He looks like trouble.
Like mine.
His fingers tap softly against my skin and I can tell, he’s already writing new lyrics about tonight in his head. I let the silence beyond the wind whipping around us fill the space and close my eyes, knowing I want to have moments like this for the rest of my life.
Grayson and I made it back to the tour bus without incident after returning the Jeep. When we climb inside, the rest of our group is sprawled out in the common area downloading about the beach club show.
“Finally!” Jake huffs from the driver’s seat. “About time you two showed up. I was waiting for the call saying I needed to bail you out of jail.”
Grayson and I exchange a quick, knowing glance before settling into the booths with our friends. Brandon slides Grayson a beer from their six pack while Rylee pours me a glass of the red wine she and Johanna are sharing.
“I still can’t believe you did an acoustic version ofFallout,” Tony says, clinking his beer with Grayson’s. “And that the crowdactually knew all the words! I can’t remember the last time we did that one live. You guys crushed it.”
The bus jolts as it rumbles to life and we pull away from Folly Beach and toward the highway. Tony isn’t the only one buzzing; between the leftover adrenaline from the show and loading up on way too many orders of fries after, we all have way too much energy for midnight.
“They were feeling it,” Grayson grins, stretching his arm lazily around me. “Folly Beach might’ve topped Philly and it wasn’t even an official stop on the tour.”
“Well, Philly didn’t have Mia up there for a full set,” Eric says, pointing his bottle at me. “Game changer, for real.”
“True facts,” Brandon adds.
I flush instantly. It never gets less strange hearing the guys hype me up like this. It’s one thing coming from Grayson—but hearing Eric, Brandon, and Tony praise me just as highly is more than flattering.
“You guys are just being nice,” I say, tucking myself further into Grayson’s shoulder.
“Nope,” Tony says, popping thepfor emphasis. “Like I said—crushed it. Especially that second verse onCollapse? Hot as hell.”
“Watch it, Pratt,” Grayson warns, throwing a bottle cap at Tony’s head playfully. “She’smygirlfriend.”
“Pretty sure ‘hot as hell’ is just thetechnicalterm,” Brandon chimes in with a smirk.
“Next stop, Miami!” Jake hollers from his spot at the front of the bus, his clipboard somehow materializing out of thin air. “Please prepare for turbulence in the form of me screaming about tomorrow’s setlists and agenda!”
The group groans in unison as Jake reads down his checklist. As he gets to the afternoon’s events, I’m distracted by my phone buzzing in my lap with an incoming call. When I look down, Inearly drop my wine glass mid-sip when I see the name that lights up my screen.
Incoming Call:Byron Alexander
I freeze. My father.
It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room, and suddenly I can barely breathe.
My father was the presiding judge in the county where I grew up. When the news broke that he had been cheating on my mother, that the picture perfect Alexander family was all a lie, he couldn’t get himself and his mistress out of town fast enough. I haven’t heard from him since he left. Hell, I don’t even know what state he lives in anymore.
I set my wine glass down carefully and click the side button to silence the call without declining it. Grayson’s hand brushes against my thigh, reminding me I’m still breathing, and I can tell he knows something is up.
The call finally went to voicemail.
I have to get out of this room.
“You okay?” Grayson asks softly, low enough that the others won’t catch it over Jake’s rant about making sure the guys remember the load in time and when they’re expected on stage for soundcheck.
“Sure,” I say absent-mindedly, the word feeling thin and fake coming out of my mouth. “I’m just gonna go to bed, okay? I’m tired. I’ll catch up with Jake in the morning.”
I don’t wait for a response, weaving my way past the bunks and through to the smaller back lounge, closing the door behind me. The missed call notification stares up at me, a relentless reminder, and then:
New Voicemail:Byron Alexander
I sit there for a second, staring down at my phone in my hands, feeling the rumble of the highway under my feet. Curiosity isgetting the better of me. What could he possibly want after almost two decades of silence?
