Page 9 of Just Wait

I edge up, and the guitar tech hands off my baby, making sure I get strapped in. Sometimes they pass on messages, letting me know if a string had to be swapped out or updates about my pedalboard.

The front-of-house engineer, also known as the sound guy, drops my mixers into my palm, and I get them put in before checking that my Telecaster falls where I like it and tightening the strap.

I sidestep, intending to check the stage to see how long we have, but I slam into someone.

I stretch out an arm, making sure the person doesn’t careen into the wall.

My hand lands on a soft hip, and I frown.

Nice. You almost mowed down a tiny woman.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice coming out low and gravelly.

I tilt my face down to check on her, and I’m smacked with the elusive smell that I’ve been trying to track down for days.

Pears and roses.

My nostrils flare.

Oh yeah, it’s definitely her that I’ve smelled across multiple venues. Her scent is light and fresh, with sweet tinges that make my mouth water.

Jesus.

I never react to scents, but it’s like my skin buzzes with anticipation and the need to bury my nose in her lithe throat.

“Sorry,” she says, swiping my hand off her hip.

“That was me running into you,” I grunt, forcing myself to take a step back. Every cell in my body riots, but I have excellent self-control.

“Okay. In that case, sorry for being in your way.” Her hair falls over her shoulders, but not much past, as she plasters herself to the wall to make room for Tangled Desires to exit the stage.

Well, don’t I feel dismissed?

Most women light up when they spot me. Originally, I thought that scent I’ve been chasing must belong to someone who’s part of the tour staff, but she’s not wearing a staff ID.

Damn.

It’s a bad sign if she’s been to this many shows in a row.

Sure, some fans can afford to follow us around for a few weeks or even a month, but most of them are the groupies who make money off social media.

Anytime they bag a rock star, they post pictures with them half naked and sell the story to the tabloids before moving on to nail the next band.

Whatever makes them happy and pays their bills.

I’m not judging.

That doesn’t mean I’m up next to pay her rent, though.

Plenty of rock stars have had to deal with photos of themselves passed out somewhere while a woman smirks, taking a selfie that pops up everywhere for the next few weeks.

That’s not my style.

Not by a long shot.

I’d be resentful as hell if my family and friends had to see that kind of shit.

Dammit.