It’s a taste of heaven when we kiss, closest thing to bliss,
I’m not a patient man, but you know we’re doing this.
Oh, yeah. This is where the magic happens and I don’t know how I would ever do anything else. We work hard, the travel can be a slog, and sometimes we make big sacrifices by being away from home so much, but the reward is off the charts.
I just hope Summer understands this part of me.
When we met over the summer, we were in a transition phase, playing small venues to keep the momentum going on our album, so she hasn’t seen this part of us yet. The part that plays to huge crowds and gets called back for multiple encores. The part that sells tens of thousands of dollars in merchandise and potentially has to order more because—according to Sasha—we’re running out of the popular sizes of T-shirts. And the signed CD covers are gone.
“Yeah, baby!” We run off stage after the second encore and I grab a towel from Graham.
The audience is still cheering, and the backstage area is packed. Friends, family, and local industry executives are all here, looking to say hello, get a picture, do a quick interview. I run to Summer first, pressing my lips to hers.
“Have a good time?”
“It was incredible,” she breathes, her eyes shining. “This was your best show ever!”
I chuckle, putting my arm around her waist and pulling her with me toward the dressing room.
“Thank you.”
“Would it be okay if we hang out to watch Nobody’s Fool?” she asks.
“Oh, I see how you are, Ms. I-love-Waylon-Jennings.” I smirk at her. “You don’t like rock music but you’ll stay for the headliners.”
“I don’t like most rock music,” she corrects primly, “but yours is growing on me and we should support our friends, right?”
“Absolutely.” I grab a bottle of water from the hospitality table and guzzle it down.
“Hi, Tate.”
A woman appears out of nowhere—how the hell did she get back here?—and sashays up to me in a dress so tiny it leaves pretty much nothing to the imagination. I glance up at her face and manage to stop myself from groaning aloud.
I remember her from the tour last spring.
Shit.
We hooked up in New York. Twice.
“Hey, Sherry.”
I need to be nice.
“Hey, baby. You looked good out there.”
“Thank you.”
Be nice-be nice-be nice.
“Sherry, this is my wife, Summer. Honey, this is Sherry.”
“Nice to meet you.” Summer’s voice is clipped. As if she knows exactly who Sherry is to me.
Jesus.
But it only gets worse from there.
Sherry arches one brow, as if she’s amused by the discovery that I’m married, and gives Summer a slow, assessing once over, stopping abruptly when she gets to her baby bump.
