“That’s okay, I have my tablet.”
A few minutes later, he’s all set up with an hour to spare. He runs his hands through his hair. “I might need a drink or two.”
He’s nervous and it’s adorable. “Haven’t you played to tens of thousands at once?”
“Yeah, with a band. And the ability to tell whether they’re enjoying it.”
“You’ll do great. Are you letting them request songs or do you have a list?”
I follow him back down the hall where he grabs a beer from the fridge. “A little of both. I have a playlist, but I’m going to take two requests.”
Noting the time, I grab my tablet and sit on the couch, opening the app so I can watch Solar Dust play. Patrick grins, and I point at him. “Shush.” He pretends to zip his lips, but flops down beside me on the couch, so close his leg is against mine, and watches my tablet with me as Logan pops up.
“Oh my god, there he is!” he cries in a shrill voice, fanning himself.
“Shut up.” Shoving him just makes him more amused. Logan talks for a few minutes then starts playing his most popular song. Patrick sits beside me and we watch him play four songs before he stops, plugs the charity he’s playing for, and asks if there are questions or requests.
Patrick grins down at me. “Come on, I know you have a question. Don’t let me stop you. What do you want to know?”
Nothing I’d admit or would be appropriate. Shrugging, I type out a song request and submit it, knowing full well it’ll get buried by thousands of others. “I don’t have any questions, but I’d like to hear the cover he did on YouTube.”
Logan chats a bit more then plays another song. After it ends, he announces he has time for one more and we get a close up of his forehead as he tries to read the comments and questions.
“Note to self. Don’t do that,” Patrick chuckles.
I’m shocked when he announces his last song will be the cover I requested. My hands jump to my mouth before I even realize it and it takes a moment for me to notice Patrick has a grin stretched between both ears.
“Don’t,” I warn. “A lot of people requested it. It’s no big deal.”
I’m absolutely lying and losing my shit.
There’s not an ounce of the teasing tone left when Patrick replies. “He saw your comment and he’s playing it. Be excited. It’s awesome. That reaction from listeners is half the joy I get from music.”
Logan’s performance is amazing, and I watch as he announces the next artist, and a British guy I’m not familiar with pops up in a video beside him. They exchange a few words and Logan signs off.
“Okay,” Patrick says, draining his beer. “I have about half an hour before I’m announced. Then I follow the link they sent me.” He grabs another beer and we both head back to the music room to make sure everything is ready.
After we make sure the camera on my phone is angled well, I drag a chair back to a corner behind the phone where I can’t be seen, but where we can see each other. With my tablet muted, I leave the livestream running and keep an eye on it. “I’ll watch the tablet too so if something is wrong on the video, I can tell you.”
“Good idea.”
As his time draws closer, he paces a little. The way he rubs his hands together creates a raspy sound. “Are you always this keyed up before a performance?”
His ass perches on the edge of the sofa. “Yes, but I’m usually preparing to bounce across a stage, not sit at the keyboard or play guitar.” He gets to his feet again, ready to wear a path in the floor.
I’m not sure what possesses me, but I wrap my arms around him in a hug. Maybe it’s knowing that when my anxiety reaches the twitchy level, it’s the one thing that always helps. His surprise is clear in the tightening of his muscles but only for a split second. Long arms wrap around me and he lays his chin on top of my head.
“This…always helps me calm down,” I explain.
His chest rises and falls on a deep breath. “Thank you.”
The beep of a notification ends the moment, and he flashes a grin at me before pressing a button and sitting in front of the camera.
A second later, he pops onto the screen of my tablet. The viewer count starts growing as he stares into the camera, every bit as close as Logan did when he was trying to read the comments. “Am I live?” he asks, more so to the camera than me. “I can’t see comments.”
The comments are racing by on my tablet. His gaze jumps to me. “Can you see comments because they aren’t showing.”
There are no words to describe how badly I do not want to talk, even offscreen, where nearly a hundred thousand people can hear me. Instead, I nod frantically and hold up the tablet so he can see he’s live.
The musician who is supposed to introduce him appears on the screen. “Hey, I lost my signal there for a moment. Thorn, can you see me?”
“I see you, but my comments disappeared,” Patrick laughs, shoving a hand through his hair.
The comments are filled with his name and cries of excitement. His fans are freaking out and I hate that he can’t see it. We’ll have to play the video back later.
“Aw hell, we’re lucky it’s working at all. I’m too old to learn this shit,” the other guy exclaims.
I don’t know what Patrick was worried about. He’s a natural. He jokes and laughs with the musician who introduces him, then reaches for his guitar.
“All right, your fans are screaming at me to go away. Here he is, people, Patrick Thorn.” He signs off and Patrick is the only one left on the screen.
“I’m going to start with In My Heart, but I’ll have my friend read me your comments and requests periodically, then I’ll answer some questions at the end.”
His gaze jumps to me, and I flip him off for pulling me into this, but it’s not like I’m going to refuse.
Curling up in the chair where I can’t be seen, I watch the comments from fans scroll by. Good god, the thirst. So many sexual comments and offers scattered in with song requests, along with strange questions like what he eats for breakfast or what shampoo he uses. I mean, fair enough on the shampoo question. His hair is amazing.
My attention is quickly drawn from the tablet to him once he starts singing.
Even in my limited experience, I know it’s not common for a singer to sound the same live as they do on a recording that’s been cleaned up and mastered. He does. Song after song, his rich, soulful voice doesn’t need any help. He doesn’t need a band behind him.
With just a guitar and his voice, he can reach into you, catch hold, and squeeze out the same level of emotion that shows on his face as he belts out the words. I’m not comfortable showing emotions. It’s something I keep a tight rein on and the way he’s affecting me is difficult to comprehend. His voice is pure and devastating. Dangerous and precious.
I’m overwhelmed with the realization of how fortunate I am to be here with him when there must be thousands of women who would do anything to trade places with me. They’re offering everything short of their first born in the comments just to get a shout out from him.
He’s in his element when he’s singing, but a sheepish smile returns to his face at the end of the song, and his demeanor is awkward. “Okay, thanks so much everyone who’s listening.” It must be incredibly odd to play to silence, to not have that feedback of screaming fans. “I’m going to take a couple of requests now. Let me know what you want to hear.”