Page 7 of Down Beat
I roll my eyes as he ducks to a quiet corner to phone Daddy. Seriously. Some days I wonder if he shits on his father’s schedule, too.
Totally never having kids if that’s how rich brats turn out.
“Can we help you?” Toby squints behind me.
I spin to find a distinctively feminine form silhouetted against the blinding morning sun that fills the foyer. Great. A fucking groupie who’s sniffed out an opportunity to get close.
“Where the hell is our security, Rick?” I holler across the auditorium.
Kris and Emery quit their bellyaching on-stage and turn their attention to the newcomer.
Rick hustles between the seats as he pockets his phone. “You can’t be in here, love. I’m sorry.”
He reaches for the shadow of a girl, presumably to guide her out the way she came in. Yet the sassy little thing whips her arm away and marches her pert little butt down the aisle, right past Toby and me as though we don’t exist.
Who the fuck even does that? Acts as though we don’t exist, I mean.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she throws out to nobody in particular.
“Lady, this is a closed rehearsal.” I track the woman down the aisle, ignoring the fact she has one hell of a set of legs on her, and try to get the bitch to stop walking.
“Rehearsal?” She shoots a pouty-lipped smirk over her shoulder, and then promptly launches herself onto the stage. “Where are your instruments?”
“Coming,” I lamely protest. Losing your touch, boy.
Kris and Emery split, backing up a step each as she plows a path between them to a small road case shoved in the dark recesses of the stage.
“You can’t just walk in and take what you want.” I jab a hand at the trunk as she lifts the lid. “Woman, just stop fuckin’ messing with other people’s shit for a second would you?”
She snaps the locks closed again, and then hefts its bulk into her arms.
“You want a hand with that?” Kris murmurs. Ever the fucking gentleman.
“I’m fine.” She forces a smile for him. “Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t be helping her steal shit, you douche,” Toby teases from beside me.
“Can’t steal it if it’s mine, right?” Her slightly raised eyebrows dare any of us to challenge her.
“What the fuck is your shit doing in here?” I ask. “And how do I know it’s yours anyway?”
The svelte little thing dumps the case down on the stage between Kris and Emery with a loud thud. The metal corner brackets scratch on the painted surface as she spins it around to show a name etched into the panel above the lock.
Tabitha Reeves
“Am I supposed to know that’s you, let alone who the fuck you are?” I cross my arms, ignoring the elbow from Toby.
Small and petite Tabitha reaches into her back pocket and produces a wallet. What chick stashes her wallet in her back pocket like a guy? Weirdo. She flicks it open and then throws it down on the edge of the stage.
Like I’m playing into her game. Pfft. I turn my head to the side, refusing to look at the ID.
Toby does instead. He retrieves the wallet, nodding as he holds it out for me to see. “Legit.”
Like the petulant fuckhead I am, I lift my chin to avoid making eye contact with it. “Take your word for it.”
Toby hands the closed wallet back to our mystery chick, and then steps back from the stage as she shunts it back in her pocket. I eyeball her as she bends to retrieve the road case. If she hadn’t barreled in here like a snowball starting an avalanche, I might have been more interested at the start. But it’s only now when she’s distracted that I let myself steal a good fucking look.
She’s small—I noticed that much already. But she’s also tidy as fuck. Short, bobbed hair that frames her sharp jaw, slim waist and hips that hold more cushion than most of the stick-thin groupies we see backstage. A man has to appreciate a woman who can rock a little meat on her bones. She wears a plain enough outfit: black skinny jeans and a dark gray tank, but what makes her stand out are the boots loosely laced around her ankles: they have lilac music notes literally stitched into the leather. Cool.