the audience feeds you.”
“I understand that in theory, but I have always lost myself in my music. It became more of a trancelike experience.” She didn’t want to mention that, yes, she thought there was a world of difference between conducting a symphony and strutting her badonkadonk.
“Ah, you had your back to the audience or your face buried in sheet music while you immersed yourself in the sounds, whereas this type of performing requires eye contact.” Livia fluttered her lashes at a passing security guard wearing camo and carrying a big-butt gun slung over his shoulder.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Apparently her badonkadonk had been on display after all. “You could have a point. I tried to look at the horizon, and it didn’t work for me.”
“Because you were not connecting with people and their emotions. Listen to that.” She tipped her face, her lashes fluttering closed as the crowd applauded for the comedian bowing his way offstage. Her eyes slowly opened. “For now, choose one person. That will feel less overwhelming until you are more comfortable scanning the crowd.”
Winking as she passed, Livia sprinted onstage to her applause and whistles.
This show versus her musical world? Definitely apples and pears. Because best she could recall, performances of Beethoven’s greatest hits usually didn’t receive catcalls.
Her cue came from the stage manager she’d only met the day before on the aircraft carrier. Chloe strode out with the other two backup singers and a line of dancers, waving and smiling until she felt creases forming in the caked makeup. Every swish of her costume around her upper thighs reminded her of how much she had on display.
She jogged to her microphone, scanning the crowd, searching the faces for one to lock onto that would help her zone out the rest. A nice, pimply faced eighteen-year-old seaman would remind her of the patriotic service she offered here. After all, she had a debt to repay.
Her gaze gravitated toward the front and a small patch of uniforms that differed from the rest. The cluster of solid tan took shape into aviators in desert flight suits. His crew.
They hadn’t left.
The music swelled around her with a comforting familiarity. Stage lights bathed her in soothing heat.
Brown eyes hit her with something hotter.
Now that that the sun had set, Jimmy Gage kept his sunglasses hooked in the neck of his flight suit. She could have sworn he seemed to be watching her intently from three rows back with his applauding buddies. Or maybe she’d indulged in some subconscious wishful thinking, because she was still pissed off at him and liked the idea that she hadn’t been so easily dismissed after all.
Of course now that she thought about it, pissed off could be channeled into fired up, which would infuse energy into her performance. Yep, she’d found her face. Definitely not pimply or eighteen, but at least she didn’t have to worry about him getting the wrong idea and asking for her phone number.
The first song segued into the second, and wow, Livia was right, the rest of the world did fade away. Chloe leaned in closer to the microphone. And no, damn it, the sensation had nothing to do with who she stared at. For that matter, looking at him made it all the easier to pour herself into the forget-his-ass tune spinning up.
The jaunty beat of the music drew her in. The grinding emotions of the melody and lyrics pumped through her veins as clearly as across her vocal chords. Her college degrees may have been in piano performance and orchestral conducting, but she’d taken and enjoyed her fair share of voice classes. Somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten the joy of this part of her career.
A few more stanzas, and she would be able to stare at Jimmy Gage without even really seeing him at all, not that he was smiling anyway. Or even looking at her.
His attention seemed to be firmly planted on the guy a row ahead of him. A guy who was pushing
“I understand that in theory, but I have always lost myself in my music. It became more of a trancelike experience.” She didn’t want to mention that, yes, she thought there was a world of difference between conducting a symphony and strutting her badonkadonk.
“Ah, you had your back to the audience or your face buried in sheet music while you immersed yourself in the sounds, whereas this type of performing requires eye contact.” Livia fluttered her lashes at a passing security guard wearing camo and carrying a big-butt gun slung over his shoulder.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Apparently her badonkadonk had been on display after all. “You could have a point. I tried to look at the horizon, and it didn’t work for me.”
“Because you were not connecting with people and their emotions. Listen to that.” She tipped her face, her lashes fluttering closed as the crowd applauded for the comedian bowing his way offstage. Her eyes slowly opened. “For now, choose one person. That will feel less overwhelming until you are more comfortable scanning the crowd.”
Winking as she passed, Livia sprinted onstage to her applause and whistles.
This show versus her musical world? Definitely apples and pears. Because best she could recall, performances of Beethoven’s greatest hits usually didn’t receive catcalls.
Her cue came from the stage manager she’d only met the day before on the aircraft carrier. Chloe strode out with the other two backup singers and a line of dancers, waving and smiling until she felt creases forming in the caked makeup. Every swish of her costume around her upper thighs reminded her of how much she had on display.
She jogged to her microphone, scanning the crowd, searching the faces for one to lock onto that would help her zone out the rest. A nice, pimply faced eighteen-year-old seaman would remind her of the patriotic service she offered here. After all, she had a debt to repay.
Her gaze gravitated toward the front and a small patch of uniforms that differed from the rest. The cluster of solid tan took shape into aviators in desert flight suits. His crew.
They hadn’t left.
The music swelled around her with a comforting familiarity. Stage lights bathed her in soothing heat.
Brown eyes hit her with something hotter.
Now that that the sun had set, Jimmy Gage kept his sunglasses hooked in the neck of his flight suit. She could have sworn he seemed to be watching her intently from three rows back with his applauding buddies. Or maybe she’d indulged in some subconscious wishful thinking, because she was still pissed off at him and liked the idea that she hadn’t been so easily dismissed after all.
Of course now that she thought about it, pissed off could be channeled into fired up, which would infuse energy into her performance. Yep, she’d found her face. Definitely not pimply or eighteen, but at least she didn’t have to worry about him getting the wrong idea and asking for her phone number.
The first song segued into the second, and wow, Livia was right, the rest of the world did fade away. Chloe leaned in closer to the microphone. And no, damn it, the sensation had nothing to do with who she stared at. For that matter, looking at him made it all the easier to pour herself into the forget-his-ass tune spinning up.
The jaunty beat of the music drew her in. The grinding emotions of the melody and lyrics pumped through her veins as clearly as across her vocal chords. Her college degrees may have been in piano performance and orchestral conducting, but she’d taken and enjoyed her fair share of voice classes. Somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten the joy of this part of her career.
A few more stanzas, and she would be able to stare at Jimmy Gage without even really seeing him at all, not that he was smiling anyway. Or even looking at her.
His attention seemed to be firmly planted on the guy a row ahead of him. A guy who was pushing
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