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Would I risk my career to have one night with him rather than nothing at all?
My body knew what it wanted.
My head told me to get the fuck gone.
CHAPTER8
BRODIE
After a long-ass rehearsal and more technical glitches, it was time to call it a night.
Van had already scampered off, saying something about setting up interviews for concert night. I’m sure he wasn’t lying about it, but if I knew him—and I fucking did—it was an excuse to avoid me again.
To avoid a conversation that needed to be had.
Van could express so many emotions in his songs, but not so much when it came to real life.
I remember after his mom passed, then his dad, how silent he was—always holding stuff in. I could see how much he was suffering, the grief that weighed heavy on him. His eyes so bloodshot and weary, his face an icy mask of pain.
I offered what I could, even when he tried to shut me out.
I’d try to change his mood in my usual way. I’d make a joke—about myself or the band or something, anything, to distract him—and at least he’d laugh.
Any reaction was better than nothing at all.
That experience taught me that, more than anything, I wanted to be the person Van could talk to. That shoulder he could lean on.
All of us leaned on him all the time. Me most of all. But except for close family and friends, I’ve always been kind of a selfish brat. Taking more than I give.
But I didn’t want to be that with Van.
I was so far beyond lust for him at this point that I didn’t recognize myself.
Bad enough that Van was in my every waking thought; he’d ruined my libido for anyone else. The guys would laugh their asses off if they knew I hadn’t had sex with anyone for the past eleven months and thirteen days.
But who’s counting?
My attempts at flirting with Van had failed so far, so what was I going to do now?
I still didn’t have an answer.
Meanwhile, the guys were hyper as hell and itching to hit the town hard. I couldn’t blame them. New Orleans had a party scene that rivaled L.A.’s. Better, even, because it wasn’t fake or staged here.
This town was a music lover’s dream, and every corner we passed had me wanting to tell our driver to stop and let me out so I could sit in one of the dimly lit clubs and soak up the sultry atmosphere. I’d need some kind of disguise, though, or I’d be mobbed and chaos would erupt. Been there, done that, had the bruises to prove it.
Then I remembered the private party.
Ugh.
When I got back to my suite at the hotel, I showered and ordered a shitload of room service.
Surprise, I’m not such a prima donna that I can’t order my own food. When my assistant, Bibi, wasn’t on hand, that is.
Like most of our staff, she was on vacation after a long, grueling tour. And I didn’t mind at all. I had privacy on this trip and more time to think about how the fuck I was gonna talk to Van.
A half-hour later, and with no further answers, I sat down in my hotel bathrobe and scarfed down a turkey club with cajun fries and iced tea, extra sweet.
After stuffing my face, I responded to a group text from my family.
