“Sweetheart, what—” a deep, raspy voice called from inside the room, then a lean man with spiky dark hair and multiple facial piercings stepped out into the corridor, saw them too, and fell silent.
Not good, Nell thought, recognizing the Smidge guitarist and the absolute burning rage rising in his face, just as Eamonn stepped past her.
He must have thought he’d have a chance to say a few words, to begin his apology, but Blade — it was Blade — lunged forward in fury and landed a hard punch that split Eamonn’s lip and rocked him backward a few staggering steps. Then Blade closed the gap and delivered a few more punches, and Eamonn began almost automatically to defend himself and return blows, so that the pair of them were fighting in earnest, blood splattering messily from Eamonn’s lip.
“Blade! Christopher, please stop!” the pregnant woman called out, wrapping her arms protectively around her belly. She clearly didn’t know what to do and was afraid to approach the fight. “Angel! Dice! Help!”
Smidge’s lead vocalist and drummer dashed out of their rooms, along with an electric-orange-haired woman whose spectacular breasts strained her crew t-shirt and the bib of her overall shorts, and two men who looked like security or bodyguards raced up the far-end stairs from the courtyard.
Well, Eamonn won’t hit me. I can break this up, now that help is here to keep them apart. Nell eyed the fighters, watching for the right moment to slide herself between them. She used her right shoulder and hip to check Eamonn backward, creating space, then chambered her left knee up and planted a firm sidekick into Blade’s abdomen with enough force to send him tumbling onto his backside. She kept her eyes on him just long enough to make sure that the blond vocalist and the pregnant woman were holding his arms and talking him down, then she turned and wrapped her arms around Eamonn to prevent him from doing anything foolish until he too had calmed himself.
Blood from Eamonn’s lip and nose was smeared over his chin and down his shirt, and Nell realized with some annoyance that it had transferred to her shirt as well. “That went well,” she said quietly, for his ears only, drawing a rueful laugh from him.
By this time, the security crew had reached them and were pacing warily around.
“I came to apologize,” Eamonn said, talking over Nell’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Blade. The genuine ring of sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m sorry.”
Nell relaxed her arms and turned a bit so she could see what was going on. Blade had gotten to his feet and was clearly still seething. The pregnant woman had her arms around him and was trying to lead him away, but he stood like a rock, his mouth open as though he wanted to say something but was too flooded with feelings to find words.
“Go with Crys, dude,” the blond man said to him. “Let her calm you. We’ll sort this out.” Then he turned to Nell and Eamonn, wry humor in his face. “Maybe a surprise appearance wasn’t the best choice, Easy? And who’s this?” Behind him, the drummer — at least, Nell felt fairly sure that the tall man with the bandana and floppy brown hair was Smidge’s drummer — gave a nod in their direction and then followed Blade and the pregnant woman into one of the rooms, pulling the door closed behind him. The orange-haired woman moved to stand with the security men, not intruding on the conversation but near enough to keep an eye on everything.
“Nell, meet Angel, Smidge’s lead singer and front man. Angel, this is my girlfriend Nell.” Eamonn’s voice was thick, his nose clogged now, his lip swelling.
Angel held out a hand for her to shake, and when she took it, she found he had a firm, confident grip. The handshake of a reliable person. Interesting, for a rock star.
“You’re going to want to get cleaned up,” Angel said, eyeing the blood. “Room 20 at the end of this floor is empty; you two can have that one. Go settle in and have a wash, then we’ll talk. Got bags?”
“Still in the car we came in out front, I should think,” Nell said. “And his bass.” It occurred to her, now, how unwise it had been to leave their things in the hired limousine — especially his instrument — but his mind had been on the apology he’d have to make, and her mind had been on him.
Angel nodded at one of the security men, who headed off down the stairs. “Aidan’ll bring your stuff up. Just… do me a favor and stay in your room until I’ve talked to Blade, okay?”
“You’ve got it,” Eamonn said.
At that, Angel cocked an interested eyebrow. “What happened to your maybe I will and maybe I won’t line?”
Without thinking, Eamonn started to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, winced, and looked down at the bloody smear as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. “A smart woman convinced me that it’s time to drop the asshole rock star act, at least around you guys, so…”
That drew an incredulous grimace from Angel. “And what the fuck made you think that act would be a good idea in the first place?”
Eamonn shrugged. “Dunno. I just wanted to fit in, man. You all were so tight, younger than me and so mad about the label pushing you to drop your bassist, and I came in for that audition thinking I needed to be all cool to impress everyone. Tried to play Han Solo to your Skywalker, and it
