“Get up!”
“What the hell, Harley?” Jameson grabbed the comforter over them.
“I’ve been calling your cell,” she snapped. “If you answered your phone, I wouldn’t have to come up here.”
“It’s”—he glanced at the clock—“seven a.m. We don’t meet until noon.”
“Again, if you bothered to look at your phone, you’d see we’ve had a change in our schedule. Now, get up. The guys are alreadydown in the lobby and the car to the radio station will be here any minute.”
“Radio?”
“Open slot. We took it. Move. Lobby. Five.”
She stormed out, door slamming.
Jameson dramatically flopped back, then sprang up and showered in record time.
“I’ll send a car over at four. Have fun with Devya today and be safe.” He kissed her hard, then sprinted out the door but not before yelling “I love you” over his shoulder.
The Parsons tour was everything. She loved the school, the people, the art program, the pulse of the city. She could see herself here for four years. There was just one problem:
Jameson wasn’t in New York.
He wasn’tanywhere. She’d assumed San Francisco would be his home base—that was the only reason Stanford had ever been on the table. Decisions loomed, and so did harder conversations with Jameson.
But she knew this much: they’d choose each other. Not out of clingy dependence, but because they were determined to make it work. If that meant giving up a dream that had only recently taken shape, she’d wrestle with that truth.
She thought long and hard about it as the car crossed the city to the venue. Bundled in a plaid dress, heeled booties, and a heavy coat against the bitter cold she’d never known in the Bay, Daisy couldn’t help but feel giddy with the possibilities of living there. She tried to suppress it; she really did. She was afraid to let her hopes get too high.
“We are here, Miss Daniels.”
“Thank you,” Daisy said to the driver and jumped out of the car.
She was greeted by a man named Neil Joneses, Harley’s assistant.
The poor soul.
He escorted her backstage.The place buzzed—faces she didn’t know, people threading in and out with purpose. She eased through, shoulder to shoulder, until a hand landed on hers.
“My, my, my,” a voice drawled. “You must be my farewell gift.”
She turned. Ace Monroe.
Long gone was the shy girl that used to inhabit her body; it was now occupied by a girl who was two seconds away from biting the hand that touched her. “Unless your farewell gift is a kick in the balls, then no. I’m not.”
Ace stepped closer. “Feisty. Me likey.”
Daisy thought she might throw up in her mouth if he continued to talk, but as always, her hero came to the rescue.
“Chatting up my girl, Monroe?” Jameson’s voice slid in behind her. Ace stepped back, hands up.
“Shit, man. I didn’t know.”
“It’s cool,” Jameson said, clapping his back. “Unless it happens again.”
They laughed it off and Daisy was properly introduced to Ace. He apologized, swore he wouldn’t have tried if he’d known she was with Jameson. Daisy believed him. Mostly.
Like all of their shows, this one was electric. A fierce, grateful farewell to a first tour that had throttled their career. Daisy watched from the wings at Terminal 5—narrow, stacked three stories high—fascinated by the choreography of it all. She had come to enjoy watching concerts from that angle. She liked being backstage and was fascinated by the effort it took to put on a show. There was a job for everything: lights, sound, stagehands running cues like blood to the brain.
