Page 8 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar (Oops Baby #2)

Seven

Jett

T onight has been the worst goddamn show of my career.

I’ve messed the lyrics up four times, looping back to the wrong verses in songs which we’ve played hundreds of times before.

Too distracted to focus, not that the cheering crowd seems to have noticed.

My band mates have, though. The guys keep exchanging looks, like they’re worried about me.

Meanwhile, I’ve tossed back bottle after bottle of chilled water, but nothing can soothe the ragged burn of my torn throat after yelling in dismay when Tamsin hung up this morning. When my insides burned to ash, and all the color drained from the world in the space of a split second.

Yes, I’m being melodramatic. But that’s how it fucking feels, okay?

Rock stars aren’t known for their calm and equilibrium.

Rocco smacks his drum sticks together four times, then we launch into another of our most popular tracks. For a while, the music is enough to carry me, buoying me along on the beat, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation.

Then I start singing, and my throat stings in reproval. And it hits me all over again: that disastrous phone call; the pain and misery in Tamsin’s voice; the way she hung up and left me in that park, even lonelier than before with a throbbing toe from kicking that tree stump.

All day, the horror of that failed phone call has been slapping me in the face whenever I’ve tried to relax.

Couldn’t eat without remembering and wanting to gag; couldn’t shower without groaning and resting my head on the tiled wall.

Couldn’t find any scrap of relief, except for mid-afternoon when I said screw it and went out for a long, punishing run around the leafy park trails, arms pumping and face slicked with sweat, my bruised toe throbbing in my sneaker.

Now I’m onstage, with thousands of phones pointed at me. The whole world is watching, and meanwhile I’m a shell of a man. A certifiable wreck.

“Tamsin,” I blurt, when we reach the song I’ve been dedicating to her each night. “I…”

But what is there to say? I had my second chance this morning, and I crashed and burned. After a certain point, if a woman doesn’t want me back, I need to respect that. Even if she’s it for me.

“I…”

The crowd whistles and cheers, waving their lit-up phones in the air.

They know to expect this by now; they’ve seen my heartfelt dedications in clips online.

People are excited for this part of the show every night, like it’s all part of the theatricality.

Since I started calling out to Tamsin this way, our ticket resale prices have gone astronomical.

Too bad for them that there’s nothing more to say.

“I’ll always love you,” I grit out eventually, and the crowd goes wild. They don’t realize that this is it: the last time I’ll make this scene. I’m not gonna pester the woman I love. “Goodbye.”

My last word is swallowed up by the whoops and screams, but my band mates hear it. Now they glance at each other, really worried, and Zeke shrugs.

Coughing to clear my torn throat, I grip the microphone stand and wait for the opening chords.

* * *

“Great show,” a familiar voice says as I stomp offstage after our final song, about to follow the guys through the stacks of flight cases to our makeshift dressing area on the grass. My chest thumps dully, and I turn to face Photographer Patty. The guys go ahead, not noticing that I’ve stopped.

Patty smiles at me, and there’s so much sympathy in her expression that I want to howl and punch the nearest tower of cases. Instead, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and grunt.

“Kept forgetting the lyrics,” I mutter, though she probably heard as much for herself. The tour photographers have seen dozens of our shows each by now, and could probably all sing our songs by heart. “Couldn’t focus.”

Patty nods, sliding something out of the back pocket of her jeans. A folded piece of paper.

“I don’t blame you. But buckle up, Jett Santana, because focusing on anything is about to get a whole lot harder.”

She holds out the piece of paper to me. I stare down at it, nonplussed.

“It’s a letter,” Patty says after a brief pause, since I’m acting like a dumbass who never saw paper before. “From Tamsin.”

I snatch the letter so fast, the page crumples. “Thanks,” I choke out.

“Read it somewhere private,” Patty calls, but I’m already striding away into the darkness of the backstage area, weaving between walls of black flight cases and towers of silver boxes of sound equipment.

They gleam in the moonlight, and I turn instinctively toward the deeper, velvety shadows.

The letter is clutched tight in my hand.

Further back from the stage, trucks are being lined up, backing into position to get loaded.

They beep shrilly as they reverse, and crew members in high vis vests guide them closer then hold up a hand to tell them when to stop.

I veer left, away from the chaos, because folks are already hitching ramps onto the trucks and throwing the doors wide open.

I’ve watched these crews work before, and they’ll have the whole stage torn apart and loaded onto the trucks in the blink of an eye.

