Not like I wanted him to. I just really hate empty threats. And people ignoring me.
So what if I was just one of a couple thousand people in the room? It seemed like we had established a kind of tradition: after he ripped off his shirt, he’d look back at me.
Two times in a row is considered a tradition, right?
Either way, he didn’t do it in Munich.
He also didn’t offer to see the city with me when I expressed my intentandstated the exact time I’d be doing it, well within earshot of him.
“It wasn’t my fault, right?” Rose says.
I lower my phone and glance at Rose and Kelly sitting at our bus table with face cards in hand.
“No,” Kelly says, choosing from amongst her cards. “He definitely got the lyrics wrong.”
I set my phone down, my brows pulling together. “Yeah, what was that about? How do you forget your own lyrics?” Personally, I fall asleep with lines I’m working on repeating in my head until I want to stuff my face in a pillow. And Austin didn’t just slip up a little; he got themreallywrong.
Rose shrugs and slaps a card down. “Hazard of not writing your own stuff, I guess.”
I sit up. “He doesn’t write his own music?”
Rose lays down her cards. “Or lyrics.”
Kelly glances at the cards, slumps, and tosses hers on the table. “How do youalwayswin?”
“Gimme gimme gimme,” Rose says, motioning with both hands for Kelly to hand over the five-euro bill she’s pulling out of her pocket.
But I’m still staring at Rose. Austin doesn’t write his own musicorlyrics? I don’t even know what to do with that.
On the one hand, it’s kind of nice to know he’s not the one coming up with lyrics like, “Cherry lips, icy eyes, she’s a temptress in disguise. Got me hypnotized, I’ll make her mine.”
On the other hand… I’m disappointed. Does he just show up and take what’s given to him? Pass off someone else’s work as his?
“How did he get noticed if he doesn’t write his own stuff?” I ask, my curiosity taking over.
Rose cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’ve seen the guy, right? Some faces are just made for fame.”
“He has a great voice,” Kelly says, shooting Rose a chastising look. “And just because he doesn’t write his own stuff doesn’t mean hecan’t. I saw a video of him one time. Really different vibe than he has now, though.”
The bus slows, and I glance out the window as we pull into a gas station.
“Where are we?” Kelly asks, glaring at Rose as she admires her money with a satisfied smile.
“Outside of Innsbruck,” I say. “About halfway to Venice.” Up until fifteen minutes ago, I had my nose pressed against the glass. The views of the Alps were jaw-dropping.
I’m excited for Venice, though. Nervous and excited. We’ll be performing at a festival this time, which feels different from a dedicated Austin Sheppard concert.
Then, obviously, there’s the whole romantic, canal-filled city thing. I plan on spending every spare moment exploring the floating city.
“I’m hungry,” Rose says. “Want to grab a snack?”
“I’m starving,” I say.
Kelly scoots from the booth, nudging Rose with her foot. “You’re treating, Miss Moneybags.”
I follow them out of the bus, eager to stretch my legs. We’re at a pit stop, so it’s missing some of that old-timey European charm, but I won’t say no to trying a couple of Austrian snacks and looking around a bit.
“Innsbruck is still Germany, right?” Kelly asks.
