She loved his sweet, protective side, but it wasn’t about her. “Not even if Celebrity Motor Homes contacted you to do a segment on your life on the road?”
He shrugged. “This bus is nicer than any I’ve ever had; it’s still not one of them million-dollar motor coaches.” Then he offered her a smirk. “And I’m supposed to be keepin’ a low profile, remember?”
Crash entered the tent with a young woman who appeared to be fresh out of high school. Then again, the older Liberty got, the worse she was at judging ages.
Devin heaved himself to his feet and crossed the small expanse in three steps. “Daisy Sue? Thanks for postponing this interview until after the show. But I’ll warn ya that without a shower I’m a little ripe.”
“I don’t mind. You earned that sweat. What an outstanding performance.”
“Thank you.” He gestured to the two chairs in the corner. “How about if we sit over there?”
“I promise I won’t keep you too long. I know you’ve gotta get on the road.”
Crash beckoned Liberty outside. “If you’ve got this handled, the band is gonna take off.”
“Are the drivers rested? It seems we’re on the road for more than twelve hours every damn night.”
“They’re all getting the required break. We worked that into the touring schedule, Liberty.”
She held up her hands at his brusque tone. “Not an accusation. I just worry about Devin. He’s so exhausted, he’s not working on music during the day. He just zones out in front of the TV.”
“It’s the ebb and flow of the tour.” Crash frowned. “I’m more worried about you. Is Dev expecting you to entertain him so you’re not getting the rest you need? Because it’s crucial that you’re on your game throughout these next few tour dates.”
“My workouts have been about half of what they should be, but besides that, I’m holding steady. And I am armed. That levels the playing field a whole lot.”
“Good. And I’ve been meaning to thank you.”
Liberty looked at him quizzically. “For what?”
“For keeping Devin on an even keel. About this time on tour, tempers start to fray. Especially his. Not only does he feel safe with you, but that safety allows him to concentrate on doin’ his job every night.” Crash grinned. “And he likes havin’ you in close quarters. He’s never had that before, and he’s gotten really protective of it.”
Not knowing how to respond, her answer was a little flip. “I’m glad to be of service.”
He clapped her on the shoulder. “Have a good night. See you tomorrow at sound check. Be safe.”
“Always.”
She hovered in the walkway, keeping an eye on the tent where Devin was being interviewed and squinting at the dirt parking lot where the roadies were loading up the last of the equipment. The only good thing about smaller venues is they didn’t do a full stage setup, so teardown took less than half of the usual time, but it was tricky to accomplish in the dark with spotlights. Since Devin preferred to stick around until the semis rolled out, she was happy to see they were nearly finished.
An image jogged closer. Between the darkness, clouds of dust and exhaust fumes, she couldn’t make the person out. Her hand automatically went to her stun gun. When she realized it was just Reg, she felt like an idiot. Maybe she was more tired than she thought.
“Hey there, Miss Liberty. I’m done with my final check. I’ll be waiting on the bus.”
She wished Reg could pull the bus around. They were on the opposite side from where it was parked. But the behemoth was difficult to maneuver, so she didn’t ask. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
The interview was still in full swing, so she typed her daily report on her phone.
Another twenty minutes passed by. She finally caught Devin’s eye and tapped on her wrist.
Devin gave the interviewer his million-dollar grin. “The boss lady is tellin’ me we oughta wrap this up.”
“I have one last question.” Daisy Sue sat a little straighter in her chair. “You’ve taken some hits over the years as well as had your share of acclaim. Your song ‘What Love Isn’t’ has supporters and detractors. How do you feel when music critics weigh in?”
“Darlin’, if I tell you what I really think, you’ll get in trouble because you ain’t allowed to publish that kinda bad language in your family newspaper.”
Daisy Sue laughed.
“In all honesty, critics’ opinions don’t mean squat. There’s no such thing as a ‘critical review’ because the phrase signifies the reviewer is already a critic lookin’ to find something wrong. My fans’ response to my music is all I care about. Those supposed professional reviewers, who feel entitled to say whatever nasty stuff they want about my work, are just lookin’ for an angle and a way to get themselves noticed. In recent years it’s come down to who can have the snarkiest sound bite; it’s not about my work at all, but how clever they think they can be in dissing it or me.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Some of my peers claim it stems from jealousy because these so-called critics have no obvious talents of their own. I think it’s because they have no idea how to create something. Alls they know is how to tear something apart someone else created. So like I said, I’ll let the workin’ people who plunk down their hard-earned cash for my CDs or to see my shows be my true critics. Life is too short and too precious to focus on negativity or the people who specialize in it.”