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“The rest of you don’t have any fucking jet lag,” I say crossly.
“For Christ’s sake, Jesse,” Rory admonishes. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and man up.”
I can’t help a chuckle. “Man up? I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth, sis.”
“I mean it, Jess. I’m sorry there were no more first-class seats available. I’m sorry they lost your luggage. It will be here tomorrow, and everything will be better.”
“I’d feel better if I could have a nap.”
“No way. If you nap now, you’ll never get over jet lag, and your performing won’t be up to par. You and I both know that.” She punches my upper arm. “This is important, Jesse.”
“Fine.” I rub the spot she hit.
She’s right, of course. This is our big chance, and if I blow it because of self-pity, I’ll never forgive myself.
Rory and the others will never forgive me either.
We go through the rest of the business, and then Rory grabs my arm. “Brock and the others are out walking around, sightseeing and exploring. You and I are going on a walk.”
“I just want to go to my room, sis. I won’t fall asleep. I promise.”
“I respect your good intentions, Jess. But you and I both know that if you go to that room, youwillfall asleep.”
“I can make sure he doesn’t,” Dragon says.
“No, you can’t,” Rory says. “No one can. So you’re walking it off, and then we’re going to dinner at the pub, and afterthat, you can go to sleep.”
“Fine,” I say again, this time with more exasperation.
“Let’s take a walk. The rest of you are on your own.”
“Good enough for us,” Cage says. “Where’s the bar?”
The three of them are laughing—well, two of them, Dragon doesn’t laugh—as they walk through the lobby of the building.
“Let’s go to the pharmacy,” Rory says. “There’s one about a block away. I looked it up.”
“What for?”
“You can get the stuff you need.”
“There’s shampoo in my room.”
“Yes, and the airline gave you toothpaste and a toothbrush. But they didn’t give you any deodorant.”
She has a point. If I don’t use deodorant every day, watch out. “All right. Let’s go.”
A few hours later, when I’m literally on my last legs—seriously, they want to give out—Rory and I meet the others at the pub for dinner.
Emerald Phoenix isn’t with us. They’re keeping to themselves, doing some kind of meditation they do before concerts. Maybe I should look into something like that for our band.
I’m too tired to think about it now.
The pub and restaurant are housed in a quaint building, with wooden beams, brickwork, and whitewashed walls. The centerpiece is its well-stocked bar, boasting an array of spirits, ales, and wines. Behind the bar, shelves showcase rows of whiskey bottles and a collection of local and international beverages. The bar counter is made of dark wood, like Murphy’s back home.
The remainder of the restaurant consists of wooden tables and chairs scattered throughout the space. Our group fills a big round table in the back of the pub. I take a seat and then slog my elbows onto the table and stick my head in them.
“Oh, no.” Rory yanks one elbow off the table. “No falling asleep here. We’ll get through the next couple hours of dinner, and then you can crash.”
