Boiling Point (Feverish #1.5) Read online

  Chapter Six

  LAST FIVE SECONDS had been on tour for two months now, and Emily was beginning to hate every second of it. Her only salvation had been becoming friends with Val and Gracie from Val Hella, but they weren’t going to be on tour with them forever. Besides, they had a few issues of their own, not to mention families they wanted to be with. Debbie tried to corner Emily every chance she could, and Emily had taken to hiding in the bus bunk as often as she could, curtains drawn, reading ebooks.

  But she was hating it.

  The biggest problem was that Clay had grown cold and cocky. If having his fans show their undying love for him on tour did this to him, then she probably shouldn’t come on tour anymore, because she didn’t like this side of Clay. Not one bit.

  Add to it the crew. They’d mostly settled in and she hadn’t been hearing as many whispers, but the looks were driving her crazy. Was it really that they didn’t have anything better to do with their time? It was almost as if their behavior was part of the routine—arrive at the next venue; set up; get through the show; strike the set; party like animals; get laid; go to bed, possibly drunk and/ or high; get up, grouchy and hung over; lash out at whatever poor soul looked most easily victimized; shower; get dressed; do it all over again.

  She was done being a victim, though. Done.

  It just would have been nice to have Clay on board—really on board—have him paying enough attention to realize he should defend her, but he was so in his own little world anymore that she didn’t feel comfortable talking to him about it—not here, not around all these people. And even when they were alone anymore, he felt distant. She was going to wait until they were home—if she could make it that long—and then have a long heart-to-heart with him.

  If this was how he was going to be on tour, she wanted no part of it.

  If his behavior was still like this when they got home…well, then, she’d have some decisions to make.

  She didn’t even know what city they were in when she completely lost her shit. She’d been outside the dressing rooms talking with one of the roadies about how many backstage passes the crew had been giving out, because the band was going to have an interview right after. She wasn’t sure what genius had arranged for that (the band was always too wound up for that kind of thing, but they did fine before a show), but she was questioning if the people in charge had lost their minds. “You can’t let as many groupies and fans back here tonight. I know the band loves to do pictures with fans, but they have that interview they need to tend to.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, they’ll just have to deal with business as usual.”

  Emily stifled a sigh and was growing irritated at being blown off—again. “Look, Jeremy, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but the guys have been getting a bad rap lately. Interviewers are accusing them of being standoffish and rude. You have too much shit going on back here, and that’ll just solidify their opinions.” Good. Using coarse language like the rest of these idiots got his attention. Too bad it didn’t earn his respect—not that she cared. She was pretty much over these dumb asses.

  And she grew angrier with Clay the more she had to deal with them, because these buffoons were monsters the band created. She was convinced of that.

  He blinked a few times but was looking around, signaling to her that he had better things to do. But then he made eye contact with her. “Look, I didn’t schedule it. I don’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I know that—I’m just asking you to keep the backstage invitees to a minimum tonight. Can you help me out?”

  He considered her with a cool gaze before finally speaking. “Yes, I can do that.”

  “Thank you.” God, why did these guys make her feel like a bitch? And, when it came right down to it, she knew she should have been lecturing Clay (and possibly even his bandmates too), but that wasn’t going to happen. She had no more hold or sway over the guys—even Clay—than anyone else. They were gods unto themselves…and no one told a god what to do.

  * * *

  Holy shit. This was the best part of life—where you got to reap the fruit of your toils. Backstage after a show was that moment. Unlike the past, though, there was no scoping for chicks or laying groundwork for the future. He already had his girl.

  The problem, though, was that he was beginning to suspect she was no longer into him. Was it that she was interested in someone else or had she simply grown tired of him? Did she have a wandering eye like Abby, his ex?

  He didn’t know, and that was why he had to keep being Jet. And Jet wouldn’t give a fuck if his girlfriend was acting distant, because he had lots of fans who wanted to hang with him. Lots.

