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“Could’ve been worse,” he mumbles.
I wonder what he means by that, but let it go. “Should we leave?”
“We don’t need to rush. We can take our time, have breakfast.” Dash tugs me toward him and buries his face in my hair. “Shower.”
I choke out a laugh. “Are you telling me I stink?”
“No.” He chuckles. “I like how you smell. But we’ve been cooped up in the car for over twenty-four hours. I figured you might want to clean up.”
“Yes, please. That would be great.”
With another quick kiss, Dash hops out of bed. “I’ll go scrape together something to eat while you grab a shower. The en suite is completely stocked, but if you need anything special—a clean pair of Superman boxers, maybe—let me know.”
“I’m good.” My cheeks burn. “I’m not actually a princess, you know.”
His face lights up as he backs toward the door. “Sure you are.”
After taking the world’s longest hot shower, I grab my bags and wander through the penthouse, dodging the tiny socialites and their uptight nanny as I search for Dash.
His angry voice carries through the cavernous space, and I follow the sound to a stark white kitchen.
Dash glares at his phone as he paces in front of the floor-to-ceiling window like a cornered animal, then presses it to his ear again. “You don’t have to remind me. I know what I said!”
His icy tone freezes me in the doorway.
“No, I’m not—” He stops and rakes a hand through his hair. “Because I made a promise. You do remember what those are, don’t you?”
Flinching at his tone, I melt into the shadows—unsettled, yet thoroughly transfixed by his anger.
“I told you I needed time to—” He huffs, growing more agitated with each passing second. “Well, I don’t have to decide today!”
Afraid he’ll catch me spying if I stay hidden, I step forward and clear my throat.
He spins toward me, his eyes widening as they meet mine. “Dad, I need to go. I’ll call you later.” He disconnects the call and shoves his phone deep in his pocket. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” I say, hoping he doesn’t see the lie in my eyes.
But he avoids my gaze and nods, as if constructing an invisible wall between us. “You, uh, ready to go?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I force a smile. “Should I bring my stuff, or will we be—”
“Bring it.” He stares out the window, his expression haunted. “I’d rather not have an excuse to come back.”
“Dash . . .” Swallowing the questions clogging my throat, I take a step toward him. “Is something wrong?”
His head snaps up. “What? No. Everything’s great.” He blows out a breath and gives me a tight smile. “Great might be an exaggeration, but I’ll be fine . . . as soon as we’re out of here.”
“Then let’s go.”
He reaches for my hand. “Ready when you are.”
19
Rebel Rebel
“So this is CBGB?”
A floor-to-ceiling display of vintage record albums lines the front wall of the dark, moody space, greeting me as I walk in. Queen, Blondie, Lou Reed—and of course, David Bowie—among many others. Between the stacks of old records, concert posters, graffitied walls, and a mini stage decked out for a concert, I don’t know where to look first. I definitely get the punk rock graveyard vibe. The whole place is a shrine to dead musicians. All that’s missing is the stench of liquor and smoke.
