Page 47 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
And the star is mobbed after every performance.
I don’t work every show, but when I do, all my focus is on Stone, making sure fans don’t grab his shirt, touch his ass, or get too close. I don’t worry about them stealing his phone, because I keep it on me during the shows, and after too, when he does the VIP meet and greets.
Those backstage soirees are organized, classy, and stacked with photo ops.
The tougher part to navigate is the moments after, when energy is high, adrenaline is coursing, and fans want a piece of the headliner.
My job is to keep them close but not too close. I’m in the zone all week long. The work doesn’t leave room for distractions, and I’m grateful for the show pace, the show days.
They make it easier not to think about the charge between us. The crackle and hum I feel when we’re alone.
But since we rarely are, my brain is zeroed in on work and only work.
And I can do what I need to do.
Think ahead.
React fast.
Make sure he looks good to the public, that they see an outgoing, charismatic man willing to pose for picture after picture.
That’s what he does after he plays his heart out each time.
Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.
On Friday, the theater is packed to the gills. From my post in the wings, I watch as the lights swirl and dip, as Zoe, the opening act, announces his name, as the crowd roars.
The din is deafening. Stone struts to the front of the stage, Strat slung around his shoulders, a smile on his face. The grin he wears when he’s performing is like nothing I’ve seen before. It’s special; it’s electric. He feeds off the crowd’s love of him and gives it right back to everyone in the theater. The man isn’t just doing a job—he is living, breathing, and existing off the nourishment of music and crowds and energy. They know it, he knows it, and everyone loves it.
Stone is a born performer, and he makes every second onstage count. I’ve seen countless shows of his. No two ever seem alike. Each one feels special, crafted for that audience that night.
It’s charismatic.
It’s magic.
And I can’t look away.
“Are you ready to ‘Make It Last,’ Vegas?” he booms into the mic, then launches into his Grammy-winning tune that electrifies the audience.
An hour and a half later, he performs his final encore and tells the crowd he loves them, he really fucking loves them.
Then he leaves.
After the VIP meet and greet, he’s ready to go.
“Good show,” I say.
“Great one,” he replies as we wind our way through the hotel to grab a drink with Sage and Nadia.
He hangs with them at Speakeasy for an hour while I stand outside.
After they say good night, I’m headed to the elevator banks with him when a shriek fills my ears.
“Stone!”
It’s high-pitched. Feminine. Young.
And multiplied.
I turn around in a nanosecond as a pack of twentysomething women trot over to him.
Five of them.
Wobbling in heels and boots, clutching long plastic cups sloshing with liquid.
In a heartbeat, I drape an arm around him, holding the other out in front of me to be safe. “Take it easy,” I say, friendly but crystal clear. They’re only drunk—nothing we haven’t dealt with at every show.
“Can we just take one pic?”
The question comes from a teetering redhead in sky-high red shoes, her speech slurred.
I look to him. It’s always his choice in moments like these. “It’s cool, J. One pic is fine,” Stone says.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
“It’s all good. I’m happy to do it.”
I maneuver him a few feet away so his back is to the wall, and I bring the women in. They sardine themselves around him, with the redhead stretching out her arm to snap a cell phone shot.
Once she’s done, her friends peel away, oohing and aahing and thanking him.
But Red is lightning fast. She spins around and slams herself against him. “I love you, Stone. I want to have your babies.”
That shit is not okay.
I slide right back in, threading my arm between the redhead and Stone just as she grabs the neck of his T-shirt.
Tension spirals in me, but my focus sharpens even more. I have one mission and only one mission.
“Time to step away, please,” I say firmly, gripping her hand and jerking it away from my client.
Because, ya know, she doesn’t need to touch him.
Not like this.
“But I love him,” she whines, refusing to let go, holding tight to the fabric as I pull her hand away.
“Glad you love me,” he says with a smile, playing the part even as a flicker of worry flashes in his eyes.
“Time to let go,” I say, peeling her fingers from his shirt, but she’s got a Vulcan death grip on the fabric, and she’s yanking it, determined.
