Losing Gabriel (21 page)

He wondered why he'd never noticed her in high school. Sloan. He'd never looked beyond Sloan Quentin, and he should have. Now he did. And what he saw was the brown-eyed girl with the thousand-watt smile who had stepped into his world and lit it up.

B
onnaroo's main stages, the What and the Which, featured headliners and superstars. Smaller acts, the less well known and the newbies, played at This Tent, That Tent, and the Other Tent. Loose Change was scheduled to perform at two in the afternoon on Friday on the Other Tent stage and again at one a.m. Saturday—actually Sunday, when Sloan thought about it—at This Tent. She neither cared where or when they performed, just as long as they performed. She knew they were ready. Years' worth of work came down to a single purpose—to make a splash, to stand out amid the one hundred and thirty acts booked at the festival. Huge feat, Sloan knew, but so long as she had a stage and an audience, she planned to light a musical fire with her voice listeners could not forget.

Friday morning dragged. The summer heat built, baking the ground, sweltering the crowds, and despite the availability of daily showers, people began to smell like farm animals. Hats, sunscreen, stripped-down clothing, and gallons of drinking water did little to stem the scorch of the sun. Those not hydrating enough passed out and were carried to the medical tents and treated. Beer flowed in steady streams, and the aroma of marijuana permeated the air. So much for the ban on drugs. No one gave a damn. People were there to celebrate music and to party.

Because of the heat, Sloan traded her leather look for hip-hugging micro-mini red shorts and a silk scarf folded to make a halter top that cradled her generous breasts. She glued a bright red fake diamond in her belly button that glittered with every sensuous twist and turn of her body. “Smokin',” Jarred said, fingering the scarf's knot at the nape of her neck. She swatted his hand. “Don't even think about it.”

Jarred took the stage in jeans and biker boots, his upper body bare, his massive biceps and forearms glistening with suntan oil and sweat. The long line of arrowheads aligned from his neck to his wrist stood out in dark relief. Bobby, Hal, and Sy were content to wear long shorts and black wife-beater tees. They started their set with hot guitar licks pouring from their amps. At the top of a crescendo, Jarred stepped forward, struck a screaming riff, and Sloan strutted onto the stage. The crowd erupted.

The show was to last an hour. It went twenty minutes longer. The band tore through their playlist, and Sloan held nothing back. She rocked from piece to piece, pacing the music to the mood, hot and sexual for one song, sultry and soft for a ballad with Jarred. He played to her strengths, leaned into her, locked gazes, brushed his lips across hers. The crowd went crazy.

And when their set was finished, they took bows to hoots and whistles and screams of adoration. Bobby reminded the crowd of their Saturday-night performance, shouted for people to bring friends. Then Sloan stepped forward, dug the red jewel off her body, and pitched it. They learned later that two guys suffered broken fingers in the scramble to retrieve it.

Sloan walked hand in hand with Jarred through jam-packed Centeroo, sidestepping a crush of gawkers and long lines of people waiting to go into the tents. “Hard to come down,” Sloan said, still stoked from the high-octane performance of their one a.m. show. If anything, it had been better than the first, certainly more crowded. Word had spread that Loose Change was a bright light among this year's newbie bands.

“No reason to come back to earth. We killed tonight. We'll be headliners here someday.” Jarred dodged a staggering drunk man.

“I'd rather be an icon like the guy we saw last night. Twenty-five years and the fans still flock to hear him. That's what I want. Don't want to flame out early.”

“You mean you want to be The Stones.”

“What's wrong with that?”

He tugged her to him. “Not a damn thing.” He was wearing a Western-style hat with two long black feathers stuck in the hatband, jeans, boots, and a seventies-style fringed vest over his bare upper body.

“Where'd you find the threads?”

“Same place you probably bought your dress—the sixties hippie vendor.” He flashed a smile. “A dress that looks very hot on you.”

She returned his smile, stroked the fabric of the psychedelic print. “I think it's cool. A little keepsake to remember tonight forever.”

“What you wearing under it?” He ran his hands down her sides and across her belly.

Shivers shot through her. She caught his hand, pressed it to her breast. “Nothing.”

His grin went lascivious. “That an invitation?”

She teased him with her tongue. “Let's go back to the bus. Bobby, Sy, and Hal are doing the all-nighter thing with three girls they picked up. We'll have the Beast all to ourselves.”

