Dylan looks at me. My stumbling will have nothing to do with the sway of the bus tonight. I shrug and head to the bathroom. The curtain on Flynn’s sleeping berth is drawn, but I imagine snuggling up to him as I pass by. It physically hurts to know he’s only feet away while I’m sleeping beside another man.
The next morning, I wake to an ache in my chest and throb in my head. It’s as if someone ripped out my beating heart and reinserted it under my eyes so I can feel every painful heartbeat. Water. I need water. The alcohol left me severely dehydrated.
I make my way through the bus in the dark to the galley, hoping to find Flynn in his normal position, anxiously awaiting the coffee pot. Discovering the living area empty, I slump with disappointment. The clock on the microwave reads almost six—perhaps I’m a little earlier than usual.
Ignoring the nausea of a wicked hangover, I force down two bottles of water with a couple Tylenol. After an hour of staring at the door that leads to the sleeping area, I grab a blanket, curl up on the couch, and eventually the vibration of the bus lulls me back to sleep.
A soft kiss on my cheek wakes me. Groggy, I smile with my eyes still shut. “It’s about time.”
“Come back to bed.”
My eyes spring open. Not the voice I was expecting. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
Pushing up with one elbow, my other hand rubs my eye. “I fell back asleep for almost four hours?”
“I guess so. I don’t get why you jump out of bed so early anyway.”
I look past Dylan toward the rear of the bus. It’s quiet. “Is everyone still sleeping?”
He shrugs. “Come back to bed.”
“Actually. I have something I wanted to work on before the bus gets loud.” I hold up the notebook that must have fallen from my hands when I nodded off. “Do you mind?”
The muscles in Dylan’s face tighten. “Whatever.” Letting out a frustrated sigh, he retreats to the bedroom and slams the door.
My second cup of coffee does the trick, and with the aide of the Tylenol and water earlier, I feel human again sitting at the dining table in the galley. I’d hoped Flynn and I could have a few hours to talk this morning. Think about how we’re going to handle things once I break up with Dylan. I reach up to the cabinet where Flynn seems to have a never-ending stock of Hershey’s Special Dark for me, and find he’s replenished my bars with bags full of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate kisses. My heart melts faster than the chocolate in my mouth.
Around noon, Duff stumbles from the back. “You still writing in that notebook?”
“I am.”
“Why don’t you write us some songs instead?” He pours himself a cup of coffee and collapses in the seat across from me, one hand fighting back his unruly morning hair.
“I’m not good with finding the music in my head.”
“Me either. You need a partner, then. Someone who can put your lyrics to music.”
“That’s how my dad and mom actually met. He was a drummer but played a little of all instruments. They wrote my mom’s bestselling song during an all-nighter the week that they met.” I smile, thinking of how many times I heard Dad proudly tell that story.
“Maybe you and Dylan will become the next Simon and Garfunkel.”
The truth is, music is the biggest thing we have in common, yet after all this time, we’ve never even thought of working together in any way. Unlike Flynn and I, who naturally gravitated to music to bring us closer. Maybe it’s because Dylan’s older and more experienced, but he and I have our roles—roles he defined for us. He’s the rockstar, I’m his girlfriend. The picture he paints for our future becomes clearer and clearer the more time we spend together. The thing is…I want to paint too.
“I think Dylan’s more of a soloist.”
Duff snickers. “That’s one way of describing the fame-hog bastard.”
“He doesn’t really share the limelight well, does he?”
“We’ve been friends since we’re six years old. Fucker didn’t even share his toys. Linc is the only one he never seemed to mind stepping aside from the stoplight for. Probably because the poor bastard is homely looking and there’s no real competition there.” Duff downs half his mug of coffee and makes a loud ahhh sound.
“How is Linc? Probably be tough to leave the babies in a few weeks and rejoin the tour.”
“In a few weeks? You mean in a few nights.”
“It’s only the thirteenth. Flynn’s filling in through the thirty-first.”
“Guess boss man forgot to give you the memo.”
“What memo?”
“Beckham’s gone. Bus left him behind last night when we pulled out of Vegas.”
Nausea threatens as I stand in front of Flynn’s sleeping berth, curtain still tightly drawn. With a hollow feeling in my stomach that tells me Duff isn’t just screwing with me, I slowly pull back the thick, dark fabric.
Chapter Thirty-One
Flynn—
Yesterday
Dylan Ryder strides from the elevator to the lobby with purpose, ignoring the heads that turn as he passes. The guy’s had an issue with me before anything even started with Lucky, but today the scowl on his face is more hateful than most.
Coming directly to where I’m sitting, he tosses an envelope down on the table in front of me, eyes narrowing to crinkled slits. “Here’s the change to the show.”
I wait for an explanation, but he isn’t offering one. Nor does he look like he plans to sit down. Unsealing the envelope, I shake the contents into my hand.
A plane ticket.
One way, back to New York.
Swallowing, I look back up and our eyes meet. His voice is stony, words spoken through gritted teeth. “I’m not fucking blind. The way you look at her.”
I say nothing. Whether I like the guy or not, the least I can do is not play games and pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. Plus, I have no idea how much he actually knows, and there’s no reason to make it any more difficult for Lucky than it needs to be. She works at the record label he’s been with for the last decade.
“Did you think I would put up with you sniffing around, trying to get into her fucking pants? Keeping her company while I’m taking care of business?”
I stand to meet him eye to eye. “Taking care of business? Is that what you call Jamie these days? You paying for her services, so it’s considered a business transaction?”
“What I do is none of your damn business.” An evil smile twists his lips. “But if want the best blow job you’ll ever get in your life, stop by 3225 Honeycomb on your way to the airport to catch your flight tonight.”
“You don’t deserve a woman like Lucky.”
“And you do?”
We glare at each other.
“Go back to New York. Now that Easy Ryder has made your pretty-boy face famous, there will be a line of women to suck your cock.” He turns to walk away. “If you try to contact Lucky, your little band won’t be opening for Easy Ryder, and the only gig you’ll be able to book will be in a garage. And if she’s stupid enough to be interested in you, you won’t be the only one on the unemployment line.”
“Fuck you.”
He takes a few steps and turns back, a sadistic smile on his face. “Flight leaves at midnight after the show tonight. Be on it.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucky
“Where’s Flynn?” Reaching over where Dylan’s soundly sleeping, I tug the bottom of the blackout shade so it rolls up with a loud snap, revealing the large rectangular back window of the bus.
“Good morning to you too.” He squints from the flood of light.