Zane’s Epilogue

ZANE’S EPILOGUE

I hadn’t even felt the stamp this time. The best I could tell, it had happened when I’d been jostled to the side by a stage tech rushing past during the set break. Immediately afterward, Carlo and Kim, the makeup and hair duo, had stepped forward for a quick touch-up, and Kim had quirked her head and asked why I had red ink under the collar of my shirt.

There hadn’t been time for the words to even sink in until I’d taken the stage. But there, in front of a hometown Atlanta crowd, I’d realized what she meant.

I’d been marked with another red bull’s-eye.

Another target.

Another time someone had proved they could get to me by pressing a tiny rubber stamp onto my skin with permanent ink.

As soon as I’d realized what had happened, I hadn’t been able to help glancing over at Ryan in the wings. My bodyguard had been waylaid by my previous manager, who was there representing another one of the performers at the music festival. Wanda had tried several times to speak to me, but Ryan had made it his personal mission to keep her away, especially before I was due onstage.

When he’d seen my face, he’d known immediately that something serious had happened. Ryan always had the ability to see through my attempts at hiding my emotions… and it drove me up a wall.

He’d already taken a large stride in my direction before someone stopped him, gesturing wildly to the tape on the ground indicating the sight line for the backstage area. Ryan’s square jaw had flexed, and his eyes had darkened. I’d forced myself to look ahead into the tens of thousands of screaming fans at the Shaky Knees festival. The crowd here in the park was pumped, the weather was unseasonably warm, and the sun had been setting in golden peaches and pinks across the concert venue.

It would have been glorious…

If only I hadn’t been ice-cold inside.

Thankfully, the set had gone by fast with all of that energy. I’d allowed myself to get lost in the music, to let it comfort me and help me to forget my troubles, as it always did.

At least until I came off the stage and Ryan yanked me past everyone into the dressing room before barking, “ What .”

It wasn’t a question but a command.

My hands shook, and my skin began to tingle with encroaching numbness as the reality of the situation sank in. “It’s fine,” I said automatically. “Really. F-fine.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak.

I tried to keep my voice steady. “I think…” I gestured to the collar of my shirt. “Um… behind… over my…”

Ryan stepped behind me and pulled at my collar. When he sucked in an outraged breath, it made it all real. My legs wobbled, and his arm banded around my front. The strong warmth of his touch never failed to make my breath catch, which caused my head to feel even floatier.

I hated feeling weak, hated causing concern and more work for others. And I especially hated the idea of Ryan thinking I was some kind of fragile diva who needed protecting from the big, scary world.

So I shoved him away and took a breath. “I told you, it’s fine.”

“Say that word to me again,” he said in a low voice. “I dare you.”

I closed my eyes and tried to focus. “I’m not hurt.”

“Take off your shirt.”

A huff of humorless laughter came out of my nose. I’d fantasized about my personal bodyguard many, many times in the past year. Fantasies in which he’d said exactly that phrase, among many others.

Never had I imagined it would carry so little lust.

Instead of arguing with him—which I knew would be pointless—I yanked off my sweaty tee and dropped it over a nearby chair. I kept my back to him so he could investigate the stamp, but I watched him in the dressing room mirror.

His face was a full storm. A hurricane band swirling around and around, picking up strength as it circled. His large hands came up to hold my shoulders, one thumb smoothing over the patch of skin just over my shoulder and out of my own sight range.

“Is it the same?” I asked softly, trying to ignore the prickles of awareness from his gentle touch.

He grunted confirmation.

Silence filled the room with jagged tension before he spoke. “This is the third time, Zane. We need to get back to LA and call in a?—”

“No,” I said emphatically. “No way. We’re due in Barlo tomorrow morning to see my family for a few days, and I’m not canceling it.”

“We’re canceling it. This is the third time some psycho has gotten their hands on you, Zane, and I’m not allowing you to?—”

I whipped around, shaking his hands off me in the process. “Not allowing ? I’m not your child, Ryan. I’m your principal, as you remind me on a regular basis. You work for me, remember?”

His eyebrow winged up, and there was the barest hint of a smirk at the edge of his mouth. “I actually don’t work for you.” He paused before casting my own words back at me. “ Remember ?”

I pressed my lips together in frustration. “Fine. You work for the label. But you’re here for me, for my protection. And the label doesn’t get to decide that I can’t visit my family. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months, and you know it.”

“I do know, and I’m sorry. Genuinely. But it’s not safe. We need to figure out how this keeps happening and come up with a new personal protection strategy to?—”

I held up my hand. “No. I know what you’re going to say. You want the label to bump up the detail and put a fucking army of people on me. That’s not happening, not when there’s no proof the person or people doing this mean me any harm.”

