Page 38 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

TWENTY-SIX

I wake up to my phone buzzing like an angry hornet. The sound cuts through the comfortable hum of the tour bus engine, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. Sunlight streams through the small window of my bunk, and I can hear muffled voices from the lounge area.

Then I remember. Times Square. The kiss. Going public on national television.

Yes !

I grab my phone and immediately regret it.

Seventeen missed calls, forty-three text messages, and notifications from every social media app I’ve forgotten I have.

The preview screen shows a constant stream of alerts—Instagram, X, TikTok, even LinkedIn, which I didn’t even know could send notifications.

Mom

Sweetie, your father and I saw the show. We’re so happy for you.

Relief floods through me. At least my parents are okay with it.

Peyton

OMG Quinn! Juniper was fussing and I turned on the TV just in time to see you kiss Justine! She stopped crying immediately. I think she approves. Also, Noah says to tell you it’s about damn time.

I scroll through the rest. Friends, family, even some numbers I don’t recognize.

There are screenshots of entertainment news headlines, links to articles, and more congratulations than I can count.

But it’s the entertainment news alerts not only make me smile but also make my stomach drop.

I didn’t think about this side of things.

I just wanted everyone to know how I felt about Justine.

“Sinful Distraction’s Quinn James goes public with new romance on New Year’s Eve”

“From heartbreak to happiness: Quinn James’ surprise kiss rocks Times Square”

“Who is Justine Floyd? Meet the Plum frontwoman who stole a rock star’s heart”

“Exclusive: Inside Quinn James’ secret tour romance”

The headlines keep coming, each one more dramatic than the last. Some are positive, others are invasive, and a few are just plain ridiculous. One tabloid is already speculating about wedding plans based on “body language analysis” from our Times Square kiss.

I slide out of my bunk and pad toward the lounge in my boxers and yesterday’s T-shirt. The bus is still moving—we’re somewhere between New York and wherever—and through the windows, I can see we’re on a highway surrounded by gray January landscape.

Dana’s hunched over her laptop with a cup of coffee, Hendrix is scrolling his phone with an amused expression, and Keane’s reading what looks like a physical newspaper and Ajay is on video chat with his kids.

“Morning, Romeo,” Dana says without looking up from her screen. “Sleep well?”

“How bad is it?” I ask, pouring myself coffee from the pot that someone thankfully already made.

“Depends on your definition of bad,” Hendrix says, turning his phone toward me.

The screen shows an Entertainment Tonight article with the headline “Rock’s Newest Power Couple.

” Below it is a photo of Justine and me kissing in Times Square, and I have to admit, it’s a pretty good shot.

“Entertainment Tonight wants an exclusive. Rolling Stone wants to do a feature on ‘rock’s newest power couple.’ And TMZ is calling you ‘the anti-bachelor’ for choosing love over the single life. ”

I sink into the booth across from them, cradling my coffee like a lifeline. “Well, Elle does love it when the band gets attention.”

“Look at this,” Keane says, folding his newspaper with the precision of someone who still believes print media matters.

He slides a section toward me. It’s a review of our MSG show, and the headline reads“Sinful Distraction Proves They’re More Than Just Another Rock Band.

” “They’re calling it our best performance to date.

Said the chemistry between you and Justine elevated both bands to new heights. ”

I scan the review, and it’s glowing. The critic talks about our “evolution as artists” and how the collaboration with Plum has “unlocked new depths” in our music. There’s a whole paragraph about the “palpable connection” between Justine and me during our duets.

“This is actually really good,” I say, surprised.

“Most of them are,” Dana adds, spinning her laptop around. “Elle emailed and said, People Magazine wants to do a feature on both bands. Billboard wants to interview you about the creative process. Even The Tonight Show reached out.”

“Where is Justine?” I ask, suddenly needing to see her, to make sure she’s handling all this okay.

“Downstairs making breakfast,” Hendrix says. “Elle called an emergency meeting with both bands when we get to the hotel.”

“Emergency meeting? Fun said no one ever.” My stomach clenches.

This could be a good thing, and Elle is strategizing or it’s a bad thing and she wants to do damage control.

