First message
Vic Powell had a system.
Finish the show. Survive the backstage congratulations. Escape before someone handed him another drink. Then wander through the parking lot and see what the night had to offer.
It wasn’t exactly noble.
After two hours of screaming crowds and stage lights, Vic wasn’t ready to disappear into the hotel. He wanted company. Someone pretty. Someone fun. Preferably someone who wouldn’t mind being thoroughly entertained for a few hours.
He adjusted the sunglasses perched on his head and scanned the rows of cars, tour buses, and lingering fans.
Nothing notable.
Then he spotted someone sitting alone on the curb near the far end of the lot.
Target acquired.
Vic’s mouth curved immediately.
Someone waiting around, apparently separated from their group.
There it was.
A little opportunity waiting patiently for him.
He changed direction.
Halfway there, he remembered he was supposed to be avoiding fans tonight. So he grabbed a baseball cap from the passenger seat of a nearby car, shoved it onto his head, and put on his sunglasses.
At night.
He approached with the confidence of a man whose disguise was considerably less convincing than he believed.
“Evening.”
He stopped nearby, hands slipping into his jacket pockets.
“Don’t worry. I’m not famous.”
His grin gave him away almost immediately.
“I’m just a very attractive stranger with excellent taste in parking lots.”