Page 86 of The Encore Effect

When he got back to the bus and opened the door to their bedroom, it only took one look at Kat for him to know it wasn’t going to be that kind of night.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“What happened?”

Kat closed her laptop and set it aside when Beckett opened the door to their tour bus bedroom. His eyes skipped around the room, taking in her impromptu command center, touring schedules and contracts scattered across their bed, before landing on her. The determined lines on his face made him look older, his expression harsh in a way she knew reflected fear more than anger. At least for now. He’d be plenty angry with her soon enough.

“How’s your knee?”

“Fuck my knee.” He hobbled into the room, flinging the door closed behind him.

Well, that answered that question.

She reached for her phone, firing off a text. “I’ll arrange for an orthopedist to examine you when we get to Cleveland. Should have done that a month ago,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to see an orthopedist.”

“I am responsible for the smooth operation of this tour, which means I am responsible for the health and safety of the band and crew, whether you want me to be or not.”

When she glanced up from her phone, he looked confused, stunned, even. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, scraping his hand over his stubbled jaw. “What happened?”

“Jackson got into a fight with some guy at the club last night.”

“I wouldn’t call it a fight.”

Her face fell, cold resignation settling in her veins. “But you knew he had an altercation with someone at the club and you didn’t tell me.”

The crease between his brows deepened, and he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, wincing as he bent his knee. “He argued with some jerk. It was just words. Nothing physical. Gideon broke it up.”

“Someone filmed it. It’s all over the internet.”

“And? That’s not ideal, but it was just some shouting with a drunk guy in the club.”

She shook her head, pulling up the video on her phone and shoving it towards him. “It’s not just the video. Look at the comments. Tons of them. All people with drunk-Jackson stories from this tour alone. Bartenders he’s cursed out, women he’s hit on, people who claim he’s been belligerent, destroyed property—”

“That’s not like him.”

“Isn’t it? They’re calling him dangerous, a loose cannon.”

“He’s not fucking dangerous.”

“Someone claims that, when a Black bartender cut him off, he went on a racist rant—”

“They’re lying.”

“It doesn’t matter because the rest of the stories are true, so people believe it. They’re saying he’s not safe for fans to be around. They’re calling for a boycott of the last three shows on the tour.”

“They wouldn’t.”

He scrolled through the comments and she watched in real time as his face fell with each new one he read. She focused on the miniscule changes in his expression, channeling her energy there so she wouldn’t fly apart in a rage. If Beckett knew about the fight at the club, what else had he known about? What else was he still not telling her, even now, even knowing how much was at stake for her?

Finally, he released a frustrated breath, putting the phone face down on the bed between them. “The guys and I are going to talk to him.”

“When?”

“It didn’t seem like the right time to do it before we went on stage tonight, or to do it right before we all got on the tour bus together.”

“There’s never going to be a right time.” She got to her feet, moving as far away from him as was possible in the tiny space. She needed distance between them for this next part.