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Chapter 1
Lyndsey
Philadelphia, PA. 3:06 A.M.
Present Day
Vincent Exter is a sex-crazed, walking STI with a Stratocaster. And for the next three months, he is my problem.
When I signed on to work as tour manager for the Imposters, I was starstruck, wooed by the dream of consistent pay and a tour budget big enough to accommodate hotel rooms.
I thought it would be easy; the Imposters have been touring for decades, but how wrong I was.
I got what I wanted, and it sucks. That’s what Priya should have called this tour—theImposters Present: Lyndsey’s Dreams Suck.
I’m in another nondescript hotel room, desperately trying to get some sleep. I punch the pillow for the tenth time and flip onto my stomach when I hear him. Vince is giggling and stumbling; I hear the unmistakable awestruck coos of a nameless groupie.
“I can’t believe it’s really you!” She swoons.
“Well, believe it, baby doll,” he shoots back; his accent, once endearing, now grates. He sounds like a coked-up cousin of the Beatles. His combat boots shake the floor outside my room as he fumbles for his key card, probably deep in the depths of his skintight leather pants.
“One second, love,” he mutters. I hear his oafish knuckles knocking against the key card slot as he attempts to jam his keycard into my room. I don’t bother to get up and tell him he’s next door. I hope he can figure it out.
I flip my pillow over again. Vince’s scrawny elbow rams into the door.
“Maybe flip your card the other way around?” the groupie suggests.
“Great idea, Cynthia. Are you sure you don’t work in … what would this be? Hotels?”
“Hospitality.”
“Well, you are quite hospitable.” Cue the wet, sloppy mouth sounds and me trying not to barf. They make out for what seems like hours until Vince jams his key card into my door for the twelfth time. I groan and flip on the bedside lamp before sulking over to the door and opening it.
He stares at me as if I’ve just performed a magic trick.
“Lyndsey! What are you doing in my room?” he asks.
“Hi,” the woman, who I presume is Cynthia, squeaks. She wears a velvet jumpsuit, and her bleach-blonde hair is piled in an artfully messy bun.
I’m clad in an oversized wolf shirt I found at a Minnesota truck stop and men’s track shorts. I also have in the mouth guard my dentist prescribed due to my incessant teeth grinding. I try to be as subtle as possible, placing the mouth guard in the pocket of my shorts while Vince and Cynthia stare at each other.
“Vince, this isn’t your room. It’s my room. This is 1412. You’re 1416,” I explain.
Vince’s blue eyes expand, and it looks like a cartoon lightbulb is about to appear above his shaggy, dark hair.
“Is that so?” he asks, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s the reason I grind my teeth.
“Yep,” I say.
“Now, which way is that?” he asks.
“To your left, past the ice machine. You were just there …” I mentally calculate, “…eight hours ago.”
He shrugs. “Time’s an illusion, innit?” Then he pats me on the shoulder like we’re teammates.
“Thanks, Lynds. I’ll see you tomorrow morning!”
“See ya.” I groan.