  The energy backstage was amazing as always, and he already had a couple of teenage boys chatting with him, drilling him with questions and asking for his autograph, but he heard some commotion behind him. When he turned around, he saw Emily—his girlfriend and his PA, but the woman he hadn’t spoken with much in the last several days—in some kind of dust up with security and a couple of roadies. He had no clue where their band manager was at the moment, but he thought he might need to see what the hell was going on over there, no matter how reluctant he was to do it. He excused himself and started walking toward the group, and he saw two people behind them he didn’t recognize, but when he saw the video camera in the guy’s hands and the microphone in the woman’s, he remembered. He wasn’t going to freak out, because that was what Emily was for—to be his brains and his calendar on the road.

  But she looked pissed—as did most of the people in that circle.

  “Jeremy, you promised to keep the backstage passes to a minimum.”

  The beefy guy shrugged, an apathetic look in his eyes. “Sorry, babe.”

  Clay was impressed with Emily. She was keeping her cool but looked ready to bring down an atomic bomb. “At the very least, then, can you find a quiet place for the interview?”

  Jeremy lifted an eyebrow, but the woman holding the mike said, “It doesn’t have to be super quiet. In fact, if there are a few fans here and there, that’s cool.”

  Emily nodded and started turning back to Jeremy. Clay got ready to say something and maybe that was when Jeremy noticed him, because he said, “If we go down the hall a little bit, we can maybe cordon it off or have some security there. There’s a sitting area and if we can keep extra people away, you’ll have the best of both worlds.” He looked at Emily and tried to keep a neutral look on his face, but Clay could see the barely contained sneer. “Will that work for you?”

  Clay could feel the ice in Emily’s voice. “Better than nothing. Lead the way, please.” Good. Problem solved. Jeremy turned, two more security guys in tow, and the cameraman and reporter followed them because Emily waved her hand politely to indicate they could go next. Clay walked next to her, placing his hand on her lower back, and she looked over at him. Shit. She was still pissed. With no one else looking at her as they made their way through the building farther from the cluster of fans and people with the band, she said, “We have to talk later.”

  Damn. He was finding her anger almost arousing…but if they had to talk… Well, he knew they had to. He needed to know where he stood with her. Jet didn’t give a fuck, but Clay was feeling insecure as hell and a talk was probably what he needed. But Jet shrugged. “Say the word.”

  They arrived at the small waiting area Jeremy had indicated, which was really nothing more than a few plastic chairs and a tiny table against a wall—but it would do. Emily seemed placated. The woman with the microphone gave Clay—no, Jet—a look that made him feel like she wanted to gobble him down and smirked before saying, “Since you’re here, let’s interview you first, shall we?”

  Jet wasn’t the kind of guy to say no. And Emily might not have known it, but she was lucky Clay was a faithful one-woman guy, or Jet would have been giving this woman a story she wouldn’t want to write about later but would remember forever.

  Chapter Seven

  EMILY SAT OUTSIDE on a bench
behind the venue. It was almost dark back there, but the lights from the city bleached the landscape and had faded the sky so that she could only see a couple of stars. The moon was nowhere to be found.

  Why the hell had she agreed to come with Clay on tour? It was wrecking her. She felt distanced from him when she should have been feeling close and happy and excited. It was clear that Clay thrived on the energy from the tour and that he loved performing for his fans. That was good—and it was necessary. But it was clear that she shouldn’t be here.

  It was making her question their relationship and even her job as his personal assistant.

  It was making her question everything.

  She was glad Clay had agreed to talk later. Either way, she needed to know. She knew that it was possible that she was blowing everything out of proportion, and the only way to find out was to talk to Clay. He would set her straight, for good or for bad. If their relationship really was fizzling out, she could ask for Clay to pay her way to go back home, and she could pack her stuff and find a new job and place to live before the tour was over. Or, if he still wanted her as his PA but not his girlfriend, that was okay too. Actually, no. No, she couldn’t. She tried to imagine that scenario—moving out but still handling his business, coming in and out the same way his housekeeper and mentor Mary did, but Emily knew she just couldn’t do it. Seeing him with another woman or even just knowing about it would kill her. No matter how mature she felt, she knew she couldn’t deal with that.

