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“I know my bus is mine,” I said. “Just point me in that direction, and I’ll take it from here.”
Both Delia and Hank looked over at me before the coordinator pointed.
“Thanks.”
I didn’t wait around for either of them to lecture me on my tone of voice. Hank fucking acted like my mother, and Delia was quickly becoming that nagging little voice I wanted to squash like a bug. I heard the pitter patter of little feet behind me as I strode for my bus, pulling the door open and stepping inside.
I heard someone step in behind me before the door closed.
“Sure you wanna do that?” I asked.
I looked up into a mirror and saw Delia’s reflection standing at the front of the bus.
“Didn’t realize you’d need all this for a local performance,” she said.
“Gets brought to every performance,” I said. “Personal protocol. If you don’t wanna attend the performance, you can stay on the bus.”
“Sounds fine with me,” she said.
“I got a forty-five-minute set, so try not to miss me too much.”
“It’ll be hard, but I think I can manage.”
My eyes whipped to hers in the mirror before I turned around and picked up my guitar.
“Enjoy the bus,” I said, as I maneuvered past her. “When I’m done, we can get on back to the ranch.”
I stepped off the bus before she could say anything. I didn’t give a shit what she did, honestly. If she got into her truck and drove off, she’d be doing both of us a fucking favor. I walked up to Hank who was still talking to the coordinator, getting logistics and probably working out payment options for the gig.
“I’m not taking payment,” I said.
“What?” Hank asked.
“Don’t pay me for this gig. Keep your money,” I said.
“Mr. Blackthorn, Autism Speaks sets aside funds for stuff like this.”
“Keep the money and put it to better use. If artists demand to be paid for things like this, then they don’t need to be doing it. Though you could’ve made it an afternoon concert if you’re looking for suggestions.”
I marched off toward the venue, ready to warm up and tune my guitar. Delia was alone on the bus doing fuck-knew-what, Hank was probably pissed I wasn’t accepting payment, and this guitar hadn’t seen the light of fucking day in almost a year. It would take me all my damn warm-up time just to tune the fucking thing, but I didn’t care.
It would be worth it to see those kids smile.
CHAPTER 8
Delia
I threw the windows of the bus open to get some air flowing through it. The entire thing smelled like stale beer and ball sweat. It was disgusting, even if it did have a twinge of disinfectant still permeating the air. I didn’t even want to think about the shit that had gone on in this bus. The women whose naked bodies had sat in the chair I inhabited; the thought made me want to vomit, and I was thankful for the air that started to blow.
The fresh air was the only thing that was going to keep me sane.
I drew my purse close to me and took out my laptop. I was lucky enough that my on-campus professors had approved of my job with Drake as class credit, but that still left two online courses I had to keep up with.
I logged in and tried to get some classwork done, but it was hard for me to concentrate. Once Drake’s music started up and filled the air around us, all I could think about was his country twang and a guitar that didn’t sound quite right.
Guess he didn’t have enough time to even tune the damn thing.
Between the singing and the dull roar of the crowd, I knew I wouldn’t get any work done while I was there, so I shut my laptop and shoved it back into my purse. What in the world was I supposed to do now? I didn’t have an official schedule for Drake so I couldn’t revamp it. He sure as hell wasn’t asking for my advice, so I couldn’t counsel him. The only thing about his drinking I had gotten him to admit so far was the fact that he did it, and that left me only one other option.
