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Mine.
“Did you like the show?”
Just a normal, well-adjusted man making normal conversation. Nothing to see here.
“Yeah.” London clears her throat and goes on, her voice stronger. “I loved it, actually. That’s the first time I’ve seen a big band play live.”
“Seriously?”
She bites her lip and nods, and I stare right ahead as we walk, chest drumming.
At least I popped one of her cherries, then. Me and the others, I guess.
It’s not enough, but it has to be.
As we near the green room, London’s steps slow, her eyes fixed on the door. Like she’s afraid of what she might see when we get in there. And I don’t blame her for that at all—she’s a smart girl, and she wised up to her dad in the last fifteen minutes—so I help her stall.
“Will you watch our other shows, then? Jefferson said you’re coming on tour.”
Pearly white teeth dig into her bottom lip. Maybe she had been planning on that, but now she’s not sure.
Fucking Jefferson.
“Um. Yeah, I guess. It was pretty amazing, but I really don’t like crowds, so provided I’m not in anyone’s way in the wings—”
“You’re not.”
I liked having her there. Liked stealing glances at her through the night, seeing her wide, shining eyes and the way her body rocked slightly in time to the beat.
And I can’t stand the nervous way she’s watching the door, nor the miserable curve of her mouth, so I stop London in her tracks with a nudge to the elbow. “I’ll grab our shit. Want to wait here?”
There’s a relieved gust of air, and the first true smile London’s given me tonight. “Yes. Thank you. It’s just my jacket in there, an old leather one I left on the sofa.”
“I remember.” I remember every tiny detail about this girl. “I won’t be long. Don’t run away, you hear?”
London’s scratchy laugh follows me to the green room door. “Where would I go, Mr Kincaid?”
I don’t know. All I know is wherever she went, I’d follow.
* * *
“Do you ever get used to this?”
I glance at London where she’s sitting beside me in the back of the car. When she slid into the backseat, buckled in and immediately tipped back her head and closed her eyes, I figured she’d gone to sleep—and good for her.
But London’s awake, her husky voice drifting through the darkened car. The driver’s partition is raised, and it’s just the two of us back here, alone in the shadows with the drum of rain on the car roof.
She snorts, answering her own question before I can get my tongue to work. Her red hair’s spilling out of the braids coiled on her head, and her eyes are still shut. “Of course you’re used to it. You’ve been a famous rock star for years now. Dumb question.”
“It’s not dumb.” I sound like there are rusty nails in my throat. Fuck, I’m not the singer. What’s my excuse? “I’m used to some parts but not others. Used to the crowds and the lights and the grueling schedules; used to recording in studios and playing until my fingers bleed.”
She makes a soft noise.
I swallow.
“But I’m still not used to strangers gawking on the street and trying to sneak photos of me in the grocery store. Not used to people always wanting something from me, trying to bleed me dry for their own advantage. Not being able to trust the simplest interactions. Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, even though it should be old news by now.”
London’s hair rustles against the leather headrest. She tilts her head to face me, pale cheek pillowed on the seat.
