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Maybe this was how we figured this out.
I put down the phone, picked up my laptop, and started to search for flights.
TWENTY-NINE
Axel
I opened my eyes when someone dropped into the seat next to me and nudged me with an elbow. I lifted my head from where it rested against the airplane window and scowled at Denver. He ignored the scowl and waggled his eyebrows at me, so I reluctantly dropped my headphones to my neck and scowled harder.
“What is it?” I asked. I kept my voice low, because a lot of the people on this airplane—incredibly, a private jet—were sleeping.
New York had been eventful. We’d pulled off our shows at the Garden, and Sienna had uncovered the identity of our secret backer. His name was William Hale, he was a rich entrepreneur, and he had rented us a private jet to get back across the country from New York to Portland for our final show.
Brit wasn’t on the flight with us. Because in New York, Brit had left me.
I knew where she was. She had gone to L.A., the city she hated most. And according to the note she’d left me—handwritten on hotel stationery and slid under my door before she went to the airport—she hadn’t left me for good. Just for a little while.
The other things she wrote in that note—I couldn’t think about them. The note was folded in my pocket right now. It had been in my pocket since the second I found it. It had been in my pocket while I played the final shows at the Garden. It wasn’t as good as Brit being there with me, but it was better than nothing.
I kept thinking that I’d fucked things up, that I’d chased Brit away. I’d come on too strong, and it had been too much, too soon. It was the worst possible idea for both of us to get involved mid-tour—wasn’t that the logical take? And yet logic tended to go out the window when it came to me and Brit.
I’d tried so hard to be careful, and I ended up wanting her anyway. I ended up doing crazy, inadvisable things like hiring her as my sobriety babysitter and streaking and letting her cut my hair. Like fooling around with her and then telling her how I felt. Stupid shit like that.
Brit wasn’t ready to trust someone, especially a flaky, ex-addict musician whose only skills were drums and a couple of languages. I wasn’t husband material by any woman’s definition, and we weren’t going to have kids. What the fuck did she need me for?
Denver smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He was in a good mood—of course he was. Callie had flown to New York, and they’d undoubtedly had a romantic reunion. Now they were going home together. She was a couple of rows away on this plane, napping, and in a few minutes he’d go back to sit next to her. So, yeah, Denver was just fine.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Congratulations,” I replied.
He sighed theatrically, still smiling, and patted his pockets. He was a good-looking sonofabitch, our lead singer, I’d give him that—all intense and poetic in a way that women thought was dreamy. When Brit cut his hair, she’d left it just long enough that the dark curls looked tousled and rested against the back of his neck. I found it supremely annoying.
“I mean, I have arealidea,” he said, not put off by my complete lack of interest. He found a folded square of paper in the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket and pulled it out. “A good one. I want to know your opinion.”
The folded paper gave me a jolt, because for a second it looked like the note I had in my own pocket. But Denver didn’t know about that note—no one did.
“Dude, I’m not up for songwriting right now,” I said. “I’m half dead.”
“It isn’t a song. And I get it,” Denver said. “Brit left, and you had to room with Neal. I’d be pissed off, too. But this is good.”
I leaned my head back against the seat. Neal had moved into my hotel room to take over the chaperone duties. He’d cleaned the tiny bottles of liquor out of the hotel fridge and watched me like a hawk. “He doesn’t close the bathroom door all the way when he takes a piss,” I complained. “Why couldn’t Stone have been nominated? He closes the door, as far as I remember.”
“Because Stone already had a roommate,” Denver replied, smoothing the unfolded papers over his thigh. “He’s been rooming with Sienna since New Orleans.”
I gaped at him, shocked. “What?”
“They think I don’t know.” Denver seemed completely unconcerned. “I figured it out when Neal and I talked to her in Charlotte. She said that our backer—Hale—was trying to get her to quit by not booking her hotel rooms. Then I remembered that Stone got himself moved to a different floor from the rest of us after New Orleans. I thought it was just because he hates us on principle, but I realized it’s because he doesn’t want the rest of us to know.” He held out the paper. “Anyway, read this.”
“No. Back up.” I craned my neck to look around the quiet plane. Aside from Denver and me, sitting near the front, Neal was asleep in a seat, Callie asleep in another. Brad and Stephanie were at the back. Dan Daniels was texting on his phone. Sienna was typing on her laptop with her headphones on, and across the aisle from her, Stone was sitting with his own headphones on, staring out the window. They didn’t acknowledge each other. They looked like they’d barely ever met.
I turned back to Denver. “They are not fucking,” I half whispered.
“Correct,” Denver agreed. “But, man, it’s gotta happen, right? I mean, come on. Stone needs to get his head out of his ass.”
I sank lower in my seat, as if this would make me speak more quietly. Thank God both of them had headphones on. “I had no idea this shit was going on. And I can’t believe you’re fine with it. You think Stone should bang the journalist?”
Denver bit his lip, then shrugged. “I think Stone should find someone he likes.”
