He laughs, right in time for the elevator doors to spring open. “Only if it’s a good dream.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that he only releases my arm when the elevator door has closed, sealing me into their suite.
This place isfancy. The open plan living space is massive, with two corner sofas bracketing a low coffee table already boasting two half-full coffee cups.
“Get comfy,” Slate orders, already on his way to an open kitchenette on the far side of the room.
Now that he’s out of the public eye, he shoves his hood down and his sleeves up, revealing muscled arms covered in tats. I know he said to get comfy, but my brain is still trying to figure out how I got here. I may as well have stumbled into an alternate world for all the sense this turn of events is making.
In all my imaginings about how today would go, this wasn’t it. I visualised myself wandering around San Jose by myself, possibly finding Gabrielle and needling her for information to work out Miguel’s schedule while I have the down time. I hadn’t prepared myself for encountering any of the band. My worst-case scenario was them bringing up our connection during the safety talk tomorrow.
But Slate—ever bold and impatient—is now throwing all of my plans into jeopardy. At least I don’t have to fake my shock and confusion.
“What on earth is going on?” I finally blurt.
Slate looks over and frowns. “I mean it. You can sit down.”
I’m not sure I should. I have the distinct feeling that Slate is up to something. Bringing me here, with the rest of the band conspicuously absent? Red flag. He may be the bassist, but he’s also the one member of the group who always has a plan. Even in-game, he always makes the decisions.
I shuffle over to one of the crushed velvet sofas and almost purr as I sink into it. Pure comfort. I wiggle until I’m sitting on my legs, my hoodie dragged over them for warmth, and watch as Slate tips plenty of sugar into my caffeine.
“I never told you how I like my coffee,” I whisper, as he turns and presents it to me like a prize.
Milky and candy-sweet.
“You’ve brought up enough bad coffee dates that I figured it out by process of elimination,” he retorts. “Too dark, too bitter… I never once heard you say too sweet.”
To spare myself the indignity of gaping at him some more, I raise it straight to my lips and take an immediate gulp.
“Careful, it’s—”
I silence him with a look. “Cold coffee is a crime.”
Unless it’s iced coffee…
His concern fades, replaced with a lazy grin. “God, you’re exactly like I imagined.” He coughs, then looks away. “I know this is probably a bit odd, but…” He holds his hand out, like he expects me to release my coffee to shake it. “StoneRE1, but you can call me Slate.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to say something, or shake his hand, or something, but I just stare at him with wide eyes. After a few moments, it gets awkward, and he rushes to cover the silence with conversation.
“Anyway, this suite has more than enough rooms so, seeing as yours got cancelled, I figure you can spend the day with the band, and take one of the spare beds tonight,” he continues a few seconds later, dropping his hand with a shrug and plopping down on the sofa beside me.
He’s got this all figured out, I realise. Suddenly, the coincidences begin to make a lot more sense. I bet my room was cancelled as part of whatever he’s up to.
“You’re not serious,” I finally stutter. “What…? Wait. You want me to stay with you? Here?” My voice is getting higher pitched with each word, my careful plans being destroyed with every second that passes.
There’s no way I’ll be able to bump into Gabrielle if I’m being constantly distracted by the band.
“Here will do… for starters. You can stay in our hotels during the tour, and when it finishes, we can look into finding a place together…”
Oh, God. I recognise this tone. This is what he sounds like when he’s on a mission to get something. Slate is as stubborn as an ass, and if he’s decided he wants me to stay with them, I’m going to have a battle on my hands to change his mind.
“Slate.” Prophet’s voice is like a whip, making me jump so hard I almost spill my coffee.
The drummer has just emerged from the room opposite, shirtless and wearing only a pair of workout shorts, with his headphones wrapped around his neck. Both of those beautiful mismatched eyes are focused on his bandmate, fury blazing in them.
He doesn’t even spare me so much as a glance.
“Prophet needs no introductions, given that his username is just his name in leetspeak,” Slate continues, ignoring the raging bull across from us. “Dodger and Arlo will be awake in a bit, then we can go for breakfast.”
