Page 28
TWELVE
F our weeks. Four weeks to go.
I can feel the end of the tour creeping closer, and I can’t say I’m sad that it’s ending. Shit, don’t get me wrong. I love touring. I love being around my band, making music, performing, living the life of a musician. It’s awesome as fuck and everything I dreamed of and more.
I’m grateful for being given this chance, this opportunity that so few get to experience. I know exactly how lucky I am to follow my dream, my passion—to see my hopes and desires and all I ever wanted come to life.
I am.
I just wish we could’ve done this without Six of Hearts.
Without Mick. Without his ever-looming, rotten presence clinging to this tour like a fucking disease.
I know we have a lot to thank them for, since they took us on as an opening act, and that fast-tracked us into stardom.
And yeah, I am grateful for that. But shit, how can one person be so damn annoying?
He’s like a rash I can’t get rid of. Which I’ve tried, I really have.
But he’s around; I notice him all the damn time. How can I not, when he always seems to pop up wherever I go?
If he’s not showing up at interviews, pre-concert prep, or post-show drinks, he’s still there sometimes when I head out for my jogs.
And I’m too stubborn to skip them. It’s something that binds me to Ty, knowing he’s doing the same thing when he wakes up, even if we’re in different time zones and miles apart.
It’s ours. Just for us.
And I’m not letting that coke-sniffing, binge-drinking Mick the Dick ruin it for me.
So while he sometimes tags along for the jogs, I don’t really entertain him anymore. And—like a damn miracle—he mostly keeps his mouth shut as he trails behind me. And I don’t know why, but lately he’s been more subdued the rest of the day, too.
I think he knows he fucked up with his comments during Ty’s visit and is dialing it down a bit. Even though more pictures of us together seem to pop up by the day.
I swear he has some secret private detective taking those shots, because every time he touches me during a jog—little things, like clapping my shoulder or leaning on me while fixing his shoes—it’s online within hours.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure he wants the story out there. And I haven’t said this to Jodie or the band, but I’m starting to believe it’s not even about me anymore. It’s about media exposure.
Let’s face the cold, hard truth: yeah, they’re one of the biggest rock bands of the last decade—but their sales have been dwindling. They haven’t had a hit in quite some time. Their last album? Flopped. Big time.
And us? We’re young. We’re hot. We’re everywhere right now. You can’t open social media or any major music site without seeing our faces plastered across it.
I’m sure that what started as an infatuation, as some flirting, has now morphed into something else. Something toxic. Even though he’s been quieter and his remarks are less offensive, he’s around more.
Like right the fuck now.
I eye him warily when he steps on the bus and walks to the little pop-up office me and Jodie kind of created at the breakfast nook in our bus.
Bowie drops on the couch where Missy’s lounging after he followed his brother in.
We’re parked at the next venue, and me and Jodie needed to go over a few things for my dad.
I thought we lived in a digital era, but apparently when your visa gets mixed up, you’ve got a million documents to print, sign, and file like it’s fucking 1997.
“So, still not sure if you’re gonna keep gracing us with your presence?” Mick asks, tapping one long finger on an envelope Jodie just set down—the address for the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services clearly visible. “Well, I for one, hope you can stay. Tour wouldn’t be the same without you.”
He sounds almost… remorseful. Like he’s actually trying to be a considerate human being for once or something equally unbelievable. I quirk a brow at him.
“What?” he adds with a smirk. “Why did that little quarterback of yours not just offer to get hitched so you can stay? I’ll marry you in a fucking heartbeat. Green card or not.”
And there went the fucking remorse.
A stone the size of his stupid head drops into my stomach.
Fuck him for insinuating that Tyler wouldn’t marry me if I asked.
He would. I know he would. Shit—I’m sure we’re in this for the long haul.
I feel it in every fucking fiber of who I am, and everything I’ll ever be.
He’s it for me. If I believed in any of that soulmate shit, then fuck yes, he’s mine.
But I don’t want him to marry me out of obligation. I would never ask that of him. It’s not the basis I want to build our relationship on, and I’m pretty sure Ty knows and agrees with that.
We haven’t talked about the deportation issue much. We’ve been letting my dad handle it. He’s still saying it’ll be fine. That’s why I’ve got this twenty-page-long form sitting in front of me, which he forwarded to us, waiting to be signed and sent.
