“Do you want me to go?” I whispered.
He sat beside me, his weight sinking the mattress. I could smell the beer and pizza on his breath. “This isn’t about what I want. I’ll miss you, you know that. Nobody can sing your songs like you do. We got chemistry, babe. Magic. But there are fifty people on this tour. I can’t let them down.”
What about lettingmedown?a selfish voice protested.
I shushed it. I loved that Colt cared about his crew. “I could stay on the bus,” I offered. “We could tell everybody I’m sick.”
“Again?” Colt shook his head. “Face it, angel, even without all the shit in the tabloids, you’re a distraction. It’ll be good for you to get away. Rest up. Take a little break.” He played with the ends of my hair.
Colt liked to make love when he was coming down from the adrenaline high of performing. There was never any shortage of girls around the band, begging him to sign their concert shirts, their arms, their chests, throwing their hearts and panties onstage. But he loved me. He had chosen me.
“Because you’re the only person who doesn’t give a shit who I am,” he said when I asked him why.
My lips felt stiff. “What about us?”
“Don’t worry about us. Nothing’s going to change.”
But something already had. I felt it in his occasional flashes of frustration, the way his gaze dropped to his phone or searched the room behind me when we were together. My fault. If only I were prettier, skinnier, braver, he wouldn’t send me away.
“I wanted you to meet my family,” I said.
“And I will,” he promised. “As soon as things get better.”
Things. Me.
I felt the beginnings of panic, like a shadow plucking at my sleeve. “I don’t like leaving you.”
“You’re still with me. Hey, all your songs are still in the show.”
His music before me was the life he knew, or celebrated, all mud tires and tailgates, booze and boots and good times. My ballads were a chance to draw breath, for him and for his audience.
“Maybe... Maybe while I’m gone Mercedes could sing my part,” I suggested. I needed to do something for her, to make amends for ruining her shoes.
His touch paused. “Sure. Whatever you want.” He resumed stroking my hair.
But that tiny, betraying hesitation told me everything. Of course Mercedes would take over my songs. Colt had made that decision before he even got on the bus.
I hugged my knees, afraid to leave him. Terrified of losing him by insisting I stay.
“It’s only temporary,” Colt was saying. “I need you, angel.”
For how long?I wondered. But I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to risk pushing him further away.
“We cut the new album in September,” he said as if he could read my thoughts. He glanced at the notebook on my side of the bed. “You can work on your songs.”
“September?”
“Could be sooner.”
The panic spread. “I can’t write under pressure.”
“The Suit says you can have two tracks. More if you want.” The Suit was Dewey Stratton, who oversaw artist development for the record label. “It’s for your own good.”
“Formygood.”
“Yeah.” He grinned, quick and charming. “And mine. We’re a team. The bad boy of country rock and the girl who’s gonna win him another Grammy.”
My gut twisted. “Colt... That’s not really me.”
