“I think there are a lot of men in this world who are unaware of that contract.”
Zane closed the door to the dishwasher. “Let’s go sit on the sofa and talk. You deserve to know the truth about what happened at my last concert.”
In the living room they settled on the sofa a few inches apart. Jeannette thought about sitting in the matching chair, but she wanted to be near Zane for a reason other than her attraction to him. Maybe he’d give off signals that would tell her if he was being glib or guarded or dishonest. She also had to admit she just wanted to be close to him. Because he was a star? Actually, no. It was because there was something about him that made her heart race and her skin tingle and her stomach flip-flop.
Zane glanced at her, then raked his hand through his thick brown hair. With the table lamp beside him, she realized there were burnished strands in it. He wore a Stetson so much of the time that she hadn’t noticed them before.
“I began promoting my new CD last September when I performed at Frontier Days. I had written a lead song—‘Movin’ On’—and performed it for the first time here at the arena at the fairgrounds. When my CD was released last year, sales skyrocketed and the tour started off with a bang.”
“How many concerts do you do a week?”
“That depends. I’d rather do several close together, and then give everybody a break for a week or two. That’s easier on their family life. But spring through summer is our busiest time.”
“You said you have a bus?”
He frowned. “Yep. I used to call it my home away from home. But now—”
“Tell me what happened,” she requested, knowing the bus was involved.
He hesitated, obviously reluctant. After heaving a deep breath, he began, “It was early April. I’d done a bunch of media events in New York and L.A. We’d started a monthlong series of concerts and did a few in the Southwest. Texas concerts are great because I can usually wiggle in time to see my mom and old friends who still live in Midland.”
When he stopped, she could see the shadows in his eyes, the click of memories playing that he’d rather avoid. He shifted on the sofa, leaned forward, placed his hands on his knees. “We performed at a venue near Austin. It was an outdoor arena with stadiumlike seats under cover, others close to the stage, not covered. It was an evening show with all the lights and hoopla that can make a concert spectacular. The audience was great. They’d come to enjoy themselves, to sing along, clap, stomp, whatever it took to feel part of the music.”
Jeannette could see Zane was reliving it, maybe feeling the rhythm under his feet, his guitar in his hands, the songs in his head.
“Because it was a night concert, I did the meet and greet beforehand,” he explained. “I met with folks in the fan club, spoke with others who’d won tickets through radio contests, that sort of thing. But I also signed autographs for about an hour before the concert with the general audience. I wanted to get on the road and didn’t want it to go too late afterward.”
She could imagine the crowd, the concertgoers vying for his autograph on hands and T-shirts and CD covers. It had been a long, long time since she’d been at a concert, but she remembered the feel of it, the excitement, the bass vibrating in her chest.
Zane rubbed his palms on his jeans and stared straight ahead. “The audience got more revved up with each song, and we found ourselves doing more than we scheduled, just because we were enjoying it so much. I usually plan two encores, but I think we did five that night. I’ll admit it’s hard for me to leave the stage when the audience is that encouraging. Or at least it was.”
From the tone in Zane’s voice she could tell he felt differently about all of it now.
“Tell me what happened,” she requested gently.
He turned to look at her for a moment, and then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ll never forget it, as long as I live.” He paused. “I had a bodyguard who went with me everywhere. Roscoe handled my personal security team. They’re supposed to keep me safe and they always did a terrific job of it. My promoter was in charge of the security force for the concert venue. They’d done a fine job with that large crowd. The concert had gone off without a hitch. The band had already left. Then…”
He stopped. “I’m not sure what happened. My tour bus was parked at the back of the stage. Often a crowd gathers there to catch a glimpse of me leaving. It happens everywhere we go and it’s not unusual. There had never been a problem before. But that night the crowd around the bus suddenly got too large and too close. Roscoe and his team formed a line for me to get to the bus. I was on the first step when I heard and felt the surge, saw the fans break through the guard line. The next thing I knew, someone was down and there was screaming. The 9-1-1 call went out and I still wasn’t sure what had happened. Roscoe shoved me into the bus and I was fighting him to get into the crowd. But he insisted they would tear me apart. I told him I wasn’t leaving until I knew what had happened. We’d called the police to tell them we were circling the venue. As far as I was concerned, this was my concert, my responsibility. I made the calls myself to the chief of police and the nearest hospital, but nobody would tell me anything. During all that, my manager called a lawyer. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wasn’t worried about liability. I was worried about whoever got hurt.”
Jeannette could hear the emotion in Zane’s voice, the rough huskiness that stopped him from telling more.
Finally he shifted on the sofa. His knee grazed hers as he faced her. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. My lawyer has instructed me not to talk about it to anybody, not to go near Ashley’s family or talk to them.”
Jeannette knew Ashley Tuller had been thirteen. This was breaking her heart, imagining what her parents felt…what Zane was feeling. “You don’t know me very well, Zane,” she admitted. “But I can tell you I won’t go to a tabloid and I won’t talk to a reporter. That doesn’t mean you’ll believe me. I think I already understand that Ashley’s death was life-changing for you, so if you don’t want to talk about it more, or can’t, that’s okay.”
“I haven’t talked to anyone about it except for my lawyer. I haven’t even spoken to Dillon or the guys in my band about the details.”
If he hadn’t told his best friend, his closest friends, she doubted he’d tell her. She didn’t know if she should, but she reached out and covered his hand with hers.
The nerve in his jaw jumped. “Ashley had a head injury, severe trauma. She was airlifted to a hospital in Dallas best equipped to deal with that. For three days she was in a coma—three days when her parents didn’t know if she was going to live or die. From what I understand, her older sister was by her side twenty-four hours a day.” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine their pain. Even if I could talk to them, what would I say? Dillon lost his son and I know what he went through. I just wish—”
“What do you wish?”
“I wish I could do something so I didn’t feel so powerless. I wish they could know I didn’t leave the scene like some of the tabloids reported. Since the family filed a civil suit, everyone around me is telling me to listen to my lawyer. I feel like he’s tied my hands and feet and taped my mouth shut. This isn’t me. I do something when I can. I don’t wait around to see what happens next.”
“You’re
