Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
It’s not lost on me that the manager doesn’t deny that Deke hates me.
Cool.
When Whit walks away, even more people are looking at me backstage. A few people give me fist bumps or hold up their phones, showing me that they’re watching the performance. For the first time, I notice my own text app has blown up. My notifications have been turned off so I could focus on covering for Sandy, but there is a green bubble with the number 504 inside of it. 504 text messages?
Quickly, I respond to my mother’s message only, then drop my phone back into my purse to deal with later. I exit the arena through the rear entrance—and I immediately notice something is wrong. There are two giant luxury tour buses. A group of men in coveralls are huddled around the engine of one bus, looking endlessly stressed.
“It needs a new camshaft. I won’t be able to get the part here until tomorrow morning.”
“How are we going to get everyone to the hotel? Plus, we have to be on the road again early to New Orleans!”
The mechanic shrugs.
Oh dear.
If I thought Deke was in a piss-poor mood the first time I met him, he’s Satan incarnate after the show. I watch from the shadows behind the venue as he kicks open the door of the arena and stomps across the tarmac toward his tour bus. He’s in a plain black T-shirt and beat-up jeans, that ever-present cowboy hat low over his face. A toothpick hangs from his lips and that bottle of Jack is back in his loose, long-fingered grip. Halfway to the bus, Deke notices everyone standing around, instead of piling into the buses.
“What the fuck is the hold up?” he rasps, scanning his surroundings.
Is he looking for me?
If so, he probably just wants to make sure I’m not there anymore.
That’s too bad, isn’t it?
Whit appears to the musician’s left, looking extremely nervous. For good reason. He’s staring down the barrel of a pissed-off superstar. “One of the buses is incapacitated.”
Deke jerks an impatient shoulder. “And? What does that mean for us?”
The manager looks like he’s going to be sick. “It means we’re all going to have to cram onto one bus to reach the hotel, unfortunately. It’s going to be tight quarters for about an hour,” Whit says over the groan of the crew. “But we have a second bus commissioned for the morning, so we’ll have more space on the way to New Orleans, at least.” Everyone is complaining in earnest now. “Sorry, folks.”
Deke releases a withering sigh, hoists the bottle of Jack to his lips and climbs onto the bus, mid-swig. Impressive.
Everyone follows.
It’s right about now that I start to wish I’d hidden in the back row, like I intended. Because when I board the bus a few minutes later, there are no more seats available. As in, not a single one. I stand at the top of the walkway, my fingers bloodless around the straps of my purse, my stomach floating in zero gravity. What am I going to do?
“Looks like you’re going to have to pick someone’s lap,” says one of the roadies, and everyone breaks into boisterous laughter. “Here, you can have mine!”
“I’ll take her!”
“Come sit between us, girl. We’ll keep you warm.”
Am I the only woman on this entire bus? God, it appears so.
Laughing nervously, I stumble down the walkway, hoping I’m wrong and there is at least one opening. But there is nothing. The bus is clearly full to capacity.
A clammy hand shoots out and closes around my elbow, yanking me sideways across a man’s lap. I don’t recognize him, but he smells like cigarettes and sweat. Immediately, I scramble back to my feet. Another stranger is already grabbing for me, though, and everyone is laughing at my expense, even as Whit yells from the front of the bus for the crew to knock it off.
I’m in the middle of struggling to withdraw my hand from yet another man’s grip when I sense a presence behind me.
“The fuck are you doing?” drawls a voice I would know in my sleep.
It’s Deke. He’s towering behind me, the heat of his chest scoring my back and shoulders. “Um,” I begin, swallowing. “I-I was just trying to—”
“Ain’t talking to you, June Bug.” Deke reaches over my shoulder and grips my assailant by the throat of his T-shirt, twisting it in a fist. “What the fuck are you doing?”
The blood drains out of the man’s face. “Just teasing her a little, Deke. She’s fine.”
“You don’t speak for her.” His breath ghosts along the crown of my head. “You fine?”
After a beat, I shake my head no.
“That’s what I thought,” Deke says, his voice noticeably harder. “Get the fuck off my bus.”
Assuming he’s speaking to me, I turn to leave.
Deke hauls me back by the rear belt loop of my jeans. “Jesus Christ, June Bug. I’m talking to him, not you.”