Page 18 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

“Thank y’all!”Chayce Fall waved at the crowd and jogged off the stage, nodding to his band leader, who played him off into the wings. Falin was a kick-ass lady who kept the stage musicians organized and working, and she would close it out while he made his escape. His guys knew how to take it home.

He had to show up in tight jeans, shake his booty, hit the right notes, and let his love for performing shine through. It was so much better hearing the crowds roar because he was singing their favorite song than because he’d been thrown off the back of a bull. Which, hell, who was he kidding? He’d loved that too. He’d just gotten too old and too beat up for it.

He grinned at the stage manager, who gave him a thumbs-up. No second encore tonight. This was a tight show, and he had a plane to catch. He took the towel someone handed him, mopping sweat. “Thanks, y’all. Vicki, I got to get home.”

His tour manager and all-around controller of the schedule nodded to him. “Your jet’s waiting for you. Limo is right here.” She waved him through toward the big black sedan, which had been pulled into the back bay of the venue. He could still hear the faint cheering of the crowd, the band taking their moment in the limelight, and for a second he wanted to run back out there.

No.

No, not tonight.

His momma was having her birthday party tonight, and he’d promised her he’d be there before the last hurrah. She’d even started the shindig late for him.

He tugged on the jean jacket someone handed him, ready to hit the road, and started toward the open limo door.

Which was when all hell broke loose.

Chayce heard the gunshot before he saw the weird flash when the bullet ricocheted off the limo. The pinging sound was also a dead giveaway that the damn bullet had come too close for comfort.

“Chayce! Get down!” A line of fire creased his cheek, and the security guys tackled him, burying him under ten thousand pounds of sweaty muscle as they took him to the floor.

Oh. Blah.

Really, wouldn’t it be better to shove him in the car than to lie on top of him? He wondered about these guys sometimes. Big, but not a lot of bright…

Jesus, if they were going to make him late, they might as well just shoot him. His momma would chew his ass up and spit it out. She was already furious he’d scheduled a date on her special day.

Yeah. Shoot him now.

He’d take that over a furious, scared momma bear who was celebrating her sixtieth birthday any day.

“Y’all get off.” Chayce shoved and wiggled, trying to get some air.

“Someone is shooting at you, sir!”

“I’m suffocating in here. Shoot him back or something. You really want to deal with my momma?”

He knew better. No one wanted to mess with the Queen of the Oilfields. She was… fierce, his momma, and he would tear the nuts off anyone who kept her from getting what she wanted.

And she wanted her baby boy, and the pair of diamond ear-bobs he’d bought her. Thank God for personal assistants that talked to each other and made him look good.

“No sir.” One of the bodyguards, a big old boy who had played football for his hometown team, hopped up to yank him to his feet, his boots actually dangling for a moment. “Time to go.”

“Yep. Everyone in the audience safe? My band?”

“You know it. That shot was for you.”

Excellent. Only not. “Let’s hasta.” He assumed someone had called the cops. He didn’t really care. He had security to deal with that. He wanted out of wherever they were and on the plane where -- while maybe it was more likely he’d get hit -- it was way more difficult to be shot at.

“Yessir.” Someone shoved, and he stumbled into the car, no more bullets pinging, thank goodness. He righted himself, someone slammed the door, and they were off and running.

He leaned back, and his driver Kenny glanced back at him, dark eyes looking like nothing more than holes burned in a blanket.

“Okay, man. That sucked.”

“No shit. Drive.” The let-down was bad after a show, but this? This was brutal. His body already ached, and shivers were starting, as if he had the flu. Adrenaline was a bear, and when the crisis was over, it left a guy limp as a noodle.

“On it.” They roared off, and he figured they took the first corner on two wheels. Which in a limo was precarious.

Now all he had to do was fly across country and make it to the party on time.

Hopefully, the plane would move faster than the police.