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Chris lets his silence speak for him.
“I can figure it out,” I say.
“Is she legal?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. God. I aged about ten years.”
“Sorry.” I am regretful I caused Chris anxiety. “I will call next time.”
“Please don’t say there’s a next time,” he cries.
This time, I’m the silent one.
“Fuck. Fine. The plane should be taking off soon. Audrey Carter wants to know if you’re interested in doing a remix of her Christmas song. Think about it.”
“She’s remixing ‘Christmas Fools’?”
“Yeah, wants to do a twenty-year anniversary reboot and reached out to us. I think you should do it. The fans would like it, and it would give you something special to play during your holiday concerts. They’ll need an answer right away.”
“Seems fun, and I don’t have any reason to say no.”
“That’s what I figured. If you agree, I’ll forgive you for running off.”
“You’ll forgive me anyway.” I hang up and give a nod to the flight attendant that I’m ready to go.
An hour later, we touch down in LA. Chris has a car waiting for me that takes me straight to the Wilshire. I contemplate calling Irish, but I figure I’ll catch her when she wakes up.
At the hotel, I collapse on the bed and don’t regain consciousness until Chris bursts in about noon.
“Rise and shine. Time to get your ass to the stadium,” he bellows from the living area of the suite.
I pull a pillow over my head and try to shut him out.
“Nope. You have to go and rehearse. You can nap after you do soundcheck.”
I reach out and fumble for my phone. The text message screen is pathetically blank. I type out a message.
Irish, my feelings are going to get hurt if you don’t fill up my inbox.
No response arrives. I toss my phone away and wonder if I have time to fly into Loveland. There has to be an airport close by.
“Whatever you are cooking up, remember that fifty thousand people shelled out two hundred bucks to see you.”
“Right.” I do have obligations. I can text her after the concert. It’ll be perfect because about the time I’m done, Get Lucky will be closing. It’s like our schedules are in sync. I eat and pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Soundcheck is smooth. I do some press and then take a nap in my soundproof green room. Chris wakes me up an hour before the start of the concert. The opening act’s latest hit single blasts through the sound system as hair and makeup get me ready for the stage. Three hours later, they’re wiping me down. I’m juiced up and missing Irish.
“You never sounded better,” Chris admits grudgingly. “Not that I encourage you to run off again, but it didn’t harm your energy.”
“It’s going to get better.” I’m going to send a plane for Irish. Or maybe a plane ticket. I’ll tell her I work nights. She’ll understand. We’ll live in that little house, and then when I have to travel, I’ll take her with me. There’s got to be some excuse I can give her like a traveling salesman or some shit like that. “I need a job,” I tell Chris.
“You have one.”
“A fake one. One that has nothing to do with music, requires travel, and has something to do with crowds.”
Chris’ mouth drops open. I slap him on the back. “I believe in you, man.”
Whistling, I pop open my phone and call my girl.
CHAPTER 13
DYLAN
“You doing all right?” James asks. We’ve been slow tonight. I just did last call. I’m not sure if I’m thankful for that or not. When I’m busy, I don’t have time to think about Dylan, but it’s nice not to be running around.
I’m worn out. Dylan has been gone a day, and I can still feel him on me. I’m not as tender as I had been between my thighs, but there is still a small ache there. Though I could be mixing it up with an ache to be filled by him again. The man has ruined me. I can’t stop thinking about him.
“I’m fine,” I lie. My emotions are all over the place. At first, I told myself I wasn’t going to text Dylan. I hadn’t. Then he was texting me, and I couldn’t help myself. I know I’m being a brat. He has a job, but if I don’t text him, maybe he’ll miss me and come back sooner.
“You don’t seem fine. And I know better than to believe there is nothing wrong when a woman says she’s fine.” James leans up against the bar. “When did your lover boy say he’d be back?”
“A few days.”
“Hmm” is James' only response.
“What does that mean?” I tense.
“What?”
“The hmm?” It’s not often that James doesn’t have an opinion on something or someone, so I know that one little hmm means he’s holding back.
