“You’re welcome for the VIP pass,” he says, taking a swig and letting his stare penetrate.
My head cocks as I try to wrap my mind around this. Minutes ago, I’d convinced myself the VIP thing was some kind of happy mix-up.
“How’d you know I was going to be here tonight?” I ask.
“Lucky guess,” he says. “And I know people who know people who could find out.”
The cocktail waitress returns with my drink, and I hand her my card to start a tab before returning my attention back to Isaiah.
“All right then. Thank you for this,” I tell him, clutching at the lanyard around my neck. Sliding off my chair, I eye a spot near the front of the stage as the opening act begins to take their places.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m going to enjoy the concert. That’s where I’m going.”
I leave him at the table-for-two. Fun and relaxation is my only objective for the night. If he thinks I’ll overlook the fact that he was nothing but a rude asshole yesterday just because he does one nice thing, then he’s clearly smoking something.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.
I don’t understand him, but it’s okay because I really don’t need to.
The house lights come on three hours later and some six-foot-seven muscle head in a black t-shirt stands behind a velvet rope, telling us VIP pass holders to follow him.
Herded down a hallway with about fifty other people, I somehow wind up in the front of the line, waiting outside a dressing room with a heart that won’t stop thrumming and a breath that won’t steady.
I’ve seen them in concert at least a dozen times since high school, but never once have I seen them up close and personal. I’m not even sure what I’ll say or if I’ll end up foaming at the mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence, but the second the door opens and an older, gray-haired man steps out and meets my gaze, I clear my throat and straighten my spine.
“You first?” He points at me, speaking in an East Coast accent.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, silently reminding myself to be cool.
“Get your phone ready if you want pictures.” The man swings the door open. “You’ve got one minute in there. Make it count.”
Case Malbec. Landon Spencer. Kieko Ayoshi. Alec Bastion.
I know all of their names. Their birthdays. Their Wikipedia life stories. I’ve seen every documentary, every music video, every interview.
And now they’re here, in the flesh, seated before me.
A few other people are in here as well, makeup artists, groupies, roadies …
But all I see is them.
Case, the lead singer, sits shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his shoulders. He smiles when he sees me, and while I’m sure he smiles at all his fans, his stare pierces through me, like he’s curious and studying me.
“I’m Case,” he says, reaching for me. He slips his arm over my shoulder like we’re just a couple of old friends who go way back. The rest of the band assumes their practiced, photo-ready positions around us. “And you are?”
“Maritza,” I manage to say, proud of my voice for not squeaking, cracking, or cutting out.
Case takes my phone from my hand. “Isaiah, can you take our pic?”
Glancing up, I watch as Isaiah Torres takes my phone from Case Malbec’s hand and points it at the two of us. I force a smile, my mind running a million miles a minute as I try to piece this together.
“You two know each other?” I ask, my finger pointing between the two of them once the picture is over.
Isaiah hands my phone over. “Yep.”
“You didn’t tell me you knew them,” I say.
“You didn’t ask.” Isaiah hooks his hands on his hips, towering over me.
“Is this the girl?” Case asks.
“What girl?” My gaze narrows at Isaiah.
Case smirks. “He called me this morning, asked me if he could get a VIP pass for some girl.”
This is all happening so fast it’s hardly comprehensible.
“Time’s up,” the gray-haired man says, motioning for me to head to the door.
“Dude, it’s okay,” Case says, “she can have more than thirty seconds with us.”
The man presses his chin against his chest. “You see that line of people at the door? It stretches down the hallway then around the next. Sorry, Case. We gotta be out of here by two AM. I don’t make the rules.” He turns away, calling, “Next!” and a group of giggling girls shove their way inside the already cramped space. “When you’re done, just head out to the bar. The band will be out in about an hour. You each get one beer on the house. One.”
I’m ushered out of the room, my head spinning, and I head to the bar to find a place to wait. Never really been much of a beer enthusiast, but I’ll be damned if I miss an opportunity to have a drink with Case Malbec.