"I'm tired."
"Then sleep. And call your father. Please."
"No."
"Calvin...."
"Gotta go. Show tonight."
I hung up before she could say more.
Tossed the phone. Buried my face in the pillow. Smelled her perfume still. Citrus. Sweet. Wrong.
I slept. Fitful. Dreams of courtrooms and spotlights and my dad's disappointed face.
Woke up at four-thirty. Shower. Black coffee. Jeans. White tee. Leather jacket. Hair still damp, pushed back.
Backstage at the amphitheater was chaos, runners, techs, lights being tested. I found the dressing room. Mirror. Fixed my hair. Ran product through it. Looked at myself. Looked away.
Then arms wrapped around me from behind. Tight. Familiar.
Citrus.
I relaxed instantly.
"Syd."
She laughed against my back. "Miss me, rockstar?"
I turned. Sydney. Dark hair in a messy bun, oversized hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Same girl from elementary school who used to punch boys who teased us. Still tiny. Still fierce.
"Flight delayed?" I asked.
"Two hours. LAX hates me." She hugged me again. "You smell like hotel soap and bad choices."
"Accurate."
She pulled back, studied my face. "You okay?"
"Always."
"Liar." She poked my chest. "Heard about the crying girl in the hallway."
"News travels."
"Kei told me." She rolled her eyes. "You're such a dick sometimes."
"Love you too."
She grinned. "I'm your PR manager tonight. No scandals. No throwing girls out crying. Behave."
"No promises."
She smacked my arm. "Behave."
The others piled in. Holland hugged her. Jake ruffled her hair. Kei kissed her cheek.
"Finally," Holland said. "Our good luck charm."
