Page 148 of Rush

“You’ve got him hooked with your magical fairy fanny,” she cackles, drying her hands.

I roll my eyes. “I brought you food. Gotta keep those creative juices flowing.”

“Burgers and fries?” she asks hopeful, stripping off her apron.

“I wish.” I snort. “Mexican protein bowls and artisanal lemonades. Ava’s got me hooked on them!”

“Ah, yes. Ava. Yournewfancy pants bestie.” She says it with a playful lilt, but there’s something just a hair too tight in her smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She waves me off. “I’m just being a little shit. I barely see you anymore now that you’re touring. It just…sucks.”

I close the space between us and crush her in a hug. She smells of paint and cinnamon, grounding me instantly.

“It doesn’t matter how long or how far I’m gone—you’ll always be my best friend. Hell, you’re basically my sister. No one knows me like you do. No one I trust more.”

She inhales beneath me, her heartbeat shifting.

I hold her at arm’s length, and her eyes flick down—just for a second. She swallows. Her jaw tightens, like she’s holding something back.

“We good?” I ask gently.

She pulls back, smirking. “Alright, stop flirting with me. Don’t you do enough of that with your hunk-a-spunk boy-toy?”

“Sometimes,” I say blushing as I dish out the food as we settle into catching up—tour life for me, work drama with her annoying boss for her.

“Is this the piece for Madam Sinclair?” I ask, pointing at the tall, narrow canvas where a woman’s face is outlined as flowers and feathers burst out of her forehead. It’s abstract and gorgeous—different from her usual pieces.

“Yeah, I’m trying something new. This is the third piece. She loved the other two.”

“Show me.”

Excitement sparks in Riley’s eyes as she gulps her drink and heads toward a rack of stacked canvases. She pulls them out one by one—a collection of women with half their faces replaced by random objects: one with shoes and jewels, another with vibrant tropical birds.

“Riley! They’re incredible. Now, what do I have to do to get one commissioned for me?”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m dead serious. I want one with musical shit coming out of her head—for that white wall in my music room.”

“No, that’s reserved for all the awards coming your way!”

“Maybe. But I want a piece from you up there—pwetty pwease, with sugar on top,” I beg in a mock-baby voice.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but I won’t charge you for it.”

“Over my dead body. I’ll have Mark contact you and arrange it properly.”

“I already live with you—rent-free, might I add.”

“Don’t even mention that—your art is worth every bit of the effort and heart you put into it. Don’t sell yourself short.”

She waves me off as if ending the conversation. If there’s anything Riley hates, it’s being told how talented, brilliant, and special she truly is. I wish she could see what I—and everyone else around her—see: her unwavering loyalty, her bright ray of sunshine that chases the darkness away.

“Ready to head off?” I ask, treading onto safer ground.

“Yeah—you got your hot security detail waiting downstairs?”