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Ramsey
Half the time, I don’t know why we even bother trying to make a cohesive unit out of the six of us. The sad part is that it doesn’t have much to do with adding Fitz to the mix. It has a whole lot to do with the fact we’re all over Carter’s bullshit.
Well, except for Xavier and Jack. They don’t seem to mind as much. Those two are slightly more tolerable, but there’s a clear divide, and I’m not talking about between the buses.
The fans are rabid tonight. It might be because we didn’t tour last year, or maybe they can tell it’s unlikely we’ll be coming back again.
We’re the headliner, but we’ve got three other bands opening for us. The fans are good and wasted by the time we take the stage. Not that it’s unusual, but they’re even more fanatical about getting as close as possible, and every meet and greet is sold out.
Jack dragged some poor chick with him to whatever fucking city we’re in tonight.
I check the cheat sheet by my feet.
Oh yeah, we’re in Indianapolis. We’ve got another show here tomorrow night.
Huh, I wonder how that woman plans to get back to Chicago.
It’s not my problem, but hopefully my bandmate has the decency to make sure she has cab money before kicking her off the bus once he gets bored.
Our manager, Gavin, set whatever-her-name-is up with Tinley in the front row. I like that she’s not out there alone.
I’ve kept a close eye on Tinley during our entire set, and I’m not the only one. She is one-hundred-percent my brother’s type.
War is going to need someone who feels comfortable letting him take the lead. I’m not sure if the quirky little omega is on board with that, but something inside me says she is. She’s got big blue eyes and wavy dark brown hair that falls to her ass when she’s sitting. She bounces around in her seat, dancing to the music. She spent a while earlier with her giant camera plastered to her face.
She has this undeniable sweet vibe that has me intrigued. I catch Tinley’s stare as I land my sticks and give her a wink. She gives a soft smile that makes me chuckle. It’s wild because, when we’re alone, she’s always kind of hyper, but watching us play, she’s actually chill.
Maybe Warrick has rubbed off on me, but I’m getting tired of the energy of the industry. It was killer to be considered a sex symbol for a while, but it got old.
Somewhere around the time War almost died, I realized exactly how gross it feels that women don’t really want me. They want to fuck a rock star, and swapping me out for Carter, or hell, even Fitz, wouldn’t matter. I’m not sure how it took me so long to recognize the truth of it, but it’s not a great feeling now that I have.
Not that I’ve got any room to talk; Northern Star has set us up for life. We could retire at the end of this tour and live a more than decent lifestyle without having to work again.
I’d likely go completely fucking insane from boredom, but it could be done.
If I’m ever going to settle down, it’ll have to be with someone I genuinely like. That’s a bigno thank youto ending up with someone who only wants me because of my fame. Getting involved with anyone at this point in my life is dangerous—or it has been for the last ten years—but the end is in sight.
I don’t see War signing another contract just to play. He’s used to landing vocals and being the star of the show, but more than that, I know his injury was a wake-up call of his own.
I don’t see myself signing a contract without my brother.
Fitz sings the hell out of the last few verses of the song, and he almost manages to cover for how blitzed Carter is. I’m not supposed to back up lead on this song, but I still finish out the last few lines, trying to cover for how slurred Carter sounds.
We finish the extro, and my eyes fly to Tinley. Gavin is out on the floor, ushering her and Jack’s chick toward the backstage area. Well, thank fuck for that. Someone managed to do their job correctly.
* * *
The after-show routine goes as expected. I’m fairly sure Carter is on the verge of passing out. Both War and I took our concerns to the tour manager long before we ever got back on the road for this go-round. I have a feeling it’s why we’re only on a two-month tour instead of three.
I roll my eyes and try to focus long enough to sign the memorabilia being shoved at me, but I’ll be damned if my line of sight doesn’t search out our newly acquired photographer.
I do a double take when I spot her curled up in one of the club chairs in the corner. She’s got her camera wrapped up in her arm, and she’s passed out cold, which is kind of impressive, considering how fucking loud it is in here.
“Ram, oh my god! I am your biggest fan,” a female voice says as a red dress appears in my line of sight.
“We both are,” another woman says, stepping up next to the first.
I give them a megawatt grin. “That’s awesome. It’s nice to meet you.”
