“You did,” I say.
“What stayed the same?” Houston asks.
“Heat. Palms. Men trying to sell me party buses on the sidewalk.”
“You want a party bus?” I ask.
“No.”
I prop my ankle on my knee and balance the glass on my thigh. “What’d you like about San Francisco?”
“Fog. The way it shuts people up. Rent wasn’t cute, but my loft was quiet. The quiet worked for me.”
“You’ll get it back,” Houston says.
“Maybe.” She takes a small sip like she’s rationing good things. “Maybe I’ll just get different.”
I nod. “Different can work.”
Knox walks out then. Dark jeans, black shirt, jacket that fits like he stood still a long time while someone pinned it to his bones. Responsible, clean, hair shaggy and glinting silver in a way that suits him. He clocks the room in a second—our glasses, her seat, my posture, the way Houston’s at ease—and finally lets himself unclench.
“You need a drink,” I say, already reaching.
He lifts his chin. That’s a yes.
I build fast. Mezcal for me, bourbon for Knox, another light pour for Lou if she wants it, soda for Houston because he plays the long game. He always does. I line them up. Knox takes his andstays standing, like he trusts the night more if he has a view of every door.
We fall into talk. Fries vs. onion rings. Worst hotel carpet we’ve ever seen. Best bathroom tile we’ve ever stolen. Random, silly shit.
I pour another round.
Lou smiles. “Okay, dumb things I do every day, let’s see… I judge restaurants by the design of the menu. The font, the logo, anything they use for branding. If it sucks, I’m not going.”
Houston huffs a laugh. “I judge our venues by the backstage smell. If that’s rank, I’m not using their bathroom.”
“I do my best not to judge anyone,” I begin.
But then Knox boos me. “Bullshit.”
“You remember that promoter in Tampa? The guy who wore two watches so he could be late in two time zones at once? Didn’t judge him.”
Lou laughs hard enough that she has to put the glass down. “I kind of think you’re judging him right now.”
I lift my brows to tease. “Nah.”
Her giggle is music.
Rochester flashes through my head. One girl, one night, shared because she asked for it, and it made sense, and we had a fucking blast. Tampa was different—two best friends who turned the hotel room into a dare and left the next morning, having covered our room service bill. That was one hell of a surprise perk.
There were others. There always are. We’re on the road more nights than off it, so meeting random women comes with the territory. We don’t do it because we’re bored. We do it because sometimes a night works better if nobody has to pretend they’re someone else.
When a woman hooks up with the Turner Brothers, she knows it’s a fling. We’re not serious guys. Even the women who tried to make things last with us gave up after a while. That’s just the nature of the beast.
If Lou wanted that kind of night, I’d be down. If my brothers were down, I’d be more down. If Knox raised a hand, I’d back off. There’s a rhythm to it. He has a good head for these things, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve followed his lead.
Lou tips her head. “Do you always dress like a vampire?”
I look down at the black. “Daywalker edition.”
