Chapter One
Dean
Turn The Page
Bob Seger
The thing about tour buses? They don’t give you space. Not from noise, not from people, and definitely not from your own damn head. Noise, I can drown in. Quiet? Quiet is an ambush.
Portland is a fade of lights in the rear window, and every mile we put between us and that stage scrapes like barbed wire against my skull. Luc’s on his own bus tonight, pacing a rut into the floor, either not sleeping or pretending he doesn’t need to.
Lily’s gone again. Larkin out there with her. Some parasite with a camera decided the world was owed a look at what wasn’t theirs. Now the whole planet is chewing on their pain like its free popcorn.
Love does this to people. That’s why I don’t touch it. Never again.
I lean into the corner bench, guitar across my lap, fingers ghosting the strings without sound. Hayden is across from me with a chipped mug and eyes so dark he doesn’t look like he’s blinked since load-out. Mikey has both feet on the seat, hoodie up, earbuds in, head bobbing to a beat I can’t hear.
Our driver takes an off-ramp and the bus breathes, the air brakes sighing like a low growl underfoot, metal complaining like it knows we’re pushing our luck.
What the fuck are we stopping for? I peek outside the curtain of the window behind me, a Sapphire Resort sign lit up in bright blue staring back at me. Before I have a chance to question why we’re stopping, the door hisses and opens.
I see the messy bun first, then dark blue eyes that catalog the inside of our bus in one sweep, not even flinching when her gaze passes mine, as she climbs the steps. That stupid camera strap is still hanging around her neck over a black T-shirt with a band logo, not even ours, faded from too many washes. Frayed cutoffs that showcase tan bare legs, nicked white at the knees. And finally combat boots.
Oh, this is just fucking perfect. A reporter with legs.
“Wrong ride,” I inform her before she can pretend we’re happy to see her. I don’t look away from my strings. “Press barnacles can join the circus caravan two buses back.”
Hayden chokes on his coffee mid-swallow. Mikey pulls one earbud half out like he just bought front-row tickets, sliding his hoodie off his head like it will give him a better view.
She pauses at the top step, one hand on the rail. Those eyes take me in, scanning me boots to jaw, inching up me like a slow burn, unimpressed as a bouncer.
“Good news for you then,” she retorts. “I’m not press.” Her voice is calm enough to be an insult. “And even if I were? I’ve survived worse creatures than you.”
I stretch my boot into the aisle; lazy, territorial. “This bus isn’t for distractions.”
“Relax, Romeo.” Her tone is sarcastic as she steps over my leg without touching me. “If I wanted to distract you, you’d know.”
There’s a beat where I almost smile. I don’t though. Not for her.
She moves like she belongs in any room she walks into. It’s clear this isn’t her first rodeo. She drops a canvas duffel into the empty seat opposite me and sinks into it sideways, one knee up, one boot bracing against the base of the table.
The camera thumps against her ribs with the movement, but she doesn’t wince. Her shirt slides off one shoulder and she doesn’t fix it. It’s obvious she’s lived in venues and vans and last-call diners. I can smell the truth of it: coffee, warm skin, a hint of cold air from outside. She’s not intimidated by me, or anyone else on this bus for that matter, in the slightest bit.
“Amped sent me to shadow the band,” she explains, not that it’s necessary, because I already know this. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. “Two months. No boundaries, within reason. Your people signed off.”
“Doesn’t mean I did,” I draw out in a tone that makes it clear she can fuck right off when it comes to shadowing me.
She levels me a look that would cut a lesser man to ribbons. “Lucky for me then that I don’t require your permission to do my job.”
Hayden sets his mug down too carefully. Mikey mutters, “oh man,” like he’s watching a hurricane meet a volcano.
“What’s your job again?” I run my thumb up a string until the metal bites, arching a brow as I glance over at her. “You gonna try and make us look pretty, are ya?”
Her mouth quirks. “Pretty is for pop. I shoot truth.” She tilts her chin toward my guitar, sneering. “And if you’re looking for an audience, stage is back that way.”
I let the pick click on the wood beside me. “You’ll get better shots back there,” I bite out. “Luc’s bus. That’s where the circus act is currently at work.”
A shadow crosses Hayden’s face at the mention of our bandmate. It crosses mine too, whether I want it or not. For a second I see Luc’s hand on his head at soundcheck, the way he gentled his giant frame like touch could be a language. Then the leak. Then the look in Luc’s eyes when the world took what he loved and sold it for page views.
