Page 6 of Love Songs (Harmony Lake #3)

BACK AT THE fire station booth, my attention kept straying to the band on stage.

Specifically, to the singer for the band on stage.

As much as I loved his music and had been a fan ever since Ryan had first introduced me to the Dallas Blade Band, I’d never seen them perform live.

Concerts weren’t my thing. That might have to change, because watching Blade move across the stage from all the way over on Main Street was a sight.

I could only imagine how much more thrilling it must be right up close.

Close enough to see his chest rise and fall, and the sweep of his gaze, the lift of his mouth, and the sweat trickling down his creamy skin.

Blade’s voice carried across the park and danced on my eardrums. I didn’t know if it was because the show was live or the acoustics or what, but Blade’s voice had a quality to it I’d never heard before on his recordings.

Deeper somehow, with a touch of grit to it that reminded me of smoky bars and hard liquor.

Not that I drank hard liquor, and smoky buildings, in my experience, usually meant they were burning down.

But whatever had changed about his voice, I liked it.

The song ended and the cheer the audience sent up rivaled our fire engine siren.

I frowned. I’d been so fixated on Dallas that I hadn’t noticed the audience had doubled in size, and a fissure of concern spread through my chest. Being outdoors eliminated capacity and exit concerns, but the growing crowd brought all kinds of risks with it.

Just because they weren’t confined inside a building didn’t mean they were safe from harm.

Fortunately, Sheriff Sturn was over there keeping an eye on things, along with a couple of his deputies, but that still didn’t ease the impending sense of doom in the pit of my stomach.

Dallas launched into what would be their last song, and everything seemed to be okay, even though that gut feeling didn’t subside.

“Hey, Holly,” Whittaker interrupted. “Can you help me reset for the fire hose demo?”

“Sure thing,” I said. A breeze ruffled my hair, and my scalp prickled when I stepped out of the covered booth.

Not a minute after I turned my back on the show, I heard someone shout, “ Fire .”

I spun around to see flames licking up the band curtains in the stage wings.

Shit-shit-shit .

“Whitty, stay here with Eldi,” I shouted as I grabbed a fire extinguisher from the booth, thankful that we had almost our entire firefighting kit here for demonstrations. “Jackson, come with me.”

We raced across the park to the band shell, yelling at everybody to stay calm and get back as we went. We split off at the stage, Jackson going to the front to help move the crowd closest to the fire away, while I jumped onto the stage and doused the flames with the extinguisher.

Luckily, the fire was small and hadn’t spread beyond the one curtain, so it only took a couple of minutes to put it out. Smoke rolled across the stage and dissipated as the light breeze grabbed it.

Once I was satisfied that there were no more embers or risk of a flare-up, I turned to the audience.

“Sorry, everyone,” I raised my voice to be heard. “The fire’s out now. What a way to end the show, right?”

Cheers and whistles greeted my declaration. I took a bow, because it seemed like the right thing to do when people were cheering you.

Dallas glared at me—which, what the hell for? I didn’t start the fire—and stepped up to the microphone.

“Thank you, Caldwell Crossing. You’ve been a wonderful audience.” Dallas paused and cleared his throat, but his voice sounded a little scratchy when he continued, “I’ll be signing autographs at the side of the stage in half an hour.”

A smaller crowd of hardcore Dallas Blade Band fans whooped and headed toward stage left, while everyone else made their way out of the park and onto the rest of their evening. I wondered how many of them would be at the auction in a couple of hours.

Ugh. Why did I think of that ?

I turned to inspect the area. Someone had placed a power bar on the stage, right underneath the curtains. One outlet had a plug in it that led to the backside of the amplifiers, where a small gorilla stand sat on the floor holding a cell phone. Its red recording light was still on.

You have got to be kidding me .

I put my free hand on my hip and growled. That had not been there when I’d signed off on the band’s setup, and if it had, I never would have entertained approving it for even a second. No matter how magical Blade’s voice was at making me agree to things I knew better not to.

I glanced over my shoulder. They hadn’t moved the flash pots from where I’d told them they should stay, lucky for them, but that foreboding gust of wind I’d felt must have pushed the sparks inside the stage, where they’d hit the power bar and short-circuited it, and that then ignited the curtains above it.

The progression was as easy to see as tumbling dominos.

I didn’t take much in life too seriously and I joked around a lot, because in my job, I’d seen how fast life could change, or worse, end.

But when it came to fire, I was dead serious.

I tried to stay professional. I really did, but nothing pissed me off more than otherwise smart people doing stupid things.

Add in months of frustration dealing with this particular band, and well, buh-bye professional.

“Who the hell put this fucking power bar here?” My voice boomed inside the band shell and out into the park. Jackson stared up at me with wide eyes, along with a few startled fans. “And this goddamned phone?”

I blasted the thing with the fire extinguisher to make the point before taking a second to think better about that. White foam encased the phone and stand into a single abstract art object.

Whoops .

“What the hell, man?” Dallas shouted over my shoulder, and I jumped, not realizing he’d been that close. “You trashed my phone!”

“ That —” I pointed at it, my movement jerky and disdain dripping from my voice. “—was the reason for the fire. Which might have been okay if you hadn’t insisted on your precious fucking pyro.”

