Page 4 of Christmas Trees & Weak Knees

My cheeks flame hot, and I step aside to get out of their way just as one of the guys looks over at me from under a dark baseball cap. His gait changes and he moves closer with a Mick Jagger swagger and a smirk on his face. “Look, guys, we have a groupie.”

I glance around, but no one else is back here, not even Clint. Oh…they think I’m a groupie.

Behind Swagger, a guy with a bandana tied around his wrist leers and waggles his eyebrows. “Hey, babe.”

Eww, no.

I take another step back to give them more room to pass, but when Swagger gets close enough, he grabs my songwriting notebook from my hands, flips it open to a blank page, and says, “I didn’t know they were giving out backstage passes to this thing.” He shrugs and pulls a black Sharpie from his front pocket. Using his teeth, he tugs the cap off and then defaces my lyric notebook with his autograph.

“Stop,” I whisper, reaching out to grab it back before any more damage can be done, but my fingers barely graze it as Swagger hands it to his bandana’d bandmate. The ringing in my ears intensifies while I watch helplessly as the second guy scrawls in my book. He hands it to a guy holding drumsticks, and after he’s defaced it, he hands it to the guy in the back whose face is hidden beneath his cowboy hat.

Cowboy Hat takes the book, and I watch in horror as he pulls it open and the spine cracks. He swirls his signature over the page as Kirk Hoenig gets back on the microphone. “And now it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, folks. Our headliner is ready to take the stage. So, without any further ado, let’s hear it for Six String Justice!”

Swagger bumps into my shoulder as he makes his way to the stage. Bandana licks his lips. Drummer twirls his sticks. And Cowboy Hat tips his brim up to reveal striking warm brown eyes. For the briefest of moments, everything around us seems to fade away when our gazes lock. Speckled with flakes of gold, just barely perceptible in the darkness, his just might be the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Suddenly, all the sappy songs written about eyes make a lot more sense.

“That’s us,” Cowboy Hat says, shoving my notebook back at me with a shrug. And then, as if signing my lyric book wasn’t enough, he has the audacity to wink.

At me.

In an instant, the spell’s broken. “I…That’s my…”

I can’t get the words out, but even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. He’d never be able to hear me over the audience’s applause. Without so much as a backward glance, he swivels away and jogs to join the rest of his band.

The hot, angry tears that have been threatening finally spill over. I watch them drop down onto the ruined page in my notebook, splashing next to the messy scrawls where the lyrics for my next song were supposed to go.

J. Foster

Johnny Lantz

Ryder Atkins

Ka$h Murray

A vibrant major chord blares and the audience cheers.

I hate them all.

Interlude

6StringJustice:

Help wanted—a chick who can carry a tune.

6StringJustice:

Yikes, that’s gonna be a tough act to follow. So much for warming up the crowd.

6StringJustice:

POV—When the opening act doesn’t slay but you still gotta play.

B-Side Intro

Rest Stop Ruin

Kash

July