Page 6 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

Five

Jett

“ T his one goes out to Tamsin,” I call into the mic. The crowd in the city park roars, holding their phones aloft to record our show, the sea of lights like another galaxy mirroring the stars.

It’s nice to be out in the breeze, with the scent of grass and fresh water in the air—even if our gig is anything but peaceful. With the dazzling lights, thumping speakers, and sprawling crowd, we’ve turned this quiet park into a party. Folks must be able to hear us for miles around.

“Baby,” I say as Danny and Zeke retune their guitars a few steps back. “Come find me again. I’ve been looking for you, and I won’t stop searching.”

The crowd roars again, whipped into a fever pitch by the rawness of my message. The way I’m baring my heart for thousands of strangers to see—never mind the whole damn internet—all in the hope of finding Tamsin again.

Should I be embarrassed? Maybe. But I don’t care.

Over by the drums, Rocco wipes the sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt and swigs from a bottle of beer.

He doesn’t react to my little declaration, and neither do the other guys.

They’ve heard it at every gig for the last week already.

The first time, they came to me afterward, all hushed and solemn like I’d declared to the world that I had a terminal illness, but it’s old news now.

Sure, they think I’m losing my mind, but they’re not worried- worried.

“Let’s go,” Zeke calls, just loud enough for me to hear. They’re re-tuned and ready. I nod and grip the mic stand. Rocco smacks his drum sticks together four times, then launches into our next song.

It’s not a ballad, exactly—it’s too heavy for that—but it’s one of our more melancholic songs.

A heartbreak track. I grip the mic so hard my knuckles ache and sing until my voice cracks, picturing a pair of toffee-brown eyes.

It’s been three months since I stared into those eyes in person, and I’m starting to worry that one day my memory will get fuzzy and I’ll forget their exact color and shape.

I’ve trawled every social media site, every photo online from the night that Tamsin came to our gig. Nothing. No sign of her anywhere. I even checked the buyer details for our VIP passes that night, but Tamsin’s name wasn’t on the list.

She’s a ghost. Impossible to find a second time.

And she’s haunting me to hell and back.

The heat from the lights cooks us onstage, and sweat sheens my skin. Every muscle in my body is tensed, amped up on adrenaline, but it’s not just that. Each day that passes without Tamsin sets me a little more on edge. There’s a constant ache in my chest now, and my gut is twisted in knots.

I’m a goddamn wreck. Standing up on this stage, pouring out my lonely heart for a baying crowd, all singing along and swaying their phones in time with the beat.

At one point toward the end of the gig, I glance toward the edge of the stage on my right and see a camera flash. For a split second, hope rises in me, fierce and hot—Tamsin is a photographer, after all—but then the camera lowers to show a young woman with platinum blonde hair.

She’s looking at me strangely. Not in the same way that everyone else looks at me these days—like they’re worried about me and a bit bored of this extended meltdown—but like she knows something I don’t. Like there’s something she wishes she could tell me.

Tamsin.

An instinctive voice whispers her name in the back of my mind, and it takes every ounce of my self control to stay in place and finish the song. The next time I look over, the photographer has gone.

But as we finish up the gig, I’m not hollow anymore. Not numb. I’m fucking elated.

Because that girl knows something about Tamsin. I’d stake my life on it.

* * *

“Get some good photos?”

The photographer jolts as I speak behind her, then fumbles her camera where she’s packing a set of lenses away into a special padded case. We’re behind the stage after the show, down where empty flight cases are stacked everywhere and cables are coiled on the grass.

The sound of the crowd is still insane, even with the muted music playing from the speakers to usher them away. There’s no VIP meet and greet tonight—not with this city park venue. Our head of security put his foot down.

I’m free for the rest of the night. Free to track down this platinum blonde photographer and ask her what the hell she knows about Tamsin.

My heart beats fast beneath my vest. She knows something. I’m so fucking sure.

