Musician's Monsoon by Brieanna Robertson Page B

to a close, she realized she was standing at the edge of the stage and her limbs felt loose and fluid, no longer stiff and awkward. She played the last few measures with ease, and the fans directly in front of her shouted, screamed, and reached out to her. On impulse, she leaned down to touch all of their hands. Something strange like electricity coursed through her veins. It was exhilarating. It was addictive.
    As she moved back to where she had originally been standing, she stole a look up at Zane. The grin he shot her made her whole world explode like a fireworks display.
    And in that moment, she realized, it wasn’t the alcohol and the drugs and the fast living that was addictive, which was what she had always assumed before of people who did this as a job. It was this. This experience. This rush. Knowing you were the reason those four girls in the front row were screaming. Knowing you were so good at your craft that people wanted to learn your parts of the songs. This was the addictive thing. And once bitten, how did you ever get it out of your system?
    She looked over at Zane again and, as she did so, he winked and blew her a kiss. Her heart tumbled around in her chest. Once bitten—or kissed—how did she get him out of her system?
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
    Sophie sighed in bliss as she leaned back in the enormous tub in the master bathroom of her hotel suite. She was both exhausted and exhilarated and found the combination a strange kind of intoxicating.
    She still had a little of that weird, out-of-body thing going on. Part of her couldn’t believe that only an hour before she had finished up playing a concert with Shadows Rising. But she had. And when Rhonda had introduced all the band members, and had announced her like she had always been part of it all, and when the crowd had cheered, something odd had happened inside of her. She’d liked it. A lot.
    Safe, subdued, rational Sophie had totally gotten off on the rush of recognition. She had about as much of an idea about what to do with that as she did about what to do with Zane.
    She liked him much more than was healthy. She knew that, yet she didn’t care. She liked liking him. She liked being with him. She really liked kissing him. He was gentle and caring, thoughtful, but playful enough to make her lighten up a bit. Had she always been so serious? She’d never realized it before. In her quest to be the “responsible one” in her family, had she sacrificed all ability to let loose and have a good time? If so, no wonder Lorraine had always called her boring. That was boring.  What good was she to anyone if all they ever saw of her was this staunch, predictable person who never ventured outside of her safe routine—except, of course, when she was by herself in her living room jamming away on a bass like a rock star?
    Maybe Zane was right. Maybe she had been only been surviving her life. Tonight, on that stage, she had felt more alive than she ever had. Had she wasted thirty years being “safe”?
    A knock sounded on her hotel room door and she jumped in surprise. “Just a second!” she called. She climbed out of the tub, toweled off and slipped into the white hotel robe. She went to the door and opened it to see Zane standing there with two plastic bags and his gorgeous grin. She arched an eyebrow and glanced at the clock on the wall. The show had ended at eleven. It was now well past twelve-thirty.
    “I know it’s late,” he said, “but that’s kind of the way it goes around here. Rock musicians are mainly nocturnal. At any rate, I want to conduct an experiment.”
    Her raised eyebrow arched even higher. “That sounds ominous.”
    He chuckled, and warmth filled his eyes as he gazed at her robe-clad, wet-haired form. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. Can I come in?”
    Like she would actually deny him. She stepped aside, allowing him entry.
    “Have you eaten anything yet?”
    She shook her head as she closed the door. “That was next on my