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And if I was out of the picture for ten weeks, she could find another guy and start dating him.
It was very, very bad that I didn’t want that to happen. But complete honesty, right? I didn’t want that to happen.
Of course, it could happen even with me here. It probably would, sooner or later, because at some point some unworthy dumbass motherfucker would see how hot, sexy, and confident she was. But if I was around, I could at least kick any gym bro out the door so fast he’d lose his backwards baseball cap, and he could take his man-child, date-rapey, sheets-as-curtains, hangover-stench, folding-futon ass somewhere else and leave Brit alone.
“You’ll like the guys in the band,” I said, listing off more reasons she should come. “They’ll like you, too, and they won’t give you any shit. Our music is good. You’ll get to see lots of new places, and you’ll have free time in every city, because when I’m at sound check or onstage, you don’t need to supervise me. You can keep up with your therapy over FaceTime. You get to hang out with me, and I’m a delight. And I promise you’ll have fun.”
“Fun?” She didn’t seem totally convinced, but that’s because the average person can’t imagine what a tour is like—at least, a Road Kings tour. Sure, there was stress and exhaustion and long stretches of boredom, but wasn’t that true of real life, too? At least on tour you got to play music and get paid for it.
I leaned toward her, propping my elbows on my knees. “I promise you’ll have a good time,” I said. “I can’t tour like I used to, and this one’s going to be different. No alcohol, no drugs, no groupies. Just music and the chance to leave life behind for a while. You won’t regret it, Brit. Just trust me.”
Her gaze met mine, and I waited for a long minute, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Whether she would tell me she didn’t like me that much after all, and she wasn’t interested, and I was on my own.
What she said, after a long silence, was, “No groupies?”
So it mattered to her, at least a little. My gaze didn’t break from hers. “If groupies interested me, I could pick one up at The Corner whenever I want. You ever seen me do that?”
She blinked in surprise, because she hadn’t thought I’d noticed the women who sometimes came to The Corner, who watched me hopefully when I was there. Of course I noticed them. I had been doing this a long time.
Brit answered me with honesty. “No. I’ve never seen you do that.”
“Then you know they don’t interest me,” I said. “I want to play music again. I need to. But I can’t do it without you. What do you say, Brit? Are you in?”
She hesitated, still searching for something in my expression, and then a smile touched her lips. It wasn’t a smile I’d ever seen on her before, and I liked it. I wanted to see it again.
“All right, de Vries,” my sexy neighbor said. “I’m in.”
SEVENTEEN
Brit
At first, being on a rock n’ roll tour was weirder than I could imagine.
I lived half of my time on a bus. It was a great bus—luxurious, with comfortable seats, a bathroom, wi-fi, sleeping bunks, and a fridge—but it was still a bus, hurtling from city to city. The band had their own bus, and I shared mine with the other support staff. This was Brad, the tour manager, and his assistant, Stephanie, as well as the drivers brought along to relieve each other during long shifts.
They were friendly, but none of them got close. Brad and Stephanie were usually on their phones and laptops, and in their off-hours they FaceTimed with their loved ones, watched TV, or slept. The drivers either slept or listened to music on their headphones. Which left me alone.
The tour kicked off in Portland, and then we drove to San Francisco. I had a backstage pass for each show, but my anxiety seized me on show nights, even though I wouldn’t have to be in the crowd. The truth was, it wasn’t just the crowds that were freaking me out. It was the feeling of being in a completely new world, everything familiar vanishing in the bus’s rearview mirror.
I mean, these were the Road Kings, in person. They were nice guys, but still.
Denver Gilchrist was almost supernaturally hot, all dark curls and deep, soulful eyes. When he shook my hand and smiled at me—an actual, sweet, genuine smile on his beautiful mouth—I had a moment in which my brain went completely blank. And I am a woman who has literally cut Zac Efron’s hair. I don’t go blank easily.
Neal Watts, the bassist, was a few degrees more manageable, though he had an unshakeable aura of cool. His brown hair was tousled, his jaw stubbled, and his greeting was, “So you’re the Scrabble neighbor? Fantastic. Welcome to the show.”
Stone Zeeland, the lead guitarist, was big, dark, and muscled. He gave me a quick shake with his calloused hand, a chin lift, and a brief “Hey.” Intimidating, but his eyes gave him away—they watched me carefully, with a tinge of flirty appreciation. I would have been more scared of him if Axel hadn’t told me that Stone had been his movie companion during his recovery. Any guy who did that couldn’t be all bad.
In combination, they were…a lot. But I felt like I could get used to them over time, especially because Axel was so comfortable with them. He was different with his bandmates than he was with anyone else, probably because he’d known them so closely for so long.
The band refused to play huge venues, capping the crowd at a few thousand each night, and the sold-out shows spilled out into the parking lots, where police broke up parties and fights. Even Brad and Stephanie, who had worked with a dozen bands each, looked a little dazed after the San Francisco show. “That was an incredible show last night,” Stephanie said when we got on the bus early the next morning. “You’re sure you don’t want to go?”
I shook my head. “Maybe one of these days.” It was a ten-week tour. I had lots of time to get up the nerve.
“That’s crazy.” Stephanie dropped into a seat and pulled out her phone. “They sound better than ever. It’s wild.”
She was absorbed in her phone in an instant and didn’t need an answer. Brad had already settled in behind his laptop, and we hadn’t even pulled out of the hotel parking lot yet. So far on this tour, I hadn’t felt very useful. I dug through my bag, looking for my headphones so I could pass the six hours from here to L.A. with music.
There was a quick rap on the door of the bus, and the driver hit the switch to open it. Familiar hands grabbed the doorframe, and Axel swung his body into the bus from the waist up. It was seven o’clock in the morning on the day after a show and he looked fresh as a daisy, showered and glowing, wearing a clean gray tee and his familiar silver necklace, his hair tied back. He spotted me and smiled, his expression lighting up. “There you are,” he said.
