Page 17 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

“Only people who mistake numbers for invitations.”

Isabel smiled. “I’ll tell the house you have thirty-five.”

Cassidy led us down a service corridor that smelled of fresh paint and citrus cleaner. She checked each crossing before I entered it. I waited when she raised two fingers and moved when she lowered them.

My artist suite held a rack of performance clothes, cases of water, bowls of fruit, and my rehearsal bag. I ate a few pieces of fruit, then changed into dark movement pants, stage sneakers, and the white tank I’d packed for soundcheck.

When I came out, Cassidy stood near the corridor door speaking quietly with Isabel. Her eyes dipped to my chest and stayed there for one full beat before returning to my face.

I stopped beside her. “Should I put the linen shirt back on?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“You need to rehearse.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Cassidy opened the corridor door. “You have thirty-four minutes now.”

I followed her toward the riser. “You took one away because I changed clothes?”

“I took one away because you’re still talking.”

The pavilion opened around us in white glare and empty seats. Beyond the canopy, blue water flashed between the railings. My musicians waited near their positions, instruments ready. Two dancers stretched beside the stairs while the sound crew adjusted levels.

The microphone felt right in my hand.

I stepped onto the center mark.

“Let’s start with the opener,” I said. “Full vocal through the first chorus, then jump to the dance break.”

The drummer lifted a stick. “Do you want the live count?”

“Yes. Give me two bars.”

The kick hit under my feet.

I caught the first verse on the downbeat.

I crossed the front line in three steps, quarter-turned, shifted my weight back, and moved the microphone away for the inhale. The chorus climbed, and I let it open through my chest without forcing the top note. The dancers joined at the wing. I moved through the break with them, hit the final turn, and brought the microphone back before the next lyric.

“Hold,” I called.

The band cut.

I pointed toward the monitor near my feet. “I need more keys and less track in this wedge. Keep the bass where it is.”

The sound engineer answered over the house system. “More keys, less track. Try the chorus again.”

We ran it.

The mix settled. I crossed the platform without losing breath, caught the harmony, and ended on the exact count that would trigger the lighting change Saturday night.

Cassidy stood below the left wing.

She wasn’t smiling. She was checking the service opening, the stairs, and the empty rows beyond the barricade.