Somehow, Jace’s show is even better than last night. When he sings, I swear it feels like he’s singing to me, but I realize that’s delusional. All around me, gorgeous women scream his name,and backstage, I spot Marlowe watching him with what I can only imagine is regret in her eyes.
Because if Jace loved me, and I let him go, I’d regret it too.
Tonight, they sing “Dead Flowers” again, and if I’m not mistaken, those words have a little more meaning with his ex in the wings.
I get tons of video and photos for their social media. On my way back to the bus, I grab burgers and fries for Jace and myself, plus chicken nuggets and fruit for the baby. Jace already had “nugs” for lunch.
After Layla and I eat, I clean her up, get her to bed, and then take a quick shower. I expected to be wiped out after today, but I’m a little wired. I sort of understand what Jace means by getting amped up by the adrenaline.
I need to process… well, everything, so I grab my journal and my favorite book,Pride and Prejudice, because you can never read that too many times.
But when I get out my olive-green canvas tote, I frown. My beautiful magenta journal with the smooth dot grid paper isn’t in the place it usually is—in one of the middle upright pockets, next to my pen pouch and washi tape holder.
It’s in the side pocket.
Weird.
Would Jace have gone through my things? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to be nosy. I get the impression that if he wants to know something, he’ll ask.
Maybe I put the journal there accidentally? I suppose it’s possible.
This has been one of the longest stretches I’ve gone without journaling, but things have been busy. I flip to a fresh page and brain-dump everything that’s been going on since we left Wild Heart.
I’m still not crazy about sharing accommodations with a busload of men, but having the back bedroom gives me a reprieve from all of that testosterone. I’m also really drained at times from being around people. Part of me misses being able to hole up in my apartment for an entire weekend and turn off my brain.
Except I’m enjoying my time with Layla. She’s such a good, easygoing baby. It’s easy to love her.
But my biggest revelation is I’m having fun on this tour. I’m outside my comfort zone almost every minute I’m here, but it’s pushing me to try new things.
I also have to admit I misjudged Jace.
He’s not the turd I thought he was last winter. He’s sweet and caring and really freaking talented.
And then I confess the part I’ll never say out loud—that I’m not sure how to prepare myself for this tour to end. Because at some point, I’m getting off this bus, literally and figuratively.
After I’ve purged my soul and tucked my journaling supplies away, I must doze off because when I open my eyes, Jace is sliding into bed. “How did it go tonight?” I whisper groggily.
“Great. We talked to Niles Prescott, the VP of Bandit. He wants me to focus on writing. Basically said if I can pen two or three more good songs, he’ll sign us.”
“I’m so happy for you.” There’s something I’m forgetting. Food. “Did you eat? I left you a plate in the lounge.” I wrote his name on it so no one would touch it.
“Found it. Wolfed it down as soon as we got back. Thanks for the doggy bag.”
He smells like he just showered. Smiling, I close my eyes and breathe him in.
“Rory.” I open my eyes and find him turned to me, so I shift until we’re facing each other. “Niles said he was impressed withyour posts. You got us ten thousand followers overnight. Your video went viral.”
I sit up in bed. “Are you serious?”
He laughs and tugs me back down. “Completely serious.” Cupping my face, he studies me. “I know you didn’t wanna come on this tour, but you’ve been amazing. I love seeing you in the audience during the shows, and I’m really grateful Layla has you.”
My heart thrashes in my chest. “I’m having fun.”
“What was that?” he asks, chuckling, as he cups his ear, and I shove him playfully.
He shoves me back, and I tickle him.
Laughing, he grabs me and twists us around, until I’m pinned down and he’s hovering over me, close enough that I can smell his minty breath. In the streetlight that peeks through the blinds, I can make out the taut lines of his arms as his muscles bulge. How I’d love to run my finger over his shoulders. He’s a work of art. Sighing, I shake my head. “This is a bad idea.” But oh my God, I’ve never wanted to do something more.
