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Don’t think he saw me. Don’t think he noticed.
And it’s rude to stare, even if I’m here to see the band, because every time my eyes snag on that man, I’m not just politely looking—I’m hypnotized. Practically drooling, squirming on my makeshift bench; squinting my eyes to get a better look at the tattoos curling around his muscled arms, and shivering at the forbidding line of his mouth.
I’m no better than the girls screeching and tossing underwear from the crowd. At least they’re straightforward about it rather than skulking in the wing. And I flew halfway around the world to meet my father, damn it, not to swoon over Dex Kincaid.
Try telling that to my panties, though. After another stolen glance at Dex, they’re about to crumble to ash in my jeans.
* * *
Okay, focus, London.
I got sidetracked for a while there, gazing dreamily at the way Dex Kincaid’s black t-shirt hugs the big muscles of his chest, but the show’s over, and that means I am one hundred percent here for my dad.
Is it too late to go for coffee somewhere? Or maybe we could head back to the hotel together and order room service, catching up on each other’s likes and dislikes until dawn?
It’s so exciting. I’ve always wondered and wondered about my dad, feeling like there was a chasm in my life that needed to be filled. It was like having a big, empty bookcase or a vase without flowers that kept catching my eye—the lack of him bothered me.
When Mom finally told me his name a few months ago, I thought she was messing with me. Playing the world’s cruelest joke. But when she sighed and got the box down from the attic, the one filled with her old band t-shirts and signed set lists and a very X-rated handwritten note from Jefferson… I knew she was telling the truth.
My mom, my buttoned-up, member-of-the-PTA mom, hooked up with a rock star in her wild youth. Guess she wasn’t always so pristine. And I could tell she was embarrassed, but I was nothing but impressed.
“Damn, Mom,” I told her with a whistle. “How do I snag my own rock star?”
She did not appreciate that joke. I got a three hour lecture on why rock stars are selfish and unreliable and how they’ll bed anything that moves. How they’ll suck you dry for inspiration like musical vampires, then toss you away with barely a blink.
But that’s not happening, is it? Obviously not the bedding part, but the rest of it either. Jefferson waved at me twice during the gig, and he even dedicated a song to me, bellowing my name to the roaring crowd.
He’s happy to see me, and we’re going to spend the next few weeks making up for lost time. He already told me how he’s whisking me away on the European tour.
“Goodnight, you beautiful bastards!” Jefferson yells at the crowd, his voice hoarse from singing all night. The audience howls back, the sound so loud that it presses on my ear drums.
I bite my lip and uncross my legs, my limbs stiff from sitting for so long. The flight case bumps against the wall as I hop down, the thump of my boots swallowed up by the din.
Wow, okay. It hits me how tired I am suddenly, and I sway on my feet, lightheaded.
Nearly done. Jefferson—Dad—can take me back to the hotel, and we’ll chat for a little while longer before I finally get some sleep.
I shoulder my backpack and wait for the band to stride offstage, waving at the crowd as they go, the spotlights dimming.
When they exit the stage, I move toward my dad, but the second he steps into the wing, a body rockets past me and flings itself into his arms. Blonde hair flies everywhere and I recognize the groupie from earlier, climbing my dad like a goddamn tree.
I swallow, mouth dry, but he doesn’t put her down. He’s laughing, squeezing her ass, kissing her so sloppily that I can hear it over the din.
Gross.
…Okay, after they get reacquainted, we can catch up. We can spend some time together.
I wait, chest hollow, as my dad slides a tattooed hand under the groupie’s top. Does he not see me here? I step forward, unsure, and Jefferson catches my eye over her shoulder, still lip-locked with his plaything.
He winks.
The ground crumbles out from under me as my dad stumbles out of the wing without a single word, knocking into flight cases and bumping off the doorway as he leaves. He’s too wrapped up in the woman in his arms to notice where he’s going, to remember that I freaking exist, that I came all this way to meet him, and…
Where the hell is this hotel?
I know I have a room there, but I don’t know the name. Don’t have an address. I’m all alone in a strange city with the world’s heaviest backpack on my back, and for all I know, the hotel could be an hour-long cab drive away.
Do I need to get another bus? Will they even let me into the lobby, looking like this?
