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Then, I carefully folded Dawson’s clothes.
I should’ve knocked on the door and handed them back to him.
Simple. Easy. Last night—and this morning—never happened.
But I didn’t do that.
Instead, I left the clothes on my bed. Seeing them there gave me a sense of comfort I couldn’t explain. But there it was.
And this time, no easy joke came to mind.
I couldn’t even fool myself.
CHAPTER 19
IAIN
We always did our soundcheck five hours in advance of showtime.
Well, showtime for our band meant the VIP meet and greet before the actual performance, which started at seven. So that meant soundcheck was from twelve until two. Then we chilled out for a few hours, Brodie rested his voice, we got our clothes and makeup done, then it was VIP & promo, and then showtime.
And everything was on track for another successful concert run.
If only I could concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing—playing guitar—and not the person I wanted to do.
Dawson had been nothing but his usual stern self when he escorted me to the venue: no talking, no touching, no heated glances. The sunglasses helped, too. Both of us were wearing them, which was telling.
But I didn’t like this back and forth. Dawson and I were both acting like one person in public and another behind closed doors.
And I was getting whiplash.
Yeah, I know. I couldn’t make up my mind. I was off-kilter when he teased me and stupidly hurt when he went back to his uber-professional mode. Not that I had any reason to feel that way.
There were more pressing problems than my sex life. Or lack of.
First, our manager had yet to show up. In the past, on concert days, Van was always the first one on scene, but Harlow was MIA.
“Anyone heard from our manager? That is if we still have one?” I asked as we stood on the stage.
Brodie shook his head as he stood before his mic, testing out his guitar.
I turned to Faise and Ronin.
“Nope,” Ronin replied with an eye roll.
“Me neither,” Faise added.
I turned to Regan and Dawson, who were standing in the wings, talking to Van.
“Regan, can you get hold of Harlow? None of us have seen or heard from him since yesterday.”
“I’m on it,” she replied, pulling out her phone.
“As far as I’m concerned, Harlow can stay away,” Brodie muttered.
“I don’t like him any more than you do, but his no-show is unsettling. I’d rather keep an eye on him, if you know what I mean.”
I set aside my Konicki and picked up my Gibson. Testing out the opening riff of “Nine Gone Wrong,” the sound was off. Once I’d played around with the tuning, I tried it again.
