Devin situated himself on a stool, stage center, and strummed his guitar. Then he adjusted the microphone and looked at the audience. “I’m doin’ something a little different tonight, so bear with me.” He plucked a few more strings.

Why did he look nervous? That made her nervous in turn.

“I’ve got a . . . friend who’s not a big fan of country music.”

Boos rang out.

He laughed. “Now, hold on. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, even if it’s wrong.”

It seemed like everyone in the arena laughed at that.

“It’s tempting to take a pop song and countrify it to prove that if the song is good, it can be played country style.”

Leon did a traditional steel guitar riff; then Odette joined in on fiddle and Steve on drums.

“But some songs don’t need extra flash. Some songs don’t need to be countrified. Some songs are best as is. Stripped down to basics. Like this one.” He bent his head so his hat cut the glare of the stage lights. “This one’s for you, Liberty.”

As soon as Devin hit the first chord progression, everything inside her tightened. And when he started the chorus of “She Will Be Loved” by Maroon 5, her tears fell without shame. She wrapped her arms around herself, keeping her eyes glued to the stage, letting Devin’s beautiful, soulful voice fill her—even when it was breaking her into a million tiny pieces.

There was a moment of stillness throughout the stadium when Devin finished. Then thunderous applause created a roar that moved through the building in a deafening wave. Even the people behind the scenes were abuzz.

Which made it easier for Liberty to avoid everyone on Devin’s crew and disappear into the night.

Chapter Thirty-two

Liberty was gone.

Gone without saying good-bye.

Isn’t that what you were doing in the hotel room earlier today? Saying good-bye?

He signaled for the cocktail waitress to bring him another beer as he tuned out the hipster blowhard from some LA indie label.

“Here you go, Mr. McClain,” the cocktail waitress with gigantic fake tits, a fake tan and fake white teeth cooed at him as she handed him the bottle of Coors.

“Thanks, darlin’. And don’t go far because I’ll need a lot more of these tonight.”

“I’d be more than happy to provide anything you need,” she said in a husky tone.

As she sauntered away, Devin decided his cocktail waitress really had a cock—no woman he’d ever met had shoulders and arms that size. No way.

“Gah. Why are you drinking that?” indie label guy said with disdain. “I know there’s a decent selection of craft beers.”

“Nothin’ wrong with Coors.”

Indie guy opened his mouth to challenge that statement, but Devin cut him off. “Coors sponsored my tour. Which I’m sure offends your sensibilities, assuming I sold out. I didn’t. I don’t accept sponsorship money from companies I don’t believe it. I’ve been drinking Coors since I was old enough to buy my first six-pack.”

The challenging look Devin leveled on him sent him scurrying away.

Carl moved in beside him and sighed. “You’re usually a lot more charming than that, McClain.”

“After four months on the road, I’m all out of charm.”

“Can’t say as I blame ya.” Carl tipped back his own bottle of Coors. “If that small-potatoes label didn’t have an artist that your label was trying to poach, that guy wouldn’t even be here.”

“Gotta love end-of-tour parties. Not.”

“I know you’re glad this tour is over, and I have to tell ya, we couldn’t be happier with the preliminary numbers. Even with the added expenses after the Houston incident and the Portland incident, we’re still ahead. That makes the investors and the sponsors happy, so kudos to you. Anytime you’re ready to talk about setting up another headlining tour, I’m game.”

Carl was game as long as Devin had songs in the top twenty and a new album to promote. Once that dried up, so would the offers. “I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, I need a break.”

“I imagine so. Especially after all that happened with JT.”

It burned his ass that a man he’d befriended had lied to him, stolen from him and used him—from the very start. Not to mention he’d shot Liberty. “I still feel like an idiot over that.”

“The guy passed all the security checks. Who knew he had a gambling problem? Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m just really glad Miz Masterson was so fast on her feet or things might’ve turned out differently.”

While Liberty had been undergoing treatment in the ER, Devin had told the cops what’d happened. Mostly. He stretched the truth a bit and said Liberty had wrestled with JT—that’s how she’d ended up getting shot. Devin had changed the details because he didn’t want anyone reading the police report and thinking he was some kind of hero when he wasn’t. Liberty was. He’d told Garrett the truth and let him decide what to tell the promotion company. Liberty didn’t know any of this and never would.

Carl drained his beer and seemed to sway more than usual. Awesome. The man was drunk. “She was worth every damn penny, including the bonus.”

“What bonus?”

“Performance bonus. Extra cash if she lasted the entire tour.”

Right. It was a f**king bribe for her not to sue them for getting f**king shot. “She oughta be surprised.”