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“Great.” Nash scowled and crossed his arms. “What am I supposed to do without my headphones?”
“No worries, Nash,” Joe said. “I’ll pick some up for you in town.”
“I like my headphones. They probably don’t have the right brand anywhere closer than Boston.”
Joe made some kind of response, but Casey tuned out the conversation and turned to smile at Harry.
“Welcome to Home, Harry. I’m Casey.”
Harry grinned crookedly, a smile that transformed his high-cheekboned face from ascetic to an almost glowing beauty. “It’s Haru, actually. Haru Inada. Guitarist and backup vocals.”
Owen slung an arm across Haru’s shoulders. “Don’t be so modest, H.” He leaned toward Casey and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s a kickass songwriter. Got a dozen tunes lined up for our next album.”
Haru glanced sidelong at Nash, whose snit had taken a breather while Joe was engaged in a low-voiced phone conversation. “That’s not—”
“We’re releasing a retrospective next.” Nash broke off a hydrangea bloom and began stripping it of its delicate lavender petals. “Tried and true hits from our first tours.”
Haru pressed his lips together in a taut line and Owen raised his eyebrows.
“Tried and true, Nash?” Owen said with a laugh. “Tried at all those dive bars we used to play in back in the day. They’re terrific tunes, but we don’t have the rights. Not to record them.”
The expression on Nash’s face might technically be a smile, but it made Casey’s back creep as though ghostly mice were staging a rally on his skin.
“Trust me,” he drawled, tossing the half-denuded hydrangea onto the ground. “We’ll have the rights locked by this time on Sunday. Fuck, maybe within the hour, if this idiot will move his ass and carry our bags upstairs and announce our arrival.”
Casey blinked. Did Nash always speak to limo drivers that way? He couldn’t expect Joe to schlep his luggage around, could he? That surely wasn’t in a manager’s job description.
Nash shifted his glare from Owen to Casey. “Well?”
Oh. I get it. I’m the idiot in question.
He swallowed a retort and pasted on a smile. After all, he’d grown up in an atmosphere of starfuckery. The context had been food, not performing arts, but the reasoning was the same: Kowtow to the talent, because they’re the moneymakers.
With a sigh, Casey bent down and grabbed the handle of the nearest guitar case.
“Not that, you asshole.” Nash strode over and yanked the case out of Casey’s hand. “Never touch an artist’s instrument without permission.”
“Dude,” Owen said. “You just told him to carry your shit upstairs, which is pretty outrageous, even for you. Besides, you haven’t touched a guitar in months.” He frowned. “In fact, do you even have a guitar?”
“Shut the fuck up, Owen. Of course I have a guitar.”
“Ooohhh.” Owen’s expression cleared. “I get it. That’s not your guitar. That’s—”
“Hey, babe?” Dev’s voice carried from around the corner. “I hope you don’t think I overstepped, but I—” Dev rounded the lilac bush and practically ran Eli down. “Whoa!” His eyes widened. “Eli?”
“—Dev’s guitar,” Owen finished.
Nash shoved the guitar against Casey’s chest and let go so Casey had to fumble to catch it before it fell onto the gravel.
Then Nash sauntered toward Dev with an expression like Randolph Scott’s when he’d scored one of Sylvia’s crab cakes.
“No need to apologize, babe.” Nash wrapped his arms around Dev’s neck. “Now that we’re together again, I’m sure we can work everything out.”
Dev met Casey’s eyes over Nash’s head as he peeled Nash’s arms away and sidestepped him, only to get tackled by Owen.
“Dude!” Owen pounded him on the back as though Dev were part of his drum kit. He stepped back and grinned up at Dev. “How’s life as a lumberjack?”
“I’m not a lumberjack, you nut.” Dev returned Owen’s grin but limited himself to a couple of bro backslaps. Owen had always reminded him of one of the more enthusiastic puppies at Ty’s shelter, and despite being on the downhill side of his thirties and built like a fireplug, he still did. “Good to see you. Welcome to Home.”