I snort, the corner of my mouth pulling up, still trying to be somewhat nice whenever I interact with Mick. “Thanks for the generous offer, but I’d rather get deported than be married to you.”
His gaze sharpens, turns challenging, and then he gives me a fucking wink. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Just remember that the offer stands when they decline your permit.”
He turns around with that, dropping next to his brother, putting Bowie between him and Missy.
“He’s serious about that, ya know?” Bowie says, clapping Mick on his knee, which earns him a huff and a glare. “He hardly ever offers anyone anything . And if he does, he follows through.”
Mick tilts his head slightly, dark eyes back on me, voice low and seductive: “I’m very good at following through.”
I meet his gaze. And yeah, maybe I was wrong. Because the want ? It’s still very much there. Sharp and obvious and clinging to him like what-the-fuck-ever.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to really give them a piece of my mind about his offer , but I bite it back.
Barely. Four weeks, I remind myself. I have to survive four more weeks.
Then we’re free, free of them, of him , and can finally focus on doing our own thing.
Our own tour, which is going to be so much fucking better.
Thank fuck my BFFF—best friend for-fucking-ever—Missy, comes to the rescue.
“Please. If he’s going to marry anyone to stay in the country, it’s gonna be me,” she says, all casual confidence. “I already offered, and he accepted. Besides, we look fucking hot together, so fuck you very much.”
“What? Really?” Bowie chimes in. “You didn’t even think I should know my girl wants to marry someone else for citizenship?” But his grin gives him away. He’s just shitting around.
Missy rolls her eyes. “Please, don’t start, Bow. We both know this is a tour-fuck arrangement at best.” Then she turns to me with a sharp snap of her piercing gaze. “But you know, ‘Missy Janssen’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue. Maybe I should rethink it.”
I give her a grateful smile. Yup. She offered, all right, the day after Tyler left.
And I’m pretty sure that if it ever comes to that, if marrying her is the last resort, I’ll take it.
I’ll have to. I still don’t think it’s going to get that far, but it helps to know I have the option.
Even though I’m well the fuck aware there are strict rules and inspections around that sort of thing.
Jodie taps her pen impatiently on the stack of papers she just lined up in front of me, refocusing my thoughts. “Just sign these, and then they’ll be good to go.”
I do what she says, hand her the papers, and throw the pen on the table before moving to get up, planning to excuse myself and go retreat to my bunk until Mick’s outta here.
“Nope! Stay right there!” Ava’s voice cuts through just as she hops onto the bus, arms full of envelopes and a couple of small packages. She nods at me with a grin. “We’ve got more for you to sign. Fan mail came in—security already screened it in the roadie bus. And there’s a big one in there.”
“Really?” Missy says, excitement clear in her voice, lifting her head just as a massive flat cardboard box makes its way inside. It’s huge as fuck, and a very disgruntled-looking Asher is barely visible behind it.
I can tell it’s already been checked since the top’s open, but my grin still ticks up. I fucking love fan mail. Always have. And I’m dying to know what we got this time.
“Ah, look at them,” Bowie muses as Ava dumps the pile onto the coffee table and plops down cross-legged, immediately digging through the stack. “So cute. They’re still excited about this.”
“You should be excited as well, always,” Ava says, tossing a small packet toward Missy, probably with her name on it. “It’s a privilege. We should always thank them. Without the fans, there’s no band.”
“She’s right about that,” Asher adds, settling beside his girl. “That one’s yours, Jace.” He nods toward the big box now stationed in front of the TV. “Ava wanted to open it, but—”
“Look, it’s a leather thong!” Missy exclaims, waving it in Bowie’s face, dangling it by the end of the Sharpie Ava just handed her. “If I wasn’t in doubt about whether it’s new or, uh… previously loved, I’d totally wear it for you.”
Bowie chuckles, draping his arm behind her head. “You sure you don’t wanna keep this up after the tour? I’m down if you are, ya know.”
She flashes him a quick smile, one of those easy, unreadable ones.
But I know her well enough to recognize it.
This is a fling, just a tour thing. She likes him, sure.
I can see that much. But she doesn’t love him.
Not like she loved Lamar. Bowie’s a very convenient, very sexy rebound.
Maybe she and Lam will find their way back to each other. Maybe not.
I still think she made a mistake. But it’s not my place to judge it. I can only be there when she needs me. Like she’s always been there for me.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
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- Page 9
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- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28 (Reading here)
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
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- Page 46
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- Page 48
- Page 49