Page 39 of The Encore’s Crown

Kiri

Natalia is carry-me levels of drunk by the time we're ready to leave. She's bypassed the sloppy or obnoxious options and gone straight to that dangerous, gravity-is-optional kind of wasted where she thinks she’s floating until her feet betray her. She pushes off the table and immediately wobbles. Rafe jumps in like he’s trying to catch a priceless vase mid-fall.

“Whoa—easy,” he says, as he puts both arms out, palms open, like he’s defusing a bomb. Which, to be fair, he kind of is. A drunk, emotional Nat is basically a grenade in a dress. She leans into him, and Rafe goes rigid. Completely fucking panicked. His eyes dart toward Kasia like Natalia might explode and somehow make this his fault. Ronan steps in from the other side.

“I've got ya.” Natalia swings an arm around his shoulder with far more enthusiasm than coordination and catches him with her elbow hard enough to make him grunt.

“All right,” I sigh. “Both of you, move.”

Rafe shoots me a look sharp enough to slice bone. I lift my hands in a helpless shrug.

“What? Want her to faceplant or break something? If Ro loses an arm it'll be hard to play the next show.”

Ronan rubs his shoulder. “Please take her. I like having functional limbs.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches. At first, I think he’s going to argue anyway. Then Natalia’s knees buckle again, and whatever speech he was preparing dies on impact. He gives one quick nod.

I slip an arm around her waist and she leans into me instantly. All her weight settling against my side like her body has already decided I’m safe. She tips her face up to mine, eyes glassy and bright, and smiles like I’ve just done something extraordinary instead of preventing her from meeting the floor. If her face is anything to go by, I just dragged the sun down and handed it to her. Shit.

“Hiiii,” she slurs.

“We’ve met before,” I say, deadpan.

She grins. “Ohhh, yeah, we have.” Her devious smile stretches wider before she drops her voice an octave and puffs out her chest as we walk. “Is that what you were thinking about—”

It takes me a second to realize she’s trying to impersonate me. Badly. The alcohol is definitely loosening her tongue. I huff out a laugh and shake my head, cutting her off before she can finish the sentence. Self-preservation finally kicks in through the sheer ridiculousness of it.

"Okay, okay. That's enough of that. More walky, less talky." She bursts out laughing, distracted long enough for me to steer her up the steps and onto the tour bus before her legs, or her mouth, can ruin my life any more than they already have.

Inside, the bus is as extravagant as it always is in Japan. Plush leather, polished wood, ambient lighting. More screens and controls than most recording studios. Natalia reaches out to touch everything we pass like she’s in a museum of luxury.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Am I drunk, or is this thing stupidly fancy?”

“Both.”

She pats a glossy panel along the wall. “It’s so smooth.”

“It’s a wall, Nat.”

“A fancy wall.”

Her fingers tighten in my shirt as the bus shifts beneath us. Her knuckles go pale and I hold her tighter. To stop her from falling.

That’s all.

We reach the back lounge and she catches her shoe on the small step, dragging me down with her. We nearly crash into the couch together but I manage to brace one knee against the edge and keep her upright, both hands landing on her waist.

She looks at me. The hallway comes back all at once. I straighten her quickly and step back as far as her grip will allow.

“Okay,” I murmur. “You stay here. I’m going to—” Her fingers lock around my wrist.

“Stay.”

Just that. Just one word and something reckless explodes in my chest. I clear my throat. “I’m just grabbing a blanket. I'll be ten seconds.”

She pouts before she flops onto the sofa, and that's when I notice her dress has ridden up her thighs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My brain immediately produces several extremely unhelpful images. I turn around so fast I nearly walk into the door.

Blanket.