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“You could have told them to wait until after,” Kingston muttered, shaking his head.
“Come on, all’s well that ends well. I got there, didn’t I?” He finished his beer and reached for another.
Jesus. We all drank, but Carter practically mainlined the stuff.
“Boys.” Our tour manager, Ross Laken, came into the room. “There’s a journalist here to interview you. Some college kid named Presley something or other.”
“Presley?” Tommy asked, laughing. “Like Elvis?”
Ross shrugged. “Dunno. I just know she’s here. Aurora didn’t set it up, so I don’t think she’s with anyone big. Anyone feel like talking to her?”
We all looked at each other.
“Nah.” I stood up and yawned. “I’m headed to that resort for the next two days. I’ll see you guys in Chicago.”
“I’m going back to the hotel,” Kingston said, getting up.
“Yeah, not tonight.” Kellan waved a hand. “Didi’s waiting.”
“She cute?” Tommy asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
Ross made a face. “She’s okay. One of those fresh-faced girl-next-door types. No makeup, glasses, you know what I mean?”
“Pass.” Tommy grabbed his duffel bag. “I’m out.”
Carter burped, laughed, and looked around. “You guys are such fucking party poopers.”
“You party enough for all of us,” Kingston told him. “Next time you’re late, you’re getting fined.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, man. Whatever.”
I grabbed my bag and walked toward the exit with Ross on my heels.
“Your rental is right outside by the tour bus,” he said, handing me a set of keys. “You can drive it to Chicago when you’re done with your mini-vacation, and one of the crew will return it for you.”
“Thanks.” I nodded.
“Your suitcase is in the back too.”
“Perfect. You’re the best.” I headed out, anxious to be on my way.
I was just about to turn down the hallway that would lead to the exit when I saw her. She was tall, with long dark hair and oversized glasses. She looked sad, her eyes widening as she recognized me.
No doubt this was the journalist.
She took a step toward me, but I quickly turned away, picking up speed to avoid contact. I caught a glimpse of her face—filled with disappointment—just before I turned, and a flicker of guilt shot through me.
Dammit.
I felt bad, but I didn’t have time for this tonight.
I wasn’t in a great mood and exhausted to boot. The last thing I needed was some inexperienced wanna-be journalist asking me how old I was when I’d first started playing guitar. Some days I had the patience for it; this wasn’t one of them.
I’d booked two nights at a resort just outside of Minneapolis and was looking forward to having forty-eight hours of downtime. A massage, good food, maybe even a pretty lady to keep me company. Mostly I wanted peace and quiet, though. Not that I didn’t love my job. I loved rock and roll, and being the lead guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the world was amazing. The music, shows, fans, interviews, travel, almost all of it. Almost.
This tour had been brutal.
Carter, Kellen, and Tommy had outvoted Kingston and me on using the jet. They thought it would feel more authentic if we got back to our roots and traveled by bus. So I slept on a fucking bunk on a bus a lot of nights, which was a hassle for a big guy like me. Even a bus as expensive as ours had limits, and a man who was six-five and two hundred and fifty pounds was one of those limits.
