Chapter 27 Wearing her shoes
I wonder if that’s a deliberate thing on his part, keeping it mainly to a male orientated concert, keeping the temptation from wanting to screw any of his staff away from him. Fucking the staff wouldn’t make for a good working environment I’d imagine.
“So when do I get to meet the mystery woman on this concert?” I ask, crossing my legs.
Natte looks at me confused. “What do you
mean?”
I turn my body toward him slightly. “When I interviewed you, you said you’d hired some woman who was going to make this concert your most successful to date.”
He laughs. “You’re wearing her shoes, Shia.” He glances down at my dangling foot.
I follow his stare, lifting my high heeled black studded ankle boot up a little higher.
“Eh?”
He leans close, and his hot breath brushes over the skin on my neck tickling me, as he says, “I was talking about you, Shia.”
What?
I stay shock still as he leans back, assessing my face.
“But you didn’t offer me this job, or well … until the next day,” I utter, finding my voice.
He grins. “I know.”
“So how did you know I’d take the job?”
“Because women never say no to me.” With a wink, he gets up and wanders off over to the food table.
"I'm not your women Natte." I fire back angrily.
God, he’s such a cocky, arrogant bastard at times. And I totally fancy him.
No I don’t.
Yes, I do.
No. I. Don’t.
Ah fuck.
I’m at the side of the stage standing in the right wing with Steve. The support band had finished a while ago, and now real Rossy Forever group are about to take the stage.
Natte walks slowly onto stage coming in from the left, with a confidence that only he can carry, with his guitar slung across his back.
He looks across at me, his eyes move over my clothes, my body, then they meet with mine and he grins.
I feel a blush rise in my cheeks. I’m glad it’s a little darker here where we’re standing, so Steve can’t see what a girl I’m being.
I mean it’s just a reflex reaction to the rock star lover in me. The dream of wanting to be the one to tame him.
Of course it’s not real.
Halfway through the show, Natte slows things down to a stop.
He swings his guitar to rest behind him and, lifts his hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I just wanted to pause for a minute to talk about Bonny…”
A few fans cry out from the crowd, “Bonny Red we fuckin’ love you!”
I feel the hairs on my arms prickle. I can see how hard this is for Natte. And I think of him talking to me in bed last night about Bonny. How Bonny was his glue. That Bonny and me were so similar, and I wonder now if that’s how he stills see me as his strength. I get the sudden urge to want to hold him, run my fingers through his hair, kiss him and tell him everything will always be okay.
Natte bows his head, resting it against the mike.
My throat tightens, tears biting my eyes, as I worry that he’s losing it again, here on stage.
Denis over his drum-kit, jumping it in on swift move and he’s at Natte’s side instantly. He puts his hand on Natte’s shoulder, and rests his forehead against Natte’s head, speaking into his ear. Matt is there now too. I notice Sam, takes leave to the side of the stage.
The stadium falls into a standstill.
There is a hard ball formed in my throat. Tears are welling in my eyes as I watch these three men who I know, one of whom I love very much still grieving over the loss of their best friend.
I glance at Steve beside me. His eyes look glazed. It must have been hard on him too, losing Bonny. I know he works for Natte, but he would have known him too.
Feeling overcome with emotion, I press my lips together and wrap my arms around myself, then look back out to the stage. Back to Natte.
Natte lifts his head and clears his throat. “I met Bonny at the law firm where my father works. I’d just moved to London from Texas. He took me under his wing and taught me to be his level of cool.” He pulls in a deep breath. “We formed Rossy Forever with just the two of us. Then we met Denis through one of Bonny's many girlfriends, and Denis introduced us to Matt, and that’s when Rossy Forever was properly formed.”
Natte glances at Denis, then Matt. “Bonny wasn’t just our band member,” he says, looking straight ahead. “And he wasn’t just our best friend … or our wingman. He was the mighty everything in our team. The man was a fuckin’ musical genius, and he was taken from us too soon. And we miss him every single fuckin’ day.”
Natte pulls his mike out from the stand and walks to the front of the stage, Denis and Matt following him. The crowd is a sea of lit-up phones and lighters, all showing tribute to the man they all felt they knew.
“We’re gonna play this next one for him,” Natte says, his voice already filled with raw honesty I’ve rarely heard. “It’s called ‘Broken Strings,’ and it’s about the silence that follows when the music stops before you’re ready.”
The first chords ring out. I watch Natte’s fingers move over the strings, and I can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s pouring every ounce of his pain into the performance. He looks so vulnerable.
At this moment, I don’t see the cocky CEO or the notorious rock star. I see the boy from Texas who lost his way and found it again through a friend who is no longer there. I feel a pull toward him, I have an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with only Natte.
I catch Steve looking at me, and I quickly brush away a stray tear.
“He’s doing great,” Steve whispers.
“He is,” I agree, my voice barely audible over the cheering crowd.
When he hits the last string Natte looks toward the wing where I’m standing. For a split second, the grief in his eyes is replaced by something else I can't master maybe a recognition. Then he turns back to the crowd, ending the song on a single, long note that seems to painfully through the entire stadium.