“Go away,” I yell.
“Housekeeping.” His voice is a shrill high pitch through the wood.
“I’ll put you in a fucking closet.”
“You’d have to open the door for that, sunshine,” he challenges back.
I scrub a hand over my face and stand. My joints pop in protest. I cross the room and unlock the deadbolt, cracking the door just enough to see his stupid, grinning face. He’s in mesh shorts and his favorite hoodie, hair damp, shoes unlaced. He looks like he either just came from the gym or just came from hooking up with someone and showering in their room.
“Morning,” he chirps. “You look like someone stole your guitar.”
“Someone stole my will to live,” I grunt out.
“So, Sadie, then.” A wide grin breaks across his face.
I scowl. “Don’t start.”
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding. “Luc texted. We’re officially off-duty until soundcheck tomorrow. Cherry gave us the whole day off. No promo, no press and she warned us to not get arrested.”
“Awesome,” I admit. “Except the getting arrested part.”
“Hayden’s scoping out the hotel café and then probably calling his mother,” Mikey continues to report. “Luc, Lily, and Larkin are on a video call with Marie. I heard squeals through the wall. It was disgusting. Thought I’d see if you wanted to go destroy the breakfast buffet with me.”
The thought of crowds and bright lights and forced cheer makes my skin itch. “No.”
He studies me for a beat, eyes narrowing. “You going to hide in this room all day?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how we do days off, man.”
“That’s how I’m doing it today,” I grunt like a caveman.
He huffs. “You’re allowed to be a person sometimes, you know.”
“Pass.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll text you if I find any trouble worth your time.” He starts to turn, then pauses, glancing back. “You good, though?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening on the door edge. “I’m fine,” I respond automatically.
Mikey gives me a look that says he knows I’m full of shit and loves me anyway. “Yeah. Okay. Holler if you need something.”
“Like what?” I drag my hand through my hair.
“A shovel to bury your feelings with,” he shoots over his shoulder, walking away.
I shut the door and lean my forehead against it for a second. Day off. No show to prep for. No interviews to dodge. No setlist to fight over. Just me, a hotel, and twenty-four hours to marinate in my own brain.
I last twelve minutes. The four walls are too quiet. The bed too neat. The TV remote too obvious an escape hatch. I can already see the channels; news, reality trash, some rerun of some show where no one ever bleeds or screams or does anything real. I need noise, but not that kind.
I throw on a T-shirt, clean jeans, and sneakers that don’t mind walking. I grab my room key and my sunglasses. For a second I reach for my guitar, then leave it leaning against the wall. This isn’t that kind of mission.
The hallway outside is quiet, carpet muffling my footsteps. Elevator or stairs? Elevator makes something twist in my gut that has nothing to do with faulty cables and everything to do with one journalist with a mouth like a dare.
Stairs it is. The stairwell smells like industrial cleaner and dust. I take them two at a time, letting the brainless rhythm of step after step scrub my thoughts clean. By the time I hit the lobby level, my breathing is steady and my head’s a little clearer. I push through the door and step into the marble-and-glass echo chamber of the Sapphire’s lobby.
Music plays over hidden speakers; some chill, inoffensive playlist meant to keep wealthy guests calm enough to spend more money. A few suits hover near the front desk. A family corrals two hyper kids near the revolving door. Sunlight spills in through the tall windows, painting the floor in pale gold.
