It hurt to know that Van was someone who could help Rafe’s career, but someone like Parker would only hamper him. Where was the media angle of a rock superstar dating an analyst?
He forced his eyes away. He put down the chicken leg, appetite gone, and wiped his greasy fingers on his napkin.
“What do you think so far?” Rush from the Bad Boys slid into the seat next to Parker. “It’s your first time to Rocktoberfest, right?”