“Uh, yep! Yes. Lots of good ones.” The photographer shoots me a nervous smile, then keeps packing her equipment away. “I’ll send them all to the marketing lead once they’re edited. Or if you’re looking for something right now, I got some great shots last week in—”

“Do you know Tamsin?” I interrupt, my skin prickling when this girl flushes and looks down, like she’s guilty about something. She knows. “She’s a photographer too. Maybe you know her. About this tall,” I hold a palm about my shoulder level, “long dark hair, light brown eyes. Husky voice.”

“The girl you were singing to tonight,” the photographer adds weakly. She frowns down at her gear as she zips it all away, and she doesn’t look at me as she asks, “Do you always do that? I mean, have you done it before? I work a lot of these gigs, and that was new to me.”

“For the last week.”

“Oh.”

The girl’s frown deepens, and she yanks harder at a zip that doesn’t want to close. It’s jammed open by an inch, the padded case for her camera bulging open like a little laughing mouth.

“Well?” Impatience sharpens my voice, but I clear my throat and try again. “I’m trying to find her. Tamsin. Do you know her?”

When the photographer nods slowly, still scowling down at her case, I wanna yell in triumph and punch the sky. Finally, a lead. Already, I feel lighter, because it’s gonna happen. I’m gonna see Tamsin again.

“I do,” the photographer says, and then she finally turns to face me square-on, her hands propped on her hips. Suddenly stern. “She’s my best friend. So you can understand why I’m feeling a little protective.”

My hackles rise, because any insinuation that I’d ever do anything to hurt Tamsin is a fucking insult, but I force myself to smile calmly.

“I just want to talk to her. To see if she’ll give me another chance.”

And see if she can explain what exactly I did wrong the first time, so I never, ever do it again. Never scare off my other half. But I don’t say that part, obviously; I’m all too aware that I’m walking the line here between persistent and overbearing.

The photographer hums, gazing at me thoughtfully. For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in her gaze—something like sympathy. Then she holds out her hand.

“Give me your phone.”

I bark out a laugh. “Worst mugging ever,” I say, but I dig out my phone, unlock it and slap it into her palm anyway, because if there’s a risk of her breaking into a sprint and selling my shit online…

so be it. I’ll take that risk if it gets me closer to Tamsin.

Besides, there’s no way this girl could outrun me in those heeled ankle boots.

“This is my number,” blondie says as she types it into my phone, “not Tamsin’s.

” I open my mouth to argue that I don’t fucking want her number, but she shuts me up with a glare and adds, “You can call tomorrow at nine. I happen to know that Tamsin has the morning off, and if she wants to talk to you… you can talk then. Otherwise, I’ll let it ring out. ”

My heart is lodged somewhere in my throat as I double check the new number in my phone. Photographer Patty , she’s saved it as.

Holy shit.

My hand shakes as I shove my phone back in my pocket. Is this for real? I could actually speak to Tamsin tomorrow morning, after months and months of wondering where she is and why she left? I could hear her husky voice say my name?

“Thank you,” I grit out, almost too overwhelmed to speak.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Photographer Patty mutters. “Let’s see how this goes.”

* * *

The next morning, at nine AM sharp, I grip my phone so tightly the case creaks, pressing it against my ear. The line rings and rings, and as the seconds pass, I start to sweat.

I’m back in the city park where we performed last night, and where we have another show tonight before we pack up and move on.

It’s a whole other world on this cloudy morning: quiet and calm, with dog walkers and joggers out enjoying the paths.

Our empty stage squats on a hill in the distance, and I squint at it from where I’m leaning against a big tree stump.

We must look so tiny to the folks at the back of the crowd. Like little critters performing on stage.

The line rings on. Even though it’s cloudy this morning, the air is still muggy with summer heat, and a drop of sweat rolls down my spine.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “ Please .”

I let it ring for a long time. Probably longer than I should. For so long that the sleepy half of my brain that hasn’t woken up yet keeps thinking there should be tinny music or a recorded message that my call is important and to please hold the line.

