Page 42 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

TWENTY-NINE

I wake up to my phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand. Justine stirs against my chest, her hair tickling my shoulder as she shifts in her sleep. The afternoon sun streams through the hotel windows, and I realize we’ve not only slept most of the day away but forgot to close the curtains.

A dozen missed calls, twenty-something text messages, and the usual social media notifications. Nothing unusual for life on tour, but the volume suggests last night’s acoustic performance hit differently than our regular shows.

The first text is from Elle:Acoustic show footage going viral. SNL wants to talk.

Another from my dad:Saw the videos online. That’s how music should be played, son.

I scroll through messages from industry contacts and fellow musicians, all praising last night’s stripped-down performance. The entertainment headlines tell the story:

“ Power outage becomes magic: Sinful Distraction’s acoustic masterpiece”

“ Viral video: When the lights went out, the music came alive”

“ Acoustic gold: How a technical disaster became the performance of the year”

“Morning,” Justine murmurs, her voice husky with sleep. She props herself up on my chest, her fingers tickling my chest. “What’s all the buzzing about?”

“The usual media circus,” I say, setting the phone aside to focus on her. “How are you feeling?”

She stretches like a cat, completely comfortable in her skin. “Amazing. Last night was . . .” she trails off with a satisfied smile. “Perfect.”

I pull her up for a kiss, tasting the lingering intimacy of our night together. “We should probably get moving. We have a meeting with Elle.”

“Shower first,” she says, sliding out of bed, naked, and without a care in the world. “I can still smell the cold air from last night’s performance in my hair.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” I’m already pushing the covers back in anticipation.

Justine doesn’t miss a beat she turns her head slightly and smiles. “I expect you to.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I scramble out of bed, trip over our pile of discarded clothing, and stumble after her.

The hotel’s oversized shower has dual heads and enough space for both of us comfortably. She turns the water on, full blast and cranked all the way toward the H. Steam fills the glass enclosure and fear builds as I think about our skin melting off.

“Don’t worry,” she says as she adjusted the knob. “I’m turning it down. I like to see how hot it can get before getting in.”

“Whatever works for you.”

Justine steps in and I follow, sliding the door closed behind me. Hot water cascades over our bodies, washing away the remnants of last night’s outdoor performance and replacing them with something warmer, more intimate.

“Turn around,” I murmur, squeezing shampoo into my palm. My fingers work through her hair, massaging her scalp, and she leans back against me with a contented sigh.

“That feels incredible,” she breathes, her back pressed against my chest. The water runs in rivulets down our skin, and I can feel her pulse racing where my lips meet her neck.

“You feel incredible,” I tell her, my hands sliding down her body, mapping the curves I memorized just hours ago. She turns in my arms, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, and suddenly we’re kissing again, desperate and hungry despite having spent the entire night exploring each other.

“We’re supposed to be getting clean,” she gasps against my lips as my hands find her waist, pulling her closer.

“We are,” I say, lifting her easily. Her legs wrap around my waist, and she gasps as I press her back against the shower wall. “Very, very clean.”

The contrast of cool tile against her back and hot water streaming over us makes her arch into me, and when I slide inside her, we both moan at the perfect friction. This is different from last night. Urgent, almost desperate, like we can’t get enough of each other.

“God, Quinn,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders as I move inside her. The steam swirls around us, creating our own private world where nothing exists except the feeling of being completely connected.

When we finally finish, both breathless and sated, she rests her forehead against mine. “If this is what mornings are going to be like, I’m never leaving this tour.”

“Good,” I say, setting her down gently but keeping my arms around her. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

We actually wash then, soaping each other’s bodies with a tenderness that somehow feels more intimate than the passion that preceded it. There’s something about taking care of each other like this, gentle and unhurried, that makes my chest tight with emotion.

By the time we’re dressed and ready to leave, the sun is lower in the sky than I’d expected. Justine looks incredible in dark jeans and a soft sweater that brings out her eyes, her damp hair falling in loose waves above her shoulders.

“Should we wear a disguise?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I rarely do,” I tell her. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Me neither.”

The car ride to Romano’s is comfortable, filled with easy conversation about the night before, our plans for the next show. The driver navigates through downtown traffic while we steal glances at each other like teenagers with a secret.

“Quinn?” Justine says as we pull up to the restaurant.

“Yeah?”

“Last night—all of it, the performance, afterward—it was perfect. I just wanted you to know that.”

I bring her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles. “It was just the beginning.”

Romano’s has the usual mix of diners and a handful of photographers outside doing their job. Standard Tuesday night in the music business.

“Quinn! What was it like performing without power?”

“Justine! Will you do more acoustic shows?”

“Are you planning an acoustic album?”

“Where’s Nola Boone?”

Normally, I can navigate through questions easily, but the last one throws me off a bit. I stop and look toward the voice. No one repeats the question. Justine tugs on my hand, bringing me back to the here and now.

The restaurant hostess greets us with the same professional discretion she shows all her musician clientele. “Your party is already seated,” she says, leading us toward the back where both bands have claimed a large corner table.

The energy is focused and excited. Chandler’s already pulled up footage on her tablet when we sit down. “Look at this,” she says, turning the screen toward us. “Fifteen million views since last night.”

“The acoustic arrangement of ‘Fading Ink’ is trending on TikTok,” Hendrix adds. “Kids are trying to recreate it with their own bands.”

“Four different music blogs called it ‘the return of authentic rock,’” Wynonna says, scrolling through her phone. “Rolling Stone wants to interview us about the creative process.”

Dana opens her laptop, presses a few buttons and then Elle appears with her phone pressed to her ear, gesturing for us to wait.

“No, absolutely not,” she’s saying into the phone.

