What the hell did I get myself into?
I turn this way and that in front of the full-length mirror in my hotel room, admiring my outfit for the evening. It isn’t fancy—a pair of black skinny jeans that look painted onto my thick thighs, a studded black tank that shows just enough cleavage, and some silver jewelry—but somehow it feels like the most important thing I’ve worn in a long time.
Tonight, I’ll be making my photographer debut.
With a band.
On stage.
Nerves have my stomach in a knot, and I can’t tell if it's the clothes that aren’t really my style or the fact that I’ll be in front of thousands of people. Posting pictures of myself online has never been a problem. Ican block the trolls and ignore any hate comments I get from fucking mouth-breathers, but this is different. Tonight, it’s like I’m putting myself on display, even though I’ll just be creeping around the stage snapping live-shots of the band.
The tiniest nugget of self consciousness sparks like an ember in my brain, but I quickly snuff it out. I’ve worked hard to love myself and my body, and I’m not going to let a simple concert undo any of that progress. Besides, no one will be paying attention to me; they’ll be watching Rhage.
I’m making something out of nothing, and I need to chill.
“I’m a fine ass bitch,” I mutter the affirmation as I reach for my lip gloss and touch up my makeup. “I’m fierce, sexy, cool.”
I tug at the jeans, wiggling to pull them higher, and turn to check them out from the back.
Damn my ass looks good in these.
Satisfied and afraid to stall any longer, I grab my camera bag and my purse and head for the door. Is my equipment a little less fancy than a band photographer would typically have? Yes. But it’s better than whatever cell phone these rockstars were using to take pictures before.
Any improvement is better than nothing.
I fire off a quick text to Niki while I’m on the elevator, telling her to let me know if she needs anything before Rhage goes on stage. I probably won’t check my phone until after the concert—I don’t know if I’ll have time—but I want to make sure she’s okay.
Then I’m marching toward the sidewalk to wait for my Uber.
It’s late in the afternoon, and crimson has started to bleed into the blue sky. There’s no telling what time I’ll make it back tonight, but it’ll probably be after midnight. There are two bands playing before Rhage even takes the stage, and I plan to stick around for the meet and greet afterward for behind the scenes photos.
I would wait until closer to time for Rhage to go on, but since I have no idea where I’m going and I don’t know anyone outside of the band, I decided to get to the convention center early. I’d rather be sitting around waiting and listening to music than show up late and not be allowed onstage.
Getting to the venue so early feels borderline taboo. A line has just started forming at the front doors, but the opening band doesn’t go on for an hour. Before I can second-guess showing up so early, I veer off the sidewalk and head around the side of the building where Niki told me to go, walking until I see a set of doors with two burly security guards standing watch.
Bingo.
I unzip the front pocket on my bag and pull out the STAFF lanyard I was given, tugging it on over my head as butterflies erupt in my stomach. Even though I know I’m supposed to be here, a little voice of doubt creeps into my mind.
What if they don’t let me in? What if I have to call Niki and tell her to have the band meet me at the door? What if, what if, what if…
Swallowing my nerves, I lift my chin and struttoward the security guards. One of them lowers his dark glasses to look me over, and I don’t miss the way his eyes roam. I’m flattered, but I keep my expression emotionless. I’m not here to flirt with beefcake security guards. I’m here to work.
“Where ya headed, ma’am?” The one with a buzzed head asks.
“I’m Rhage’s photographer,” I say, lifting the lanyard away from my chest and wagging it like a treat.
“Hmm. I haven’t seen you before,” he says, tilting his head slightly to the side. “I think I’d remember.”
“Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t forget a face like that,” the other chuckles, even though he's ogling my chest.
I force a smile, quickly losing my interest in this conversation and my patience. I didn’t consider being heckled by security when I factored in things that might slow me down.
“It’s my first night,” I assure them. “Now, am I in the right place? Or do I need to go through the front?” I already know the answer, but I want to redirect the conversation. I’ll go through the goddamn front door if it gets me in at this point.
A third voice replies, this one from behind me. “This is the right door. Let her in, Randall, she’s good.”
Ice slips up my spine as recognition sinks in, and my stomach sours.
