The first punch hit one of their own, the man dropping to the ground. Crap! They should have left already. What if something happened to them? Or her parents? Panic seized her belly. Where were her parents?
“Oh, shit. Here we go,” Rhonda exclaimed. “It’s on! It’s on!”
Dee’s eyes widened in disbelief as her friend dropped into a guerilla stance, reached into one of her pockets, and pulled out a knife. One punch followed another until the entire crowd was fighting or trying to run away from it. She kicked off her sandals and gripped them in one hand by the straps, more than ready to do the latter.
The band’s guitar hit a sour note, and Rodney’s voice faded into a whispered “oh, fuck no” before the microphone squealed.
But Dee had forgotten all about Breeze because some pissed-off guy near Rhonda was bleeding, his buddy had a knife, too, and someone swung a fist…
Everything went black before Dee hit the ground.
* * *
Rodney concentrated on relaxing his vocal cords when they began the next song. This gig had been a mistake from the beginning. Playing on a sidewalk was nowhere as convenient or secure as a stage. At least the police helped keep the fans from mauling them.
He had to admit, the statue was kind of scary looking. Not something he’d want to put in his backyard, anyway. As usual, he scanned the audience for a woman or two to sing to. It helped him inject emotion into the song and probably gained him another fan for life.
More often than not, he ended up in bed with one of them after the show. But groupies had gotten old. They were fun for a night, but few women could handle a relationship with a famous musician. Always on the road, putting the music first, and tempted at every turn.
Two women of color marched in front of them. The one in the pink T-shirt acted pretty rude, giving the finger to everyone, including the band. Well, he definitely wasn’t going to make eyes at her.
The other, however. Now, she looked sweet. Big brown eyes matching her curly hair, which ended well above her shoulders. The fact she’d worn a skirt to a rally resonated with the Southern gentleman in him. Gazing at her endless, golden-brown legs, however, made him feel anything but.
When she looked at him, he did a double take. Despite the Confederate flag Jack insisted on waving here, she had admiring fan written all over her face. Whose side was she on, anyway? Had she come here looking for peace, like him?
The marching line led her away from the stage, making him itch to run after her. Suddenly, shouts pierced the air. People had been yelling all day, but these sounded different. Shrieks and screams followed as fists and knives flashed.
The peaceful rally had turned into a massive barroom brawl.
He cursed under his breath, stopped singing, and turned to glare at Jack who wailed on his guitar like a man possessed. The rapture on his face curdled Rodney’s stomach. Holy hell. He was actually enjoying the spectacle!
“Stop playing,” he ordered the band.
“Keep on,” Jack countered, launching into one of their hell-raising songs.
The rest of the band stared from one to another, not knowing who to follow. Well, Rodney intended to take care of that issue when this ordeal was over. He’d been giving his brother too much power. Some people just couldn’t handle it.
He tried to think of a song to play about harmony and peace, but the excitement had caused his mind to stop working. Another to-do item after the gig would be to write one. When the pretty protester girl dropped to the ground, blood trickling down her face and turning one side of her skirt red, he jumped off the stage.
Joe, their security manager, ran after him. “Rodney, get your ass back here. Time to go.”
But he didn’t listen. He dropped to his knees beside the girl and gripped her hand. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Rodney?” she whispered.
“You got that right,” he replied. “What’s your name?”
“Dee Dobson,” her friend said. “Now, get your bigoted self out of our way so I can take her to a hospital.”
Sirens wailed as more police arrived on the scene. A couple of ambulances did, too. The slightly injured rushed toward them while others dragged or carried the ones worse off.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” the woman yelled when he picked Dee up. “Put her down.”
“I can get her to the hospital faster than they can,” he said, nodding toward the ambulances. “You coming?”
She glared at him for a second, but she must have decided to trust him because she fell into step beside him and told him her name was Rhonda.
“What the hell?” Jack demanded when he saw the woman in Rodney’s arms.
“We’re going to the hospital. Pack up the band, will you?”
He and Jack had come in a rental vehicle—a deluxe silver pickup truck—while the rest of the band drove a rented van with the equipment. Joe drove the truck while Rodney sat with Dee in its backseat. Her head lay in his lap, and he did his best to stanch her bleeding with some paper towels.
Unfortunately, it meant he had to pull up the side of her skirt. At the same time, he kept her stable through the quick turns they made in heavy traffic. His black jeans were ruined, but he didn’t care.
From what he could tell, she’d been punched in the face and stabbed in the hip. At least she was breathing and conscious, but she acted dazed, probably still in shock.
“Where…we going?” she whispered.
He barely heard her above the roar of the engine as the truck raced along the highway.
“To the hospital,” he said, stroking her hair. “Don’t try to talk.”
“Why are you helping us?” Rhonda asked from the passenger seat,