Like a shoal of piranhas stripping a carcass in twenty seconds flat.

I do not want to be in the way while they work. What I need is a quiet spot with decent light.

The answer comes as I shoulder my way through the waiting crew, all of them tugging on work gloves and swinging their arms around to limber up.

The truck headlights. The bright light pooling on the grass, over at the end of the vehicles where nothing is happening. Perfect.

“‘Scuse me.” Head up, my glare fixed on that pale pool of light, I squeeze my way through the crew to the front of the trucks. “Coming through.”

There’s a tiny squeak behind me, but when I glance back, no one’s looking my way. The crew all surge forward as one, swarming toward the stage and the empty cases piled everywhere to start packing up. The sound of hammers on metal rings through the night.

Over in the headlights, I unfold Tamsin’s letter and smooth it against my trembling palm. Her handwriting is small and kinda messy, and I have to squint to read it, tilting the letter this way and that in the bright headlight.

When I’m done, I fold the letter carefully and tuck it into my own pocket. My heart is beating so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t punch its way clean out of my chest.

Tamsin.

I tilt my head back and roar up at the stars.

* * *

Photographer Patty. I need Photographer Patty, so I hurry across the trampled grass, scanning for platinum blonde hair in the moonlight. All around me, crew members push heavy cases toward the trucks, the weight trundling over the uneven ground.

“Patty,” I yell, but the sound is swallowed up by the clang of hammers and the shouts of the crew.

She knows Tamsin. She knows where she is. And surely, since she delivered that letter, she knows that Tamsin is pregnant with my child.

I won’t be kept away. Not anymore; not this time.

I need to see my girl. Need it more than oxygen.

Photographer Patty will understand that—if I can find her.

“Patty,” I yell again, grimacing at the pain in my torn throat. “Patty!”

A big guy is pushing an equipment case past me toward the trucks, his expression bored in the starlight, and I clap a hand on his shoulder, stopping him by my side. The guy scowls, looks ready to yell at me for stopping him at work, then recognition dawns on his craggy face.

“Shit,” he says. “You’re Jett Santana.”

“Yeah.” I’m not above pulling that card right now. Not when every wasted second feels like an hour. “Yeah, I am. Have you seen Patty? The photographer?”

The guy nods, then jerks his head back over his shoulder. “She’s helping take down the truss. Step, uh, step carefully though, man. You’re not in protective boots like everyone else.”

“Sure.”

Whatever. As I break into a jog, heading in the direction he pointed, my own heavy boots slam against the dirt, and my leather vest creaks. Hell, I’m probably in more protective clothing than anyone else here.

The truss, it turns out, is the shiny metal frame that holds up all the dazzling stage lights. The crew have lowered it down flat on the grass, and now they’re hammering it apart with ruthless efficiency. Flashlights zap back and forth over the earth.

I ignore all that, rounding the truss to head straight for the shock of platinum blonde hair I’ve spied across all the metal. By the time I reach Patty where she’s leaning over, hammering at a thick silver peg, I’m already speaking.

“You need to tell me where Tamsin is, okay? The letter doesn’t say, but I know you know. I need to see her. I need to tell her—private stuff.”

Patty snorts, straightening up and propping both fists on her hips, one still clutching a mallet. Her headtorch shines directly into my eyes, and I hold up a hand to shade the beam. “So private that you declare it to the whole internet every gig.”

“That’s—I’m desperate, okay!” My temples throb at the injustice. “I haven’t seen Tamsin for over three fucking months. Would you rather I pussyfoot around and worry about what everyone else thinks?”

Patty grins and taps her flashlight down so she’s not blinding me anymore.

“Nope. I think it’s very romantic, actually.”

Too fucking right.

“So you’ll tell me where she is?”

Patty grins even wider. “I’ll do you one better, Santana. I’ll show you.”

Then she steps forward, grips my arm, tugs me around, and points.

My stomach drops.

My eyes prickle as I stare—at Tamsin , in holey jeans and a baggy black t-shirt, casually pushing a silver sound case over the grass toward the trucks like she’s a shopper pushing a cart at Costco.

Her dark hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and it swishes behind her as she walks.

She’s frowning to herself, lost in thought.

“I’ve been telling her to quit it with the heavy stuff,” Patty says, “what with the pregnancy and all, but she won’t listen. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

I barely hear her. My pulse is thudding too loud in my ears.

I take off running.