In hindsight, I should’ve waited until my sister recovered from childbirth.

Not a week after having the boys, she’s meeting us at the hotel.

Hopefully, after this, she’ll go home and rest.

“Relax,” Dana says. “It’s not an emergency like someone died. It’s an emergency like your sister needs to completely restructure her media strategy because her client just became half of the most talked-about couple in rock music.”

“I fucked up,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “My actions were incredibly selfish. She just had twins and she’s flying around putting fires out because . . .”

“Stop,” Ajay says after he hangs up with Jamie. “You’re allowed to live your life. It’s not your fault your manager doesn’t trust her assistant to take care of things and must have her hand in the cookie jar all the freaking time.”

I stare at Ajay and process his mini rant. I don’t even know how to respond except to say, “I’m telling Elle.”

Everyone busts up laughing. Hendrix snorts, making us laugh harder. Ajay waves us away, looking annoyed.

“Sorry, man.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Ajay says.

I get up and give him a hug. “Thanks. I do agree, but my sister doesn’t delegate well. I think I’ll text Ben and tell him to put his foot down and keep her ass at home.”

Dana cackles. “Good fucking luck, dude.”

On that note, I stop by my bunk, put some sweatpants on and head downstairs. The girls are huddled in the small kitchenette, making breakfast. The smell of bacon makes my stomach pang from hunger. I glance at the clock on the microwave and see that it’s after one in the afternoon.

“Isn’t it lunch?” I ask. At the sound of my voice, Justine looks over her shoulder. The smile she gives me, mischievous and sexy, causes my knees to buckle and leaves me no choice but to reach for the table.

“It’s only lunch for people who got up before noon,” Justine says.

“And we all got up late,” Wynonna says. “Do you like pancakes?”

“I love them,” I tell her, barely taking my eyes off Justine. “Everyone upstairs does. Hendrix in particular likes his with chocolate chips.”

Wynonna blushes at the mention of Hendrix’s name, and instantly I’m curious. Does she have a crush, or has he been flirting?

“We’ll bring everything upstairs,” Priscilla tells me.

I nod, reading the cue loud and clear, and head upstairs, letting everyone know breakfast will be served in the lounge.

I hate feeling like I’m being dismissed, but I get it.

As much as I’d love to spend every second with Justine, I have to share her with her bandmates.

After some time, we’re gather at a truck stop to have a meeting with Elle via video chat. Per her last email, she needed to eat, wanted grease, and she was the boss, so we had to stop even though she isn’t with us.

The diner is one of those classic American establishments with checkered floors and vinyl booths that have seen better decades.

The smell of coffee and bacon grease hangs in the air, and there’s a jukebox in the corner playing Patsy Cline.

It’s surreal to be discussing media strategy for rock’s “newest power couple” in a place that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1975.

Justine hurries in with the rest of Plum just as our waitress—a woman named Dolores according to her name tag—brings us coffee and a stack of menus.

Justine slides into the booth next to me, and I catch her hand under the table.

Her fingers intertwine with mine, and some of the tension in my chest eases.

She looks tired but excited, the top of her hair pulled up in a messy bun and yesterday’s makeup slightly smudged. She’s beautiful and seeing her makes everything else fade into background noise.

“You okay?” I whisper.

She nods, squeezing my hand. “You?”

“Better now.”

Elle clears her throat, and we all turn our attention to the computer. She’s in full manager mode wearing a blazer and a serious expression, but something tells me she has sweats on where the camera can’t see.

“Okay,” Elle starts, not bothering with pleasantries. “The good news is that everyone loves you two together. The story is overwhelmingly positive—heartbreak to healing, finding love through music, all that romantic bullshit people eat up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.

Elle ignores me completely. “The bad news is that everyone wants a piece of you now. Interview requests, appearance requests, photo shoots, reality show offers that I’ve already declined without asking.

” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling.

“Justine, Plum’s Instagram followers tripled overnight.

Your streaming numbers are up 400%. Sinful Distraction’s numbers are similarly up across all platforms.”

“Is that really bad news?” Wynonna asks from the end of the table. She’s been quiet since we sat down, and I can see she’s processing all of this.

