Page 25 of Toxic Kiss

“Rehearsals are closed to the public,” he says, his voice so condescending it sets my teeth on edge.

“I’m not the public,” I answer, grabbing my driver’s license and holding it up. “Haven Gaillard. LG Records.”

He doesn’t even blink in my direction as his mouth quirks.

“Nice try.”

Of course, I get the asshole destined to save the world one ‘No’ at a time. He reminds me of the TSA agents with his identical dickish glare that screams, “No matter what you say, I’m not going to believe you.”

“Look at my ID,” I say, but he just crosses his arms, trying to intimidate me with his thick biceps.

Unbelievable.

My fingers tighten around my phone before I call my father and deliberately put it on speaker.

“Hey, Rock Star, did you make it to the arena? Please tell me you’re not broken down somewhere.”

I look at the massive concrete bowl behind the guard and then up at the jerk in front of me.

“No, made it but a goon here working the gate thinks I’m a groupie trying to sneak in.”

The words come out sharper than I intend, but I’m already over this day.

“What is his name?”

My eyebrow lifts at Mr. Douche, and I wait for him to respond. He’s not looking so certain all of a sudden.

“Um…my name is Mike,” the security guard says.

“Mike Roles,” Dad asks.

“Yes,” he answers, a bit shaky. My father makes it his mission to know who is working at every venue. He doesn’t need to do it. There are people for that, but he insists. It is an old habit that refuses to die, and right now it’s a godsend.

“Haven, can you take me off speaker and hand the phone to Mr. Roles? The two of us need to have a conversation.”

“By all means,” I say.

Mike stares at my hand for a heartbeat like I’m holding a loaded gun. He takes the phone and wanders away, but not too far.

Man, it’s like an oven out here. Whose idea was it to do a concert in Nevada in the middle of summer? Why not start in…I don’t know…say north, anywhere north of here.

Mike’s expression changes just before he starts to apologize. Like a snap of fingers, he goes from arrogant to sheepish in two seconds flat. I hate asking my dad to do this, but I’m not in the mood to stand here all day on principle. Five humiliating minutes later, he hands me my phone and mumbles an apology as he waves me through.

I use the bottom of my shirt to pull open the scalding door handle.

This is the definition of insanity.

The arena is massive, swallowing me whole. It’s not much cooler, but it’s better than the scorching sun.

The corridor is dim and hums with electricity. I can hear people working in the distance. The smell of hot metal and old beer hangs in the air, and the echoes of instruments vibrate in my chest. I follow the music like following the Pied Piper's flute. My boots tap against the concrete, the sound bouncing off steel and darkness.

I’m not lost, but seriously…where the fuck is a door to the inner stage? Why is shit so difficult today?

Then I hear it.

A shout. Then another. Anger echoes down the hallway, sharp and alive like a homing beacon.

My pulse trips as I reach the black doors.