Page 120 of Rock Giant

He gave a huff.Sure, he’d just developed a virulent bullshit intolerance.

Ronnie got in on the other side of him, meaning he was squashed into the middle seat, a position he never cared for, and the last position he wanted to be in right now.What was worse than scrutiny from one ace interrogator?How about two?One of whom had a 99.99% success rate.And, here in the middle seat there wasn’t even a convenient place to rest his screaming head while they did a double act on him.

Gawd, he should have insisted on riding with Spook and Allegra.At least they wouldn’t have pried while drawing conclusions.When Samson climbed into the front passenger seat, and barked at him about holding them up, Paul almost insisted on being let out.He was already leaning over Ronnie to reach the door handle when the Ghost Boys exited the hotel and started piling into the third of the waiting vehicles.And there she was.

His Jodi.

Or rather not his Jodi.

Not his anything, according to her.

He didn’t want to look.

He couldn’t not look.

Even when he closed his eyes she was imprinted onto the backs of his eyelids, and not just any version, nope, he was treated to the mouth wide, eyes molten, tears streaking her cheeks as she surrendered to bliss in his arms version.The version that his whole goddamned body remembered.

Well, tough shit, because that taster is all we’re ever getting, skin cells.

Apparently being a source of pleasure wasn’t enough.

Caring about her wasn’t enough.

Being ready to put her first and love her until death do us part wasn’te-fucking-nuff.

Seemed those things were all a terrible inconvenience to her getting on with her painfully average romance with a self-centred prick.Not that he was bitter or owt.

Paul scratched under the lower edge of his glasses, which surreptitiously allowed him to smear another salt tear across his cheek.

That bullshit allergy was really doing a number on him.

“Feathers,” Ginny suggested.“I had a friend who was allergic to down.Did you notice all the pillows here were authentic goose down?”

He hadn’t, his head never having touched any of them.In any case, feathers weren’t the issue.

“Gin, babes, leave the man alone, he’s clearly hung over.”

Thank you, Ash.

Ronnie’s head came up.“But I didn’t even make vodka bears.How can you be hungover?You spent all night in your room.”

Ash spluttered, “Bushie, there’s more than one way to get smashed.Gummy bears aren’t a requisite for the activity.Don’t believe me, try drinking a couple of pints of Guinness through a straw.”

“Oh...Oh, is that good?”

The chatter moved on to various experiences of slurping alcoholic beverages through straws, and Ronnie recounting knobwhistle’s threat of the night before.Paul tuned out to the best of his ability, eyes closing behind his dark glasses.The minute they reached the tour bus, he was climbing into his bunk, and God help anyone who disturbed him for the next forty-eight hours.

**

The direct route to Trondheim equated to a ten-to-fourteen-hour drive, but since the next gig wasn’t until the following weekend, there was time to take the journey at a more leisurely pace, including a three-night stopover.Or there would be if they got on the road with any sort of alacrity.Five minutes pacing the tarmac the tour buses were parked up on rapidly turned into ten.Seemed the roadies hadn’t got the departure memo.

He could have had another hour or two of floor time.

“What’s the fucking issue?”

The Ghosties’ driver turned up, and they got underway.

“Driver regs,” Samson informed them.“Your rotaed driver is sick, and Troels is on a scheduled break until twenty past.”