“It is if we don’t handle it right,” Elle continues. “This could make both bands huge, or it could turn into a circus that overshadows the music. We need to be strategic.”

“I’ve emailed you the media strategy packet we’re going to use titled: James/Floyd Public Relationship.” Elle’s thoroughness never ceases to amaze me.

“I’ve put together a comprehensive plan,” she says.

“Controlled access. One major interview together—I’m thinking Rolling Stone —and a few smaller features focusing on the music collaboration.

A joint photoshoot for a major magazine.

Maybe a late-night show appearance together.

But no reality show offers, no matter how much money they throw at you.

No invasive documentaries. And absolutely no wedding speculation interviews. ”

I scan the document. It’s thorough, professional, very Elle. There are timelines, talking points, even suggestions for what we should wear to different types of interviews.

“What do you think?” I ask Justine quietly.

She’s studying her phone, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in that way that means she’s thinking hard. “It’s smart,” she says finally. “But I want to make sure Plum doesn’t get lost in this. We worked too hard to get here to become ‘Quinn James’ girlfriend’s band.’”

“That won’t happen,” Elle says firmly. “Trust me, I don’t represent anyone who plays second fiddle. The whole point of this strategy is to elevate both acts. You’re not Yoko Ono, Justine. You’re Stevie Nicks.”

“Peyton’s dog? That’s nice, Elle.”

My sister flips me off. “You know what I mean.”

I do, but it’s nice to tease her.

Dana leans forward. “What about the tour? Does this change things day-to-day?”

“It doesn’t,” Elle says. “You’re professionals.

You perform, you do your jobs, and what happens between Quinn and Justine is between Quinn and Justine.

The only difference is that now you don’t have to pretend there’s nothing there.

However, you’re going to have more security.

You’re going to be exposed to paparazzi, overzealous fans, people wanting to get close to the story. ”

As if on cue, I notice two men in dark suits sitting at the counter, nursing coffee and keeping subtle watch over our table. I hadn’t noticed them before, but now it’s obvious they’re security.

“This is so weird,” Priscilla says, speaking up for the first time. “Yesterday we were just opening for Sinful Distraction. Today we’re rock’s newest power couple’s band?”

“Today you’re a band that’s about to have your pick of record deals,” Elle corrects. “Three major labels have already reached out this morning. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

The conversation continues for another thirty minutes, covering everything from social media guidelines to how to handle fans who might get too personal. Elle has thought of everything, which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow still does.

After our breakfast meeting, as everyone files back to the bus, Justine hangs back with me, not quite ready to dive back into the controlled madness of tour life.

“You okay with all this?” I ask her, gesturing vaguely around us, the security guards, the whole surreal situation.

She looks up at me, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression that makes my chest tighten. “Are you? This is way more attention than I’m used to. I mean, I wanted to make it in music, but I never really thought about what that would mean for my personal life.”

I stop walking and turn to face her fully. We’re standing next to the bus in a truck stop parking lot, having one of the most important conversations of our relationship. It’s not romantic, but it feels right somehow.

“Hey,” I say, cupping her face in my hands. “Look at me.”

She does, and I can see the uncertainty there, mixed with excitement and love and a dozen other emotions.

“I’m more than okay with it,” I tell her. “But if you’re not—if this is too much too fast—we can figure something else out.”

“No,” she says quickly. “I am okay with it. I want this. Us, the music, all of it. I just . . .” she pauses, looking down at her hands. “I’ve spent so long trying to prove myself as a musician. I don’t want people to think I’m with you for the wrong reasons.”

The vulnerability in her voice breaks my heart a little. I lift her chin so she’s looking at me again.

“Anyone who’s heard you sing would never think that,” I say firmly. “And anyone who matters knows that you were killing it long before we got together. Besides, I’m the one who got lucky here.”

She smiles, the worry fading from her eyes. “Pretty sure we both did.”

I lean down and kiss her. It’s soft and sweet and completely ours, despite the audience.

When we break apart, she grins. “I love that I can do that now. Just kiss you whenever I want.”

“Good,” I say, “because I plan on taking full advantage of that.”