Cary continued to watch the band. “They can really play!”
She frowned. “Do you mean for girls?”
“No.” He shook his head. “For anyone. They play better than me.”
She gave him adon’t bullshit melook and drank her beer.
After their set, Allie clinked her bottle against Tyler’s. “I’m signing them.”
“I’m not managing them,” Tyler said. “Not officially, anyway. But they’d be perfect for my imaginary roster.”
“So manage them unofficially.” Allie gave a lazy shrug.
Tyler wrinkled her nose. “Behind Sebastien’s back?”
“Who cares, man? This band’s gonna blow up with or without us.”
Tyler glanced toward Cary. “What do you think?”
“Just quit,” he said.
“I’m not ready.”
“I am.” He winked. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll call an Uber,” Tyler said. “You can’t get a taxi around here.”
A minute later, her phone buzzed. “It’s here.” She grabbed Cary’s hand. “Follow me.”
“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said.
She didn’t look back, but a smile tugged at her lips.
As she stepped outside, the blustery Saskatchewan wind clawed at her face until her eyes stung and blurred. She blinked hard, fingertips brushing skin that felt numb—like that song by the Weeknd.
“Over there!” she said, spotting a gray minivan rolling up to the curb.
“Cary Kingston!” a man’s voice bellowed from somewhere down the street.
They both whipped around. A burst of camera flashes blinded them.
“Is that the paparazzi?” she asked, hustling toward the van.
“I don’t think so. Maybe a local reporter or something.” Cary yanked open the sliding door and helped her inside as another wave of flashes went off.
“The James Hotel,” he told the driver, his tone sharp. “And hurry.”
“Are they following you?” Her voice shook despite her best effort.
“I don’t know.” He kissed her forehead, lingering. “You okay?”
She nodded, breathing heavily. “What if they post pictures?”
“I don’t care. I’m more concerned about your safety than anything. I hate waking him, but I’m calling Vegas to meet us in the lobby.” He hit a button on his phone. “Weird. It went straight to voicemail.”
“Call his room,” she suggested.
“Good idea.” He put the phone to his ear. “Yes, this is Cary Kingston.” The driver glanced over his shoulder. “I need my tour manager’s room, please. Vegas—yes, that’s right. Thank you.” He placed his hand over his phone. “They’re connecting me.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “No answer there, either.”