“It’s just a cell phone,” Dallas retorted, followed by a short cough, not getting the point.

“Which was plugged into a friggin’ power bar. Not to code, by the way.” I waved toward the bar. “And your pyro short-circuited that bar. That shouldn’t have been there !”

My voice rose with each word of that last sentence, because yeah, I was pissed as hell now. The nerve this guy had to argue with me . . .? I swear, my blood was on the verge of boiling in my veins.

Dallas’s complexion paled as the guitarist, Kirk, came up beside him.

“You need to stop talking,” he said to Dallas.

Good advice .

“I’m fine,” Dallas snapped, the color rising in his cheeks again. “And you!” He jabbed a finger at me. “Owe me a n—”

A full-on coughing fit overtook Dallas. His eyes widened with something like fear, and he flailed his arms the way someone drowning would reach for help.

Anger fled and all my firefighter training kicked in. He’d probably been standing too close to the fire, not realizing how much smoke it emitted before the flames took hold.

I grabbed his shoulders, and he gripped onto my forearm like a lifeline.

“Hey, you’re okay. You probably inhaled a little smoke.” I guided Dallas to the backstage area and onto a chair. “Anyone have water?” I shouted.

A roadie from earlier handed me a fresh bottle of cold water. A look of concern etched on his face.

I thanked him as I twisted off the cap.

“Here.” I handed it to Dallas, but he shook his head.

I frowned. “You need water.”

“Too cold,” he gasped, pushing my hand and the bottle away.

“Are you for real right now?” I snapped, speaking before thinking. But seriously? He was going to be a diva about the water temperature?

He raised an eyebrow at me, and if an eyebrow could be condescending, that one deserved an award.

“Ginger tea or . . . hot water with lemon and . . . honey . . . is better . . . for my throat,” he said haltingly.

I cursed under my breath and pulled out my cell phone, punching Jackson’s number.

“I need you to run over to Mabel’s Bistro booth and get a ginger tea,” I ordered before he could say hello.

“You want me to get you a tea?” Jackson sounded scandalized. “Now?”

“No.” I snorted. “Dallas Blade inhaled some smoke.”

“Oh.” His voice took on a whole new note at that information. “Yes. Right away.”

“Thanks. Mabel will have it waiting for you.”

After calling Mabel and putting in the rush order so it would be ready for Jackson, I took a good look at Dallas.

The defeated set of his shoulders bothered me for a reason I couldn’t explain, but more so was the fact that he seemed scared.

The fire hadn’t been big, and we’d been there to put it out before it could turn into something serious, but maybe he was afraid of fire.

Though that made little sense, considering the amount of pyro their live shows were famous for.

Those damn pyrotechnics.

“Why was there a cell phone set up on the stage?” I questioned, my tone a little harder than I intended, but again, people doing stupid things . . .

Dallas glared at me but didn’t speak.

“He can’t talk right now,” Kirk said as he entered the room and handed what looked like a hard candy to Dallas, who took it with a grateful nod. He opened it and popped it into his mouth. I noted the wrapper was for a throat lozenge.

Kirk turned to me. “He was recording the show for his—”

Dallas kicked him with the toe of his boot, shifting his glare from me to Kirk, who raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, man.”

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “If you wanted to record you should have told me. There are a million safer ways to do that.”

Dallas opened his mouth and snapped it shut with a snarl.

Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor, and Jackson burst into the room. He held his hand high, holding a to-go cup.

“I’m here!” he shouted the obvious, skidding to a stop in front of Dallas.

He passed the cup to Dallas, who flashed a blinding smile as he accepted it. A tendril of jealousy snaked through my guts that Jackson had been the recipient of that smile.

What the serious freaking hell ?

“That was an amazing show,” Jackson effused, and a second later, his eyes widened. He stammered on. “I mean, before the fire. I’ve seen you play live like, four times.”

“Thanks, man,” Kirk said with a smile. “We love to hear that.”

Jackson gasped, as if only now realizing who Kirk was. “You’re . . . Can I, uh . . .” He patted his pockets, coming up with a small notepad he always carried with him. “Could I get your autographs?”

I rolled my eyes. Now was really not the time for this. “Jackson . . .”

“It’s all good,” Kirk said, and Dallas made a gimme motion at the same time.

Signatures signed, Jackson smiled so big I thought his face might crack in half.

“Thank you,” he gushed, staring at them and not moving.

“Okay,” I said, getting things back on track. “Jackson, can you please go and take photos of the scene while I wrap up here?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Jackson pocketed his notebook and shook both Dallas and Kirk’s hands. “It was amazing meeting you both.”

“You too,” Kirk replied.

“I don’t think you inhaled too much smoke.

Maybe a breath or two, so you shouldn’t need oxygen,” I said to Dallas after Jackson left.

He looked up at me with electric blue eyes.

Now that the immediate danger was over, a new emotion rolled through my veins: desire.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, as though that would curtail my wandering libido.

“Keep an eye on your breathing. Go to urgent care right away if your breath gets short. Otherwise, keep the fluids flowing for a few more hours and you’ll be good to go. ”

Dallas snorted at that.

Okay, then .

“Good talk,” I said, not hiding my sarcasm, and spun on my heel to leave.

And that was why it was a bad idea to meet your heroes in person.