“Thanks,” Dylan said. He took my hand and started to lead me toward the dressing room.
I yanked it free.
Dylan froze and glanced over his shoulder. His expression was a mix of hurt and gratitude. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
“If you want to hold my hand, you can,” I said.
“I do, but ... you know.” He shrugged and took off, leaving me behind.
It was dark and busier than usual. Navigating the grips and stagehands took some time, but I made to the dressing room just barely unscathed. Or so I thought.
“Oh my shit,” Crystal screeched. “What the fuck happened to you?”
I stared back at her and lifted my shoulders. “What’re you talking about?”
Crystal pointed to a spot on my forehead. A boom had grazed me as I made my way toward the door and I didn’t think much of it. It was just a brush of metal. Yeah, it stung a little, but I’ve felt worse. It wasn’t anything major. Until I put my hand up and felt the sticky blood. I pulled my hand away. Red covered the tip of my fingers. My vision faded in and out, its sole focus on the blood. I tried to pull my eyes away, but I couldn’t not even as I heard Dylan’s voice shout my name. Then I didn’t hear or see anything.
Someone slapped my cheek. My eyes snapped open. Dylan’s fuzzy face hovered over me. As my eyes refocused on him, concern drew his eyebrows together.
“You okay, Cam?” Dylan asked, brushing my hair back off my face.
“Yeah, I just...” I reached up and gripped his fingers. “Blood does that to me, I guess.”
Dylan smiled, but it didn’t ease the lines around his eyes. “Are you sure? Your head... It’s not pretty.”
“It’s fine,” Crystal said somewhere near my feet.
I closed my eyes. “Did everyone see me pass out?”
“Oh, honey, we all saw you,” Heath said with a chuckle. “Just be glad Dylan’s fast on his feet. He caught you before you crashed.”
“Thank you,” I said, still keeping my eyes shut.
“Anytime,” he whispered.
A damp towel touched my forehead. The cold felt fantastic against my overheated skin. I didn’t move as someone cleaned me up. I didn’t want to move. Dylan’s fingers brushed through my hair. The movement soothed me. I opened my eyes and met his. Dylan’s gaze bore into mine with an intensity I’d never seen before.
“It’s a small scrap,” someone said. “She’ll be fine.”
Dylan nodded, but he still didn’t move. “Don’t scare me like that, okay?”
“Don’t let me see blood again, and I won’t.” I grinned and he finally relaxed.
“Oh yeah, they’re totally screwing each other,” Crystal said a little too loudly.
My face burned.
“So much for keeping us quiet,” Dylan said, but he smiled. “I hate keeping secrets anyway.”
I laughed. “Maybe you should let me up.”
“Maybe I like having you here.” He raised his eyebrows. I laughed again and he helped me to my feet. “Since we’ve failed already,” he said, then he kissed my forehead. The rest of the band whooped and Dylan let me go.
“It’s about damn time,” Heath said.
“What’s about damn time?” Hank asked as he strode into the dressing room. His makeup was already on, making him look like a caricature of himself. Onstage though, he’d look younger, more vibrant. Beneath the foundation and eyeliner, rage boiled. “Are you going to tell me or just fucking ignore me as usual?”
“Nobody’s ignoring you, Dad,” Dylan said, crossing his arms and blocking my view of Hank. Or maybe he was blocking Hank’s view of me. “Cami’s video is over ten thousand views. They’re just giving her shit about it.”
“Over ten thousand?” Hank asked. The doubt in his voice irked me to no end.
“Yeah, it topped the mark this morning,” Heath said.
I smiled at Heath and he winked. It was nice to have someone else on my side.
“It’s a great cover,” Crystal added. She sidled up next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I’m really proud of our girl here.”
Hank glanced at each one of us. “Whatever. We’ve got a show to do. I’m just here to remind you all that a music reviewer from the L.A. Times is in the crowd tonight. This asshole’s been gunning for me for decades, so be your goddamn best tonight.” His eyes zeroed in on me. “And no showboating.”
“Calm down, Dad,” Dylan said, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder.
Hank glanced at Dylan’s hand then shoved it off. He sneered at his son then each one of us, spending a little too much sneer time at me. I pressed my lips together to keep my mouth shut. Hank shook his head and stormed out of the dressing room. That man had a serious chip on his shoulder. But I didn’t care enough to wonder why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The show started off without a hitch. Hank sang better than he had all summer. If he wasn’t so damned unapproachable, I would’ve asked him for advice. My vocal chords have gotten pretty raw lately. The days off and milk with honey helped, but I knew I could do more. Crystal and I sounded great. There was no more battling for domination. We worked together. Unbeknownst to Hank, we’d freshened up our dance steps a bit. Everything was going exactly as it should. Even Dylan worked the crowd more than usual and his dad pretended like they were best friends on stage.
Then it stopped.
“Can I hear you scream?” Hank asked the crowd. He spun around, a hand to his throat, as the crowd screamed.
“Louder,” Dylan said, casting a worried look his father’s way.
Hank opened his mouth and croaked into the microphone. Nobody else heard him but the band. Dylan played a long guitar riff, then reintroduced the band.
The next song was Hank’s ballad “Everyday.” Hank still hadn’t faced the crowd as he downed a bottle of water. He glanced to Dylan and nodded. Dylan started the slow opening. Crystal and I began our sway with a