His brow furrowed. “I've got an appointment.”

“With who?” When he shrugged, she pushed. “That Mick guy?” Again he was silent. “I don't like him, Jarred. Who is he, anyway?”

“An agent.”

“You're kidding. He doesn't look—”

“LA style. We're talking about a deal for the band, out there.”

Her interest piqued. “Shouldn't all of us meet him together? The band should have a say in any deal.”

“Let me open the door with him, make sure he's serious. I'll give a full report tomorrow.” He began to back away, turned, kissed the air in her direction. “I'll meet you back at the Beast later. To remove the dress.”

Before she could react, he melted into the crowd and disappeared. She wanted to follow him but felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a long-haired girl shyly staring at her. “Um…'scuse me, but are you the singer with that Change band?”

Sloan nodded. The girl's eyes grew even wider. She spun and yelled, “OMG…It's her! I told you it was her!”

A small group of people quickly separated out of the masses. “I'm Allison!” Then as the others surrounded them, Allison grabbed Sloan's hand. “You were wonderful! Fabulous! I love your voice.”

A chorus of voices chimed in. “Effin' great” and “I bought your band's CD” and “Where you touring next?” and “Posted one song from your show on my Facebook page and got a ton of likes.” A girl in the back asked, “Where's your hunky guitarist?”

Her irritation with Jarred evaporated. These people were
fans
and were acting as if they knew her. She couldn't turn them away. “Glad you liked our music.” She smiled, let their adoration wash over her and soak in.

“Where you going?” one of the group asked. “Can we buy you a beer?” A big guy with dreadlocks pushed forward, offering a smile and a hand. “Stuart. Serious about the beer. I'm buying.”

The others hooted. “He
never
buys. Make him pay for all of us.”

The experience was heady, lifting Sloan ever higher. Face to face with fans, a community of people in love with music, and now saying they loved her too. How could she say no? She hooked her arm with Stuart's. “Where should we go?”

Cheers went up. The General Admissions tent was a seething zoo of humanity. “In a few hours we all go home, go back to our real lives. No one wants it to end, though,” Allison shouted above the din.

Sloan understood. She wasn't ready to return to Nashville and pull things together for the tour of tiny lounges, noisy bars, and in-and-out county fairs. She wanted
this,
festivals and fans who knew her and wanted to be around her.

“Hey,” Stuart called, “no use hanging in this crowd. I got a beer stash at our tent. Come on, or we'll all be sober before we get service here.”

The walk to the tent area was long, but Allison chattered about how she and Stu had hooked up online as fellow travelers from Florida in order to save money. Once they'd set up their tent, they made friends with others all around them. Five guys were there from Indiana, two girls from Wyoming, and an older couple had driven up from Arizona. “Been coming for four years,” one of them said. “Save for it all year. And I have the best time of my life.”

“I'm coming until I'm an old fart,” said a guy named Tim.

“Honey, you're fifty. We
are
old farts,” said the woman with him, making everyone laugh.

Once at Stu's camper site, he handed Sloan a beer. She took a big gulp and stretched out on a blanket someone had spread. Staring up at stars sprinkled like jewels on black velvet, she thought about Jarred's appointment but couldn't help wondering if the story about Mick was a cover so that he could bed some other girl…the way girls looked at him with invitations written on their faces. Sloan knew better than to expect him to be faithful to her. Not Jarred's style. She held their relationship together with music and sex. But he was faithful to the band, and that's what mattered most. She took another swig of beer, welcomed the numbing rush of alcohol to her brain.

Someone in the group lit a joint and passed it around. When it got to Sloan, she sucked in the potent smoke, as much to be a part of the group as to feel the buzz. Music from the festival drifted on the night air. She felt as if she belonged.

“Hey, look!” one of the group called. “Fireflies!”

Allison let out a giggle. “I want one.”

“Your wish…my command.” Stuart staggered up and grabbed for one in cupped hands. Soon all were standing, lurching around the site, chasing fireflies, stumbling, laughing, and capturing only air.

As a child, Sloan had chased fireflies because she believed they were fairies, bright winged beings who came at night for all to see, especially lonely little girls in trailer parks. Now she was all grown up. She was
somebody
! She felt her eyelids growing heavy, and when no one was paying attention, Sloan slipped away, heading toward the Blue Beast. Tomorrow back to reality, but tonight was magical. How she longed to stuff it in a jar and keep it close to her forever.