Page 4

“Right, gents,” Fletch rubs his hands together, all the while bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I say we grab some willing ladies, and head to my room to par-taaaaaaay!”

Another round of high-fives, and hoots, and we’re all heading towards Fletch and Benji’s suite, a whole bunch of groupies in tow. Nothing new, but for whatever reason, I’m glad the tour is over. I’m keen as fuck to head home, and see my brother, maybe even stay there until his kid arrives. Under normal circumstances, I’d just head to one of my places, either in New York or London, until the guys and I get ready to regroup, but something about my big brother having a kid has me wanting to go to Texas. I haven’t spoken to the bugger for weeks, and I miss him somethin’ fierce. The last few weeks have just been so intense, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. But for tonight, I’m going to enjoy myself and revel in the glorious afterglow of another successful tour for Eighteendust. We’ve worked our asses off, gone platinum with three of our four albums—we’ll know later in a few weeks if the fourth also went platinum—I think we deserve to go out with a bang.

I have a beer in one hand, and two luscious brunettes curled up on each side of me. One is nibbling my earlobe, and the other is rubbing my thigh, sliding her hands higher and higher up my jeans. At this rate, they’ll be stripping me naked in front of the entire suite full of people. Wouldn’t be the first time, either. My band has seen me naked more times than I care to count, but we have an unspoken rule: what happens on tour, stays on tour. Unless a groupie leaks some info, in which case we get reamed out by Alex for our ‘outragious shenanigans’. We try remain low-key, but sometimes the after-parties get rowdy, and shit starts going down. Clothes come off, and on more than one occasion, the guys and I end up in our rooms with at least two women. It comes with the territory, and we tend to take full advantage. Fletch is chilling at the bar with some friends, a blonde latched onto his arm, and Benji is perched on the opposite sofa whispering shit to a redhead. Everyone else is dancing around, moving to the heavy thump of the bass blasting though the speakers. Fuck knows where Carson is, he’s probably banging someone in the bathroom already. On any other night I’d probably beat him to it, but I’m tonight I’m just not feeling it. Call it intuition, but something feels off, and in spite of the gorgeous women lavishing me with their attention, and wandering hands, my dick seems to agree. He’s not interested in playing. I shift my arms, and tell the girls I have to take a leak. They pout, but stand up, and make their way to the bar. I open the suite door with the intention of using my own bathroom, on the off chance that Carson is in fact using the other one, when I see Alex, and our assistant, Penelope, arguing in the hallway. His brows are furrowed, his stance rigid, and she’s glaring at him as if he just kicked her puppy. Granted, they almost never see eye-to-eye, Penelope has authority issues, and Alex can be real hard-ass, but something in the way they’re looking at each other has me hesitating.

“Hey.”

Their gazes whip to mine, and I frown. They both look pissed.

“You need to tell him,” Penelope hisses, turning her murderous gaze back to Alex. “I’m sick of dealing with this bullshit, Alex. I shouldn’t be fielding calls from fucking groupies on our private line.”

“What is she talking about?”

We have a private number that only family has, and if it’s been given out, Alex will shit his pants. By the looks of it though, it might have already been leaked.

Alex sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose before walking the short distance to me. “A woman called Penelope ten times while you were on stage, asking to speak specifically to you.”

My frown deepens. The only woman who has the number is my mom, but she hardly uses it because I’m the one who calls her. My schedule has been insane, but whenever I have a chance, she’s the second person I call, the first being Ryan.

“Was it my mom?” I ask Penelope.

“No,” she snaps, brushing her red hair over her shoulder. “Some bimbo named Reese Pie, and she literally called me ten times—”

I freeze. “What did you just say?”

Penelope rolls her eyes and throws her hands in the air. “For God’s sake, I said someone named Reese Pie called me and just wouldn’t let up, even after I told her we don’t allow fans to speak directly to band members on the private line. I don’t even know how she got the fucking number. Honestly,” she huffs, “I’m the assistant, not the groupie manager.”

“Thorin.” Alex touches my arm. “Are you okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You said Reese Pie?” I almost choke on the words. I haven’t uttered or heard that name in years, and very few people know who the nickname belongs to. “You must be mistaken,” I tell Penelope. “It couldn’t have been—”

“It was, damnit! Fuck, Thorin, you’re spending too much time standing next to the speakers during soundcheck, you’re going deaf.”

I take a shuddering breath. “Thorin? What’s going on?” Worry creases Alex’s forehead, and something in my gut sinks.

“So, if she kept calling, you didn’t think you should mention it to me the minute I got off stage, Pen?”

“As I said, it was probably a fan or a groupie—”

“She’s not a fucking groupie!” I shout, my voice booming down the hallway. Penelope straightens, and her blue eyes go wide. I’ve never, ever, raised my voice at Pen, or any other woman for that matter. If I lose my shit, it’s with or around the band, and on the odd occasion, Alex. “Can you pull up the number she called from?”

She stares at me.

“Now, Penelope, goddamnit!”

Alex takes the phone from her, and ushers her away before approaching me with careful steps, stopping a foot away. He pulls up the number, and shows it to me. I recognize the area code immediately, and it pisses me off that Penelope didn’t. She knows Ryan is in Texas, and she knows damn well to tell me if a call comes through with that area code.

“Thorin, you’re freaking me out here.”

“Just hang on.” I stare at the number, and wonder why in the hell Reese would be calling. The last time I saw her I was eighteen, and she wanted nothing to do with me. It makes no sense, but if she used the old nickname I gave her instead of just her name then it can only be her. Fuck. I check the time. It’s past eleven in New York, and Texas is an hour behind. I only have to contemplate it for a second before I hit call, and head to my room for some quiet, with Alex hot on my heels. The phone rings, and rings and rings. No answer.

“Fuck,” I mutter. My hands shake, and I redial. It rings twice.

“Hello?”

God, her voice. It’s still as raspy, and throaty as I remember it, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a kick to the gut. I’ve thought about looking her up and calling her a thousand times over the years, but chickened out last minute. Our history isn’t exactly easy. Or pretty.

I clear my throat. “Reese, it’s me.”