He shot me another look. The man had an innate ability to read my mind, but I did my best to keep my emotions locked down. If he realized just how freaked-out I was by this situation, he’d burn the whole world down to get me home to LA and shut me up tight in my Malibu home.

He’d threatened to suspend the tour to “reassess our security strategy” more than once, but thus far, I’d always managed to convince him to do the reassessing while keeping the tour going. Canceling shows meant costing the venues revenue and costing their workers jobs, not to mention costing the fans lost time and money.

Ryan knew how committed I was to following through on my promises, to providing jobs and bonuses to the people on the team who busted their asses to make these performances the best they could be. He knew how devastated I would be if our team’s decision caused even one penny-pinching preteen to be disappointed.

But this time… this time, I was almost tempted to let him take over. To curl up in a ball and ask him to ferry me away from the crowds and the fear of the unknown. The only thing stopping me was the thought of missing a long-awaited visit with my gran.

There was no place I felt safer or more loved than in Barlo, Georgia. In Barlo, nothing would be able to reach me. There, everyone knew me and loved me. Everyone would gather round and keep me safe. For at least a little while, I’d be able to forget about Zee Barlo and simply be…

“Zane.” Ryan’s voice was like whiskey poured over gravel. “Someone stamped a literal target onto your fucking skin.”

I sucked in a breath. “Yes, a stylized target. The same target as the one on my first album cover,” I reminded him. “It’s not a threat. It’s a… a… I don’t know. A prank. A dare, maybe. Or they have a weird obsession with the album. Or the target icon. Or they think they’ll seem cool if they can get close enough to me to…” I didn’t have the words to describe what I was trying to say, and I could tell that my arguments were only making Ryan more angry. I added hastily, “My point is, there’s no proof they intend harm. So we’re not going to overreact. You and Lou can handle it in Barlo. It’s a tiny town, for god’s sake. And everyone knows me there. And then we’ll head back to LA and figure out if there’s anything to be concerned about. But I can already tell you there won’t be.”

“Need I remind you there is a contract stipulation about your safety that indicates…”

I stopped paying attention to the lecture since it was nothing new and instead focused on Ryan’s face as he spoke—on his intense eyes and chiseled jaw, on his strong hands that always touched me so gently, on the broad shoulders and barrel chest that made me feel safe and nervous all at once.

“Zane? Are you even listening?” Ryan demanded.

I winced. “Uh. Yes?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, storming out of the room. He paused and turned when he got to the hall.

“I’m done trying to reason with you, Zane,” he barked. “We’re doing this my way, and that means wheels up in sixty minutes. Do you understand?”

I firmed my jaw and forced myself to sound unaffected. “I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here. I told my family I was coming in time for Sunday supper tomorrow. We’re not going back to LA until after I’ve had my aunt Rinny’s tomato corn pie and cheese grits. I’ve waited months to see my family, and I’m not letting some bullshit prank take that away from me.”

Seeing Ryan lose his cool always made me nervous. I swallowed and tried to get us back to normal, to the way things were supposed to be. “And besides, how many times do I have to tell you… I’m fine !”

“Sure you are, Zane. You’re Mr. fucking Fine. Keep telling yourself that.”

As soon as Ryan stormed off, I closed the dressing room door behind him and locked it before leaning my back against it and sliding to the floor.

The tears came instantly. I’d been holding them off for hours just to try and get through the final set.

And now here I was, on the floor, face swamped with tears of exhaustion, fear, and a desperate, bone-deep need to go home and see my family.

To forget that someone had touched me without my knowledge. Had managed to pull aside my shirt and ink my skin. Had tried sending me a message of some kind without explaining what the fucking point was.

I let out a shaky breath and tried to get control of my emotions.

I was the king of good fortune, I knew that.

In the grand scheme of things, my current hardships were small potatoes, and I had no right to complain.

Not only was I a megastar, one of the rare unicorns who’d dreamed of being a rock star and had actually made it happen, but I was also part of an incredible family, a priceless brotherhood of lifelong friends, and a rags-to-riches story even before I’d started my music career.

My life was comfortable and easy. I was living my dream. And by living my own dream, I was able to help others reach theirs. That was a privilege as well as a responsibility.

So yeah, I was Mr. fucking Fine, as Ryan called me. And I damn well should be.

I damn well had to be.

Too many people were counting on me for me to be anything else.

So even if I was scared, even if I was freaked-out and violated and outraged and wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball under the covers, I was going to remind myself of how freaking lucky I was. Then, I was gonna smile and get on with the show.

And I did…

Until the emails started.