My phone buzzes. A text from Whiskey Creek Guest services. It’s generic. Welcome blah blah blah. But the sender reads Charlotte Richards. Charlie. Her name sounds like a fucking whisper. A whisper. Her names sounds like a whisper. I jot the potential line down on a piece of paper for later.
I dig Miss VIP Concierge’s card out of my back pocket, satisfied to note it lists her mobile line.
Me:Weight room?
Charlie:Absolutely. You can find the location on the map I gave you.
Me:Don’t see it.
Charlie. Backtrack the way we came. It’s in the lower level behind the main offices.
Me:I’m lost. Show me.
Yes, I’m being an ass. I don’t care.
Charlie:I’ll send Chad right over.
Me:Nope. I want you.
The three dots bounce up and down in the bubble a few times but then stop. Nothing. She’s thinking. I’m VIP. After a full minute my phone buzzes again.
Charlie:I’ll be right there.
I stuff my phone into my back pocket and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. On second thought, I grab another one. I’m seriously ready to jump out of my skin.
My phone goes off, and I instinctively pick up. Max. My manager. Pretty much runs my life most of the time. It’s a distraction from all this… nothingness. “Dude.” I answer.
“Colt, hey. You at the spa?”
“Where else would I be?” The bastard knows everything. For a second I’m irritated that he would even ask. Like he’s fucking checking up on me.
Except I know he’s not really. Just looking out for the band. For me. For all of our careers.
“Good. Good. Make the most of this, my friend, cause this tour coming up is gonna be epic. I’ve added twelve more venues. Jam packed the line-up.”
I close my eyes and scrub a hand across my face. I’d already thought the thing was overscheduled. It’s money. Every day we don’t waste on the road is money. Fans. Exposure.
Max’s tone changes. “Any action up there yet?” And he laughs.
“Not why I came here.” Hell, I don’t think I even packed any condoms. Lately I feel like I’ve overdosed on cheap women. Like when you’ve eaten too much candy. Not interested.
“Anything else?” I’m not in the mood for Max. Always looking for a new angle for us. Making deals. Making us all money. He’s a great manager but annoying as hell most of the time.
“Nada.” He quips. “Enjoy this two weeks man. Seriously. We need you on your game when you come back.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s right,” he comes back. “Top form.”
“Fuck you.” I disconnect the call.
I pace to the back porch and then inside again. For an instant, I feel like spiders are crawling all over my skin. I take a long drink of water and catch a glance at the note I’d taken a few minutes ago. I’m losing it. Seriously losing it.
Three successive raps from the front of the cabin bring relief. Thank God. I’m overthinking this shit.
When I open the door, she’s wearing an exasperated expression. One brow lifts questioningly. Sexy as hell.
I shift from one foot to the other. “I’m bored.” I sound like a spoiled piece of shit. It’s been a long time since I’ve had nothing to do. Nobody around me. I’ve lived on a bus with twenty people for the past eighteen months.