  She wiped her eyes and blew her nose with the wad of tissues she’d brought with her and tossed them in the trashcan next to the bench. One more deep breath and Emily found her inner strength. It was times like these that she really missed her mother. She’d lost her at such a young age and that had only strengthened the bond she had with her dad, but she couldn’t talk to him about things like her love life. Just couldn’t. First off, her dad—although mild mannered—would not be pleased about what was happening and, therefore, wouldn’t be constructive, but he would try in his need to fix things for his baby girl. The problem was she would want to talk about it in an effort to feel better. A woman would understand that, but her dad would not. Instead of letting her vent and figure it out on her own, he would give advice, whether she wanted it or not.

  Emily smoothed her skirt and walked toward the thick metal door she’d propped open with a small rock. She’d done that when she’d found her way outside, because she knew most of these places’ doors automatically locked upon closing if they were at the back of the venue where they were typically unattended. As a guest, she didn’t have a key and she sure as hell didn’t want to work her way around the building to find her way back in. She could have made her way toward the loading area if all else failed, but it was just easier this way.

  She pulled the door open and kicked the rock aside, gasping from feeling startled when a man appeared just inside the doorway. She recognized him as one of the security guys, a guy named Craig, but all her senses were heightened from the quick fright.

  “Sorry. Emily, right? I didn’t know you were out there. We shouldn’t have these doors propped open like this. It’s a security hazard.”

  “I was right there. I wasn’t going to let anyone inside.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a security breach. It wouldn’t be that hard for a crazed fan to take you out and gain access to the band.”

  What? She was chopped liver? He didn’t care about protecting her? “I have a phone.”

  His face turned rigid. “We just can’t have you doing that.”

  She could have easily ended it by telling him she’d never do it again—whether or not she intended to in the future—but she was already irritated and upset and annoyed. Besides having to deal with her problems with Clay, she was still upset about being blown off regarding the interview she’d set up. It felt like it was all coming to a head and so, even though this asshole might not have had it coming, he was going to get a dose of Hurricane Emily.

  * * *

  Clay knew a lot of guys in his business hated interviews, and he understood why. The interviewers asked the same boring, stupid questions, rarely thinking outside the box or asking the questions he would like to answer. Some of the more experienced interviewers, especially the ones connected to music mags, got it. For one thing, they actually followed the people they were interviewing, so they already knew a little bit about them. The inane starter questions weren’t even considered in that event. And usually that meant that they would query about, for instance, the inspiration for the latest album or the meaning behind one of the new songs. They wouldn’t ask stupid shit like What made you want to become a musician? or Tell me a little about yourself (or your band).

  Unfortunately, the chick who interviewed him was as green as they came. In fact, her credentials seemed a little shaky, but the video guy had a top-of-the-line camera that looked like it was made for shooting movies. So maybe she was just really new. Whatever the case, she did ask the standard bullshit dumb ass questions, and he’d wanted to tell her that she could pull his answers from all his old interviews—but he thought better of it.

  It didn’t take her long to get into Jet.

  So he played it up, knowing that women dug the persona he wore to keep himself confident. Before long, she was actually asking him unusual questions, and he knew she had moved off script. By the end, he was pretty sure she was wanting him to ask her out on a date—or at least to meet him somewhere secluded. Before she moved on to Brian (a better choice, because the guy was once again single), she asked Clay, “Is there a way I can reach you if I need to ask you some follow up questions?”

  He almost asked her for clarification. Instead, he said, “I’ll give you my PA’s number and email address.” The woman looked disappointed, but the mere thought of Emily made him wonder about her. He hadn’t seen her since she’d handed him off to the reporter, and she’d seemed upset. He knew she’d been irritated that the crew hadn’t seemed to care much about the interview, but she usually stuck around for these kinds of things anyway.

