Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 149(@200wpm)___ 119(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
"I'm going to sit myself right over there with that fine specimen of a man and have a drink," Gwen tells the crowd, pointing at Cyrus. "Winter has something special she wants to play for you tonight. When it's winning all the awards soon, just remember you heard it here on this stage first."
I gulp, butterflies kicking into flight in my stomach. I guess that's my cue.
I quickly set my water back down and grab my guitar before hopping onto the stool one of the stagehands runs out to center stage for me.
"I don't know about winning awards, but I do have something new I want to play for you guys tonight," I murmur to the crowd, plucking strings on my guitar. "This one is called Cry." I don't tell them what it's about or the story behind it. I just wait for them to settle down. Once a hushed silence falls over the crowd, I begin to hum.
My voice grows louder as the band joins me in a mournful tune that's far more blues than country. It's a haunting melody, one that fits the song perfectly. Gwen helped me fine-tune it. It's powerful and melancholy, exactly like the song.
I open my mouth to sing the first verse when…something in the crowd gets my attention. I'm not sure exactly how I see it or what I see, but the light hits the area just right, and a man dressed in all black comes roaring into focus. He's standing slightly apart from the crowd, a mask over his face. And he's aiming a gun right at me.
"Gun!" I cry, throwing myself off the stool onto my stomach.
A loud boom—like the crack of thunder—rolls over the crowd. My guitarist cries out, doubling over as pieces of his guitar splinter off near his shoulder. I watch in horror as his white t-shirt immediately begins to turn red. He clutches the area, but the red area quickly blooms past his hand.
One thousand people scream simultaneously, chaos descending on the arena as another shot rings out. I scream too, placing my hands over my head to protect myself as best I can. My heart pounds, terror surging through me in a tidal wave.
I have to get off the stage. If I'm off the stage, whoever is trying to shoot me will stop. They won't shoot anyone else.
God, please let them stop.
I scramble forward, staying low to the ground as I try to get to the side of the stage as quickly as possible. Tears drip down my face, fear choking the breath from my lungs.
"Come on!" a familiar voice shouts. Hands grasp me, dragging me to my feet.
I sob as a wall of muscle surrounds me all at once. Cash Jamison, Bentley Reynolds, Memphis Hughes who plays drums for the band, and one of the record execs by the name of Dalton Grady. They grab me, curses flying, and charge for the side of the stage. Security rushes out behind them, yelling instructions at one another.
It's complete chaos backstage, as loud and frenzied as it was out there. But there's some semblance of order back here. People are taking charge. No, Kasen is taking charge. It's surreal to see him barking orders like a drill sergeant when he's usually the one Riley has to chase all over the place and threaten with bodily harm. Olivia and I are always laughing at him for complaining that she's terrorizing him. But he's got security running in every direction now.
For some reason, he isn't wearing a shirt. I'm pretty sure I don't even want to know why.
"Are you hit?" Cash growls, genuine fear in his eyes as he whips me around to face him. It's odd. I've never seen him or Bentley afraid before. They both look afraid right now, though.
For me? Because…because…I can't even let myself think it, let alone say it out loud. It's too awful. But I saw that gun. I saw it pointed right at me.
"Winter." Cash shakes me gently. "Focus, sweetheart. Are you hit? Were you shot?"
"N-no," I choke out. "No. But Scott..." A shiver wracks my body. "Someone shot Scott."
"I know." Cash's expression darkens. "They're taking care of him."
"I should help."
Do what, I don't know. The only thing I know about gunshot wounds is what I learned from repeatedly binge-watching Gray's. I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as expert knowledge.
"Get her to her dressing room. Guard the fucking door. No one gets in unless my wife says so, are we clear?" Cash snaps to the group of men still surrounding me. A few security guards have joined the group, but the sheer size and reputation of the core four hold them at a respectful distance.
I don't think anyone wants to risk pissing off Cash or Bentley, and Memphis has a reputation himself. He used to be in an outlaw MC. Maybe he still is. No one really knows for sure. He won't tell us. And Dalton is Nashville royalty.