“My artists don’t do reality shows. Try again.

” She hangs up and immediately focuses on us.

“Okay, here’s where we stand. The acoustic show has over ten million views across all platforms. Every major music publication wants interviews.

Three labels are courting Plum specifically because of last night’s performance. ”

“That’s incredible,” Priscilla says, looking dazed.

“It gets better,” Elle continues, typing on her phone.

“Billboard wants to do a feature on the creative collaboration between the bands. Rolling Stone wants a joint interview about the acoustic performance and your relationship. And—this is the big one—Saturday Night Live wants you both as musical guests next month.”

The table goes silent. SNL is the holy grail for musicians—the kind of exposure that can launch careers into the stratosphere.

“Are you serious?” Justine asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Dead serious. They want to recreate the acoustic intimacy of last night’s show, but for thirty million viewers.” Elle’s grin is infectious. “This is what we’ve been working toward. Both bands, top of the industry.”

Dana leans back in her chair, shaking her head in amazement. “A year ago we were playing small venues.”

“Six months ago, we were tagging along,” Wynonna adds, looking at her bandmates. “Now we’re being courted by major labels because of one night?”

“One perfect night,” Keane corrects. “That performance . . . you could feel the magic even through a phone screen. It was authentic in a way that’s rare in this business.”

“Which brings us to the important part,” Elle says, her tone shifting to business. “How do we handle the media attention around your relationship? Because like it or not, you two are now a package deal in the public eye.”

I look at Justine, and she meets my gaze with steady confidence. Gone is any uncertainty from earlier in the tour. We know what we want, and we’re not apologizing for it.

“Well, we don’t hide it,” I say simply. “We’re professionals first, but we’re also together. Anyone who has a problem with that can deal with it.”

“Agreed,” Justine adds. “We’re not going to pretend we’re just friends or make up some story about keeping things professional. This is who we are now.”

Elle nods approvingly. “Good. Authenticity sells, and you two have it in spades. The acoustic show proved that. Now we just need to be strategic about how much access we give.”

“But . . .” I look at my sister. “Someone out front asked about Nola. I don’t know whether I should make a statement or what.”

“What for?” Dana asks. “She hasn’t been seen on tour so it’s not like people are missing her. It was probably some QuinLa Stan.”

“QuinLa?” I raise my eyebrow at Dana.

She shrugs. “I figured since you wanted your niece named QuinnElla, you were into the couple names.”

“Like us,” Hendrix says from across the table. He blows a kiss at Dana. “Henda.”

Everyone at the table busts out laughing. Except for Dana. She glares at Hendrix. “No one, and I do mean no one ever called us Henda.”

“I did,” he says with a shrug and picks up his glass of water, taking a sip.

“Anyway,” Elle says, bringing the conversation back to her. “I think unless media outlets start posting about Nola, we’ll just keep the status quo. If things change, I’ll make a public post that you amicably ended your relationship before the tour, blah, blah, blah.”

“I particularly like the blah, blah, blah, part,” I tell her.

The conversation flows from there—tour logistics, interview schedules, the SNL appearance, which won’t happen until the tour is over.

But underneath it all, I’m acutely aware of Justine’s presence beside me.

The way she participates in the business discussions with sharp insight and the way she handles the attention with grace.

“There’s one more thing,” Elle says as dinner winds down. “The acoustic show has inspired something else. I’ve been getting calls from venues wanting to book ‘intimate acoustic experiences.’ Smaller arenas, stripped-down shows, the whole aesthetic from last night.”

“You mean more shows like that?” Hendrix asks.

“I mean a whole tour concept. Acoustic tours are usually for legacy artists looking to prove their songwriting chops, but you’ve created something new. Rock bands in their prime choosing intimacy over spectacle.”

The idea sends a thrill through me. Last night’s performance was magic partly because it was spontaneous, but the thought of recreating that connection with audiences across the country is intoxicating.

“I love it,” Justine says immediately. “Some of our best songs would be incredible stripped down.”

“We’d need to rearrange everything,” Dana points out, but she sounds excited rather than concerned.

“New arrangements, new staging, completely different approach,” Keane adds. “It would be a risk.”

“The best things usually are,” I say, and I’m looking at Justine when I say it.

“I’m going to put out feelers and see what I can book. I’m looking at weekends only, give you more down time in between shows. The way sales are now, you’ll be able to charter all the flights.”

A thunderous cheer erupts from all of us, which causes Elle to beam. She should be proud of what she’s created.

“Thanks for taking a chance on me,” Elle says. She disconnects before we can even thank her for believing in us.

As we leave the restaurant, the paparazzi are still there but somehow less intrusive. Maybe it’s because we’re walking out hand in hand, completely comfortable with who we are together. Maybe it’s because the acoustic show has shifted the narrative from scandal to romance to serious artistry.

“How does it feel?” Justine asks as we slide into the car.

“What?”

“All of it. The attention, the opportunities.”

I consider the question as the city lights blur past the windows. Six months ago, I was heartbroken and lost. Now I’m sitting next to the woman I’m in love with, discussing SNL appearances and major label deals, planning acoustic tours that could redefine both our careers.

“It feels like everything’s exactly as it should be,” I tell her. “Like we’re finally where we belong.”

She leans against my shoulder, and I can feel her smiling.

The car pulls up to our hotel, and I know that tomorrow will bring more interviews and appearance requests, more attention, more decisions about our rapidly evolving careers.

But tonight, I get to fall asleep next to the woman who changed everything, in a world where we don’t have to hide or apologize or explain ourselves to anyone.

Some things are worth waiting for. Some people are worth changing everything for.

And as Justine’s hand finds mine in the elevator up to our room, I know with complete certainty that she’s both.