“It’s not his first tour.”

“You can’t count road trips in a van with truck-stop showers as a tour. Or the little gigs he played before this. This is a fucking tour. Sold-out arenas, a coach bus with gold fixtures in the bathroom. Groupies who want to do shit to you beyond your wildest dreams.”

“I didn’t mean it wasn’t his big show. I meant it’s our fucking tour, not his. He’s filling in for Linc and then he’s in the opening act in a few months.”

“Why do you got a hard-on for this kid? You jealous because he’s prettier than you?”

“Fuck off.” Dylan stands. “This waitress is taking forever. I’m going to go get my own drink.”

Seeing him stand, Dylan’s security walks over. “Just going to get a drink.”

“The bar is pretty crowded. That’s not advisable, sir. Would you like one of us to get it for you?”

“No. I’m going to get it myself,” Dylan snaps before storming off to the bar.

Duff watches his friend walk away and turns back amused. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“See what?” I ask.

“The day Dylan Ryder starts to question his greatness. I’d say he’s a little bit jealous of the fresh meat.”

Duff motions toward the bar. As security had warned, the crammed bar has turned into mayhem. Fans mob Dylan before he even orders a drink. “That should make him feel a little better.”

“What? Getting mobbed?”

“Yep. Love him like a brother, but the arrogant fuck just needed some attention. He’s not used to anyone else in the spotlight. Never been good at sharing.”

Two hours later, Dylan is happily shitfaced and I’m ready to call it a night. Flynn and I have been playing cat and mouse with our eyes all evening, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to him. Until now. Dylan’s in the men’s room and I’m standing with security, waiting to leave. He walks over, nods at the hulking security guard to my left, and turns his back so we can talk in something approaching privacy.

“Congratulations,” I say. “You were absolutely incredible on stage.”

“Are you referring to this afternoon or this evening?”

My eyes nearly bulge from my head and I look around to see if anyone heard. “I meant the concert. You were…amazing.”

“So I wasn’t this afternoon?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Behave,” I warn.

“Nope.” He shakes his head slowly.

“No? You’re not going to behave.”

“Nope. I’ve decided what happened today was too good. It needs to happen again. Frequently, in fact.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

He holds up his glass. “Water. All night.”

My eyes widen. “But…” I stagger to find the right words. “I’m not a cheater. Really. I wasn’t anyway…until today,” I say softly.

Flynn looks me in the eyes. “Neither am I. Not talking about cheating.”

“What…then, what are you talking—”

“Here comes your soon-to-be ex.” He tips his glass in Dylan’s direction as he approaches.

My heart almost stops when Dylan arrives next to us. He scowls at Flynn, then says to me, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Good night, Flynn.”

I look back over my shoulder twice on my way to the door. Flynn is watching with a devilish smile and gleam in his eye. My mind is jumbled as I climb into the back of the SUV, but one thing is clear…I’m totally screwed.

Chapter Eighteen

Flynn

The bus was rocking last night, but it had nothing to do with the hundreds of miles we traveled in the darkness after the final show in Miami. The roads were smooth, although not nearly as smooth as Mick Stonewood. I have no idea how he even made the logistics work, bringing two women back to his little cubbyhole of a bunk. Yet somehow he kept the wall on our side of the bus banging half the night. I finally put my Bose noise-canceling headphones on and lulled myself into pretending the steady rocking I was feeling was the road beneath the tires, rather than the drummer beneath my bunk. I suppose I should be grateful the bastard fucks like he drums…with the rhythm of a master.

I stretch out my body as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, then pour two mugs and jot down some notes for “Blur.” One more set of connections and I’ll have a decent first draft. Turns out, I’ve saved the best for last. I’m looking forward to Lucky’s poetic tongue helping me with this one today.

It’s not long before she rises. I hear the click of the bathroom door, and a few minutes later she’s quietly closing the door to the living area behind her.

“Morning,” she whispers.

“Good morning.” I nod. The day just got a whole lot better.

She eyes two mugs on the table. “One of them for me?”

“Just as we like it.”

She smiles and slides into the seat across from me, wrapping her hands around the mug and bringing it to her lips. “I could get used to this service.”

“There’re plenty of other services I’d be happy to provide.” I cock one eyebrow.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“You did.” I sip my coffee, watching her over the brim of my mug.

“How did you sleep?” she asks.

“Not so good. A lot of banging kept me up.” It’s the truth, wrapped up in politeness.

“You felt that too?”

How could I not, my bunk was literally rocking. “Yep.”

“I thought we might be getting a flat tire at one point.”

I was hoping that damn thing would deflate. “Seems like the ride is smooth this morning. You ready to finish off ‘Blur’?”

“I was hoping you’d want to do that this morning.”

“I think it needs one more verse. Another sonnet for the last set of connections.”

“I’m ready. What line are we writing about crossing today?”

“Friends and lovers.” Our eyes lock and my mouth spreads a slow grin.

Fourteen lines, ten syllables each. It may not look like much on paper, but there’s nothing quick about writing a sonnet that’s a song. Especially with Lucky. Even though I clearly had less-than-virtuous reasons for suggesting friends and lovers as the topic of the last verse, she still gives no less to our writing. We’re sitting here for three hours discussing and debating words and feelings that shift from friends to lovers, yet I still have to bait her to take the conversation out of the realm of professional.

“No, if we use the word certain when crossing the line, that would mean crossing the line is inevitable,” she says.

I shrug. “Sometimes it is.”

“Nothing is inevitable except death.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Some things are just fate. And you can’t fight fate.”

“But—”

I interrupt her. “You keep telling yourself you can fight fate. But I promise you, you’re wrong. Some things are just meant to happen.”

She stares at me, I can see the wheels in motion—she’s inwardly fighting the truth. At the sound of the door behind me, my head turns. Mick stumbles in with one of his two half-dressed brunettes in tow. I collect my stuff from the table and decide it’s time for a shower. But not before I lean down and quietly leave Lucky with one last thought. “I can’t wait till the day I get to wake up next to you and kiss the hell out of you in public.”