  The roadie who’d been nearby fetched Brian, and when Clay’s friend arrived, he slapped Clay on the back and grinned at the reporter. “Okay, now that you’re done with Mr. Boring here, buckle up, sister. You’re in for a hell of a ride.”

  Clay smirked. “Yeah—to Crazy Town.”

  In a high-pitched voice, Brian said, “You know it!”

  Clay shook his head and started walking back down the hall to where the majority of fans, bands, and crew clustered. He found Jeremy standing against a wall, keeping an eye on the proceedings. “Hey, man. You see Emily anywhere?”

  He shrugged. “Not for a while. Last I saw her, she was headed that way.” He tilted his head to the right, indicating a turn in the hall opposite where all the action was.

  “How long ago was that?”

  Another mild shrug before Jeremy answered, “A while ago.”

  Clay considered asking another question and then decided against it. It was obvious Jeremy didn’t care or was too busy monitoring everyone else to pay attention to one stray female who got under his skin anyway. Clay frowned but said, “Thanks, man,” before walking the way Jeremy had indicated.

  It was darker down the hall than where he’d come from, but there was still light, and it gleamed off the small tiles on the wall. Most floors in the back of many venues he’d played were a dark gray concrete that looked as though they would appear dirty no matter how much they had been swept and mopped, but this floor was a cut above. It looked like marble, but it wasn’t. It was a navy blue color, speckled with sparkly flakes, and it reminded him of a bowling ball—although why a floor’s glittery surface would put Clay in the mind of bowling was beyond him. Had he been wearing his combat boots, he could tell the sound would have echoed in that space, especially if he’d been in the building by himself without the din of the small crowd gathered around the bands behind him. In his sneakers, though, he could have been a slick criminal, noiseless and stealthy,
unless the sole hit the surface just right and squeaked.

  The hall continued to curve, following the circular shape of the venue, but there continued to be a low murmur from the crowd echoing throughout the hall. The acoustics of this place were amazing, and Clay would have loved cranking his guitar here just as well as he had on the stage. Soon, he could hear voices ahead, and it didn’t take long for him to recognize Emily’s. As the hall bent ahead again, he was finally able to see Emily standing just inside a doorway, talking with one of the security guys, one Clay didn’t know that well.

  What the hell was she doing here—in the dark and away from the crowd—talking with this guy?

  Holy shit.

  Clay didn’t need to get the memo. He was no dummy. He wasn’t even going to stand around and wait to see or hear something that would just fucking crush him.

  As he turned, he saw flashes of Abby in his head. When she’d started cheating on him back in the day, it had started with distant behavior, something he was now sensing from Emily. There were no strange phone calls or anything like that. No. When he’d been married to Abby, he’d worked two jobs regularly just to pay the bills, and he’d sleep a lot when he was home. He could still remember, though, hearing her outside talking to someone one evening. It was in the spring, early evening, just as dusk had been descending, and he’d been stirring. He had to be up by nine PM to make it to work later, and he must have sensed that, because his alarm hadn’t been due to go off for a little while longer. He sat up in bed and threw on a t-shirt and jeans, ones that had been on the floor, and he could see them because of the ambient light shining in the room from the living room in that dinky little mobile home. He didn’t bother with shoes, because he was probably going to shower before heading to the night job.

  As he stood, he realized his baby daughter Jasmine was either asleep or outside with her mother, and Clay wondered again what the hell Abby was doing. He made his way to the bathroom to take a piss, figuring she’d be inside in a minute and he could ask, but curiosity finally got the best of him. He opened the front door, expecting to see her just outside, but she wasn’t there, and that meant she had to be at the front, just below the other window, over by the driveway on the backside. Abby’s voice carried some, though, but he couldn’t hear it until he got close to the corner. “Robert, you need to go.”