My boot scuffs against the grass. It’s been a long, dry summer already, and the grass looks parched.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

She’s not gonna pick up, is she?

My chest is an ashen wasteland. Swallowing hard, I start to lower the phone from my ear.

“Hello?”

The voice is so quiet, but I slam the phone back to the side of my head.

“Tamsin? Are you there?”

There’s a long pause, followed by a shaky breath. “Yes. I’m here.”

Emotions riot through me, almost too intense to bear. Relief, delight, longing, bitterness, fear. This is the woman that turned my world upside down in a single night, and then walked away without a backward glance. I don’t know how to feel.

“Good,” I say at last, because after wanting to speak to this girl for so long, I suddenly have no damn clue what to say. “Okay, good. Thanks, uh. Thanks for taking my call.”

Were we always this stilted? Always this formal?

Definitely not. There was nothing formal about the way Tamsin kissed me outside that stadium, her body arching to press against mine.

“I miss you,” I gust out, and even if it’s the wrong thing to say, even if it’s too much too soon, it’s such a relief to say the words out loud.

“I don’t know where I went wrong that night, but I want a do-over.

When you left that morning, it’s like you scooped out my chest and took everything with you.

” Melodramatic? Yes. Accurate? Also yes.

“Come on, baby. Give this another shot.”

Tamsin’s breaths are coming quick over the line. She’s not unaffected by this either, thank god.

It would be so much worse if she didn’t care. If she barely remembered our night together; if she was nothing except mildly creeped out that I’ve been trying so hard to find her again.

At least I’m not insane. At least she feels the intoxicating power of this thing between us too. Why else would her voice quaver like that when she replies?

“I miss you too,” Tamsin says, and Christ, I’m glad I walked to an empty patch of park, because I need to swipe sudden moisture from my eyes. Don’t know whether I’m welling up out of longing or relief—probably both. “But things are… complicated, Jett. They’re messy.”

“I can handle messy.”

Tamsin blows out a shaky breath. “Well, this is really messy. And I’m not sure if… I don’t know if I can…”

“Where are you?” I say when she trails off. “I’ll come to you. I’ll leave right now.” Screw tonight’s gig. Everyone will hate me, but they’ll get over it in time. “Let me come and find you, Tamsin. Let me help with whatever it is.”

“You can’t help with this.”

She doesn’t sound sure.

I stand and start pacing back and forth on the parched grass. The sun peaks through the clouds overhead, and over in the distance, the empty tour trucks and the crew bus wink in the sudden brightness.

“Let me try,” I say.

“I—I can’t.”

Frustration builds, and I shove a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands until my scalp prickles. “ Why not ?”

“Because I’m a liar,” Tamsin blurts out, her misery clear even down the crackly line. “I’m not a photographer. I’m not the person you think I am, Jett. I’m so much less , and if you met the real me, you never would have—”

“I would!”

“And now there are even more secrets, and they’re so much bigger, and I hate this, I hate lying to you, I hate missing you every minute of every day, but I dug this hole for myself and there’s no way to climb back out of it.”

Tamsin stops and gasps for breath, and my jaw is clenched again at the sound of her anguish.

I’d give anything in the world to be with her right now, to be able to stroke her hair and tell her everything will be okay.

I’d give every cent in my bank accounts.

Hell, I’d even give up my voice, Little Mermaid style.

I pace faster.

“We’re going to fix this,” I say instead, trying to imbue my voice with complete certainty.

Trying to soothe my girl down a fuzzy phone line.

“We’re gonna clean up whatever mess is troubling you, and we’re gonna fix all the lies, and we’re gonna tidy it all up until there’s nothing to be sad about.

Okay? But first you need to tell me where you are. You need to let me see you again.”

There’s a long, loaded pause. My heart slows way down while I wait, throbbing inside my chest. I stop pacing and wait on a patch of scrubby grass, swallowing down my mounting dread.

Then: “I’m sorry, Jett.”

The call ends. And I yell and kick the tree stump hard enough to rattle my bones.