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Axl chuckles, quickly throwing back a shot.
“Shut up,” I tell him, pushing him with my hip. Axl seems better; his black hair is tousled, his smile electric. He is still wearing his five-thousand-dollar black suit he wore to the CMT’s. I smile. Where Gunner and I are tattooed to the max, the one who is on stage every night doesn’t have a tattoo or piercing to underline his rock status.
I guess the way he holds himself is enough. He once told me “if Johnny Cash didn’t have tattoos, then I’m not getting any.” I don’t blame him; once you start inking, you never stop.
“Glad you came, Squirrel,” he says, grinning at me and handing me a tequila shot.
“Thanks, big bro. Where are the guys?” Scanning the crowd, I spot our cousins dancing with a couple of beautiful girls. My guess is they are some of the models they have on speed dial in every city. When Noah, Jimmy, and Mason see me, they all head over, leaving the girls behind without another glance. Noah is the first one to take me into his arms, swinging me around.
“Buddy, we’ve missed you,” he says, hugging me tight. He runs his fingers through his long black hair, and I give him a kiss on his cheek.
“Can you kiss me again, little cuz? I wanna get laid tonight, and jealousy makes what’s-her-name hotter than she already is.” He motions to the dance floor where the redhead he was grinding up against is shooting daggers my way.
“I see you’re still the hopeless romantic, Noah?”
“Busted.” He takes the beer handed to him by Evan before raising his glass in the air.
“Hi, Jimmy,” I say, hugging my younger cousin.
“You okay, Allie?” His shaggy hair falls in front of his eyes.
“I am, Jim.”
He pinches my hand. “We’ve missed you on tour these last years. Axl over here,” he begins.
Axl punches him in the shoulder. “Don’t spill the dirt, asshole.”
Jimmy chuckles, waggling his eyebrows up and down.
I snort. “I still know what’s going on,” I tell him, my voice serious.
“Good, that makes one of us,” he says, clinking his glass against mine before throwing the shot back.
Mason, my oldest cousin and the most juvenile prankster of the group, hugs me from behind. “Missed you, kid.”
“Missed you too, Macie.”
“We went by the studio today. Man, Uncle Jack’s setup gets sweeter every time we visit.”
Axl smiles down at me, flicking his mess of black hair back. “Can’t believe Dad didn’t have time to book us in for a session this week.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Southern Brick is busy after your album went platinum, Mister Rock Star.”
He raises his shot glass, clinking it with mine before throwing it back. On the outside my brother looks good, but I spot his dilated pupils. I open my mouth to ask him about his new personal assistant, who is supposed to keep an eye out for shit like this. He goes through them like crazy. He is on number twelve since I left the band.
Mace gives me a kiss on my cheek and heads back to the dance floor with the guys. Perhaps I should get involved and ask Bobby if she wants to switch to another level of high maintenance. She’s one of my old touring friends who was working with Adam Stix last I heard, Navarone’s former bandmate and a real piece of work.
“Dad said I should get in line,” Axl says, scrunching up his nose.
“He likes to bust our balls,” I joke. “And where is your new personal assistant, Shane-cries-a-lot?”
Axl shrugs. “Yeah, dude didn’t quite work out,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.
“Ax, come on. He is the twelfth one you’ve thrown away.”
“I can’t help it if they don’t provide.”
I shake my head, writing Bobby’s name and number on a bar napkin. I fold it and push it into his breast pocket.
