Lisa laughed without mirth. “I don’t want the details.”
“Yes, you do. Meet me at the fair as soon as you can. I’ll be near the grandstand.”
Helen crossed her fingers. She and Lisa had hung out at the fair every year since the one where they’d bonded over deep-fried chocolate chip cookies while cheating on the austere vegan diet prescribed in yoga teacher training. With any luck, the setting would put Lisa in a mindset conducive to repairing their bond. Convincing her partner to believe the witch news? A bigger challenge. Helen would tackle the whopper when it arose.
“Whatever, fine, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Lisa hung up.
High on victory, Helen stepped to a cashier’s window.
An employee with a mullet took her money and pointed back and forth between them. He wore a T-shirt identical to hers. “We’re fan twins. You must be here for the show.”
Hell, yes. She’d put on her Chariotz of Fyre concert shirt, honoring classic hard rock at its finest. Fyre’s biggest-band-in-the-world status had downshifted to encompass the state fair circuit, but Helen and Lisa still adored them without a trace of irony. Long live the New Wave of British heavy metal. “You betcha. Rock and roll completes the state fair experience.”
“I know one of their roadies. Find a girl with pink dreadlocks. Name’s Marley, and tell her Buster said she’d hook you up with backstage passes.”
The universe was showering her with positivity. Even her surroundings radiated optimism. Notes of cotton candy and ride grease perfumed the air. A late August sun relaxed into a long-shadowed afternoon, kissing St. Paul with golden blush. People laughed. Upbeat music blared. Angels in heaven sang the Hallelujah chorus. Best day ever.
Helen gave Buster a giant grin. How long since she’d smiled like this? Weeks? Not since she’d thrown a sleepover potluck at the studio and the community had turned up with blankets, laughter, and scrumptious dishes to share. “I’ll do that, Buster. Thank you.”
He winked. “What can I say? I hook up my peeps.”
Helen set off into the fairgrounds. Squealing children catapulted down an inflatable yellow slide the size of a house, and shrieks belted from a nearby roller coaster looping upside-down.
She wove through packs of people schlepping stuffed animals and enormous cups of fountain pop, making a beeline for the grandstand’s empty bowl of bleacher seats. The crowd thinned, booths giving way to littered grass. As she picked up a plastic bottle and shoved it in an overflowing recycling can, Helen spied three black buses and a semi-tractor trailer behind a row of porta potties.
A young woman, pink dreads swinging, lugged black cases down the big rig’s ramp. Helen rubbed her hands together. Hello, Marley.
One of the bus doors opened with an airy hiss. Two men walked down the steps, and the sight of the taller one caused Helen to freeze.
Holy shit. None other than Brian Shepherd, Fyre front man and legendary silver fox. A ball cap covered his short hair, and aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, but she recognized his chiseled, clean-cut jaw from television.
Another guy, balding and with fuzzy caterpillars of sideburns crawling down the sides of his face, handed Brian a small bronze envelope.
Brian stuck the paper square in the pocket of a black leather jacket well-worn enough to look cool.
Damn. Brian was a sight, glowing with the greatness suited to a rock icon. Helen changed course and walked to him. Hey, she was a witch now. Might as well own her inner ferocity. She had to open with a decent line.
“If you are taking requests tonight, I’d love to hear ‘A Thousand Suns.’”
Brian turned to Helen and slid impenetrably dark glasses down his nose. She looked up into turquoise eyes as inviting and enveloping as a dip in the Caribbean Sea. A friendly smile curved his lips, emphasizing deep dimples and high cheekbones belonging on a male model.
“That experimental B-side? I’m impressed, love. Didn’t think anyone but me cared for the track.” He spoke in a velvety English voice quickened with what she swore was relief.
The other man scowled.
Huh. Maybe Brian was relieved to have someone else to talk to besides Mr. Sideburns. In that case, Helen was happy to volunteer as a tribute.
“Are you kidding? Your guitar solo was fit to charm maidens in a mythical forest. The Zeppelin influence was strong. ‘Suns’ got me though final exams.” No lies detected. Rocking out to Fyre saved her broke ass big money in therapy bills during college.
Brian chuckled and pocketed his shades. “You’ve gone and exposed yourself as too young for me, darlin’.”
Eh, whatever. His handsome face bore the lines of a traveling musician’s life and aligned with his age. Probably late forties. He sported the attractive kind of wrinkles, though. Webs at the edges of his eyes, smile brackets highlighting full, sensual lips.
“Are you fishing for a compliment? You rock onstage, and I’m sure fan girls still swoon hard for you. There you go. You’re welcome, Brian Shepherd’s ego. FYI, I’ve been out of college for seven years.”
“Noted. Shall I sign your shirt, or do you have a ticket stub?” Brian pulled a marker from the back pocket of his faded jeans, dropping a quick gaze to her natural double-Ds before reclaiming eye contact.
Tingles glimmered below her waistband. It didn’t bug her when desirable guys noticed her boobs and yoga-sculpted body. Besides, she’d be remiss not to enjoy the rock god’s attentions. Today called for whimsy and fun.
“Sure, but I was actually hoping for a couple of backstage passes.”
Brian yanked the pen cap off with his teeth and lobbed a playful wink her way. His eyes gleamed, evidence of some naughty thought dancing through his head.
She caught his scent, spicy cloves and citrus laced with musky maleness. Whew. Anyone have a personal fan?
“Are you always this assertive, asking for what you want?” He drew the words out, playing up a rumbling baritone somehow made even
