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London.
Here’s what I know for sure: someone up there is laughing at me.
Three
London
It’s hot and dusty backstage, with trailing black cables and silver-edged flight cases everywhere. Bright lights beam down onto the stage, glinting on the sweat streaming down the band mates’ faces, and the bass is so loud I can feel it in my teeth.
It’s incredible.
I’m flying higher than the airplane I soared here on, all my earlier exhaustion chased away by the thrill of finally meeting my dad, and as I sit cross-legged on a flight case pushed against the wall, my cheeks ache from grinning so hard.
See?
I knew Mom was exaggerating with all her warnings about my dad. Knew there was no way he’s as selfish and unreliable as she told me.
He let her down. I get it—and I’m mad on her behalf.
But that doesn’t mean the same thing will happen with me, does it?
The band comes to a violent crescendo, guitarists strumming and the drummer pounding his kit. Jefferson is front and center, belting out each note into a microphone, his body tense and rocking to the beat, and I’m so freaking proud.
Is that weird? It’s not like his talent is my talent. Not like these are my accomplishments, and yet I’m so thrilled hearing the crowd scream.
Run Along Ruby are legends. People come from all around the world to hear them play.
My dad is an icon, and he was really, truly happy to see me.
Sure, the groupie thing took me by surprise. But why should it? I may be inexperienced in my own life, but I’m not naive—I know what rockers get up to when they’re offstage. I came here with zero illusions about my dad being a saint, so it’s unreasonable to be taken aback by the sight of him sucking on some strange girl’s neck. And he tipped her off to greet me, didn’t he?
And yeah, once we got introduced and I sat down on the sofa opposite him, he pulled her back onto his lap again. That was… odd.
But he stopped chewing on her, at least. And there was always going to be an adjustment period, right? Some compromise needed in order to merge our lives?
So, okay. My dad is a rocker. I can handle the wilder parts of his life, so long as there’s still room in it for me. And there is.
We talked until the last possible second before he went onstage, tripping over our words to get all caught up. He asked all about the journalism internship I just finished, and my plans for a career, and what music I like to listen to. He didn’t even scoff that much at most of the artists I named.
And he told me about the Run Along Ruby tour around Europe, the way they’re checking off major cities like items on a To Do list, while I tried not to let my eyes get too wide.
Imagine it.
Seeing the world, one giant stage and roaring crowd at a time. Private jets and limousines. All the best hotel rooms and most delicious restaurants; the biggest names angling to meet you just for one night.
Some of that, I think I’d like. The traveling and the food, definitely.
I could live without the fame, though. It must be surreal, working a job that practically demands bad behavior, and yet living under a microscope.
The crowd screams in the lull between songs, the drummer swiping his face with the towel he keeps by his feet. My dad chugs a bottle of water as the bass player next to him re-tunes his guitar, but it’s the man on the far side of the stage that my eyes keep drifting to.
Dex Kincaid.
He’s scowling. Grim. Bearded and tattooed, with dark hair that’s shaved on the sides, his strong fingers flying over his guitar strings as he plays a snippet of melody. It’s a signal to the band, and some of the crowd must get the hint too, because they scream even louder, like hell hounds baying for blood.
The guitarist glances into the wing.
I tear my eyes away, heart pounding.
