Page 48 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

I touched two fingers to Shane’s forearm before he crossed the threshold. “Hold here.”

He stopped without arguing.

Rafi stepped out from the stage-access corridor, polished despite the heat building beneath the canopy. “The artist suite is clear. The corridor and stage route are clear. Isabel’s chasing the roster.”

“Any unverified movement?”

“Nothing inside the protected area.”

I nodded and lowered my hand.

Shane glanced at his forearm, then at me. “Do I get a reward for following directions?”

“You get to rehearse.”

His grin widened. “You’re learning what motivates me.”

I led him onto the stage.

The empty pavilion seemed to expand around him.

Crew members adjusted cables and monitor wedges while the musicians checked their instruments. Two dancers marked a turn near the left wing. “Switching to the gold wash,” a lighting technician called from the rear platform, and the overhead rig shifted from white work lights to gold.

Shane stopped on the center mark.

His shoulders settled. His attention moved across the band, the dancers, the camera positions, and the empty seats. He checked the microphone against his palm, rolled one shoulder, and glanced toward the sound booth.

“Let’s run the full opening sequence,” he said. “I want the entrance, jacket cue, first chorus, and dance break without stopping.”

The drummer raised a stick. “Do you want the revised count?”

“Yes. Give me four.”

A wardrobe assistant brought out the champagne bomber he’d wear that evening. Shane slipped it over the sand-colored rehearsal top and zipped it halfway.

He caught me looking.

“Security concern?” he asked.

“The jacket wasn’t searched.”

“It was.”

I glanced at the agent stationed near wardrobe.

The agent nodded.

Shane smiled. “Sometimes other people do follow procedure.”

“Enjoy the novelty.”

The drummer counted them in.

The first bass hit traveled through the platform and up my legs. Shane entered from the rear riser on the fourth count, hit the light, and took the opening line without wasting a breath. He crossed the stage as though thousands of people already filled the seats.

His voice carried cleanly over the track. He didn’t strain for the high notes or hide behind the backing vocals. He shifted the microphone for each inhale, landed the choreography without losing the lyric, and gave the dancers enough space to look strong beside him instead of turning them into scenery.

At the end of the first chorus, he caught the bomber at the collar and pulled it free on the lighting cue.