1
Celeste
“You’re not birthing this baby, Jamie—you’re catching a flight. Stop hyperventilating and zip your damn bag.”
I toss the toiletry bag across the living space of my rig, and it lands with a satisfyingthunkin her suitcase. My bodyguard’s face is pale, her phone clutched to her ear like a lifeline as she nods to whatever her wife is saying on the other end. She looks like she’s either going to throw up or cry. Knowing Jamie, it could be both.
“She’s only thirty-four weeks,” Jamie says, voice shaking as she fumbles for her boots. “She wasn’t supposed to—there was no sign—”
“Yes, well,nowthere’s a sign,” I say as I hurl her favorite beanie at her face. “And it saysSURPRISE, BABY!in all caps. We’ll cry later. Right now, we pack. What else do you need?”
Before she can answer, the door creaks open and in saunters Linkin like this is a casual Tuesday and not the prelude toa dramatic cross-country birth. He’s all sun-bronzed skin and tattoos—throat to knuckles, dragons curling over his forearms, bold black work licking up his neck.
He’s shirtless, of course, when is he not, and half of him is swaddled in second skin and plastic wrap, a new tattoo shimmering across his chest and shoulder: stars spinning out in sharp black lines, probably courtesy of Rowan, our tour manager-slash-unlicensed tattoo wizard. A hot pink fanny pack hangs off his chiseled hips because, somehow, Linkin always manages to be both feral and functional.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks, blinking slowly like a golden retriever who wandered into a house fire. “I heard yelling and wanted to get in on the drama.”
I point at him. “Linkin, shirt on, shoes on, van keysnow. Jamie’s wife just went into labor six weeks early, and she has to catch the next flight, or she misses her kid being born.”
He pauses. “Like…laborlabor?”
“Yes!” I shout. “The baby kind! The human exit! GO!”
To his credit, the himbo’s instincts kick in. Linkin spins, disappears, and reappears in what feels like twenty seconds with his hoodie half-on, one sneaker, and his keys in his teeth. I genuinely love that dumb, beautiful man.
Jamie finally ends the call and turns to me, her eyes glassy. “She’s okay. She’s scared. But okay.”
I try to recenter myself by taking a deep breath as I smooth my hands down the front of my favorite running skort.
Refocusing on the task at hand, I grip Jamie’s shoulders. “Then let’s get you home.”
“Your pumpkin awaits, Ladies.” Link says. “I got a full-ish tank, I got playlists, and I got absolutely no idea where the airport is, so somebody better be in the passenger seat that can give me directions.”
“That’d be you!” I say, shoving Jamie toward the door.
Jamie’s already moving, her suitcase thrown over one shoulder, muttering “thank you, thank you” like she’s on stage accepting a Grammy. I’m right behind her, carrying her emotional support water bottle and a hoodie she’s definitely going to forget otherwise.
Just as we tumble out of the rig, Korbyn appears—looking like some indie-pixie daydream who accidentally wandered into our rock band. She’s wearing her strawberry-blonde hair in her usual space buns, a slouchy sweatshirt, cutoff denim overalls, her signature fishnets, and stompy boots. With her angelic face and mischievous smirk, she’s the perfect bait-and-switch.
She leans against the side of the trailer and raises a perfectly arched brow. “Why does it look like someone’s running from the law?”
“Because labor is basically a crime against the body,” I snap. “Jamie’s wife is having their baby. Early. We’re getting her to the airport now.”
Korbyn’s eyes light up. “Yay! Baby time! Whose car are we taking?”
“Link’s, he should be bringing it around.”
Before she can reply, Linkin’s honking his truck horn like a frat boy on spring break. Jamie tosses her suitcase into the bed before climbing into the front seat, as Korbyn slips into the back seat.
I jump into the back next to her and yell, “Drive like the future of queer joy depends on it!”
He slaps the steering wheel. “Finally,a reason to use Sport Mode.”
The truck peels out, our tires kicking up a storm of dust behind us as the 5th wheel disappears in the rearview.
It’s a ridiculous crew. One frantic security guard, two chaotic band members, and a tattooed himbo with his hoodie still halfon, but if Jamie makes that flight, if she gets to see her daughter be born, then this disaster train is runningexactlyon schedule.
Link’s truck rattles over a pothole the size of a small grave, and he mutters an apology like the suspension was personally offended by his actions. Jamie clutches the door handle like her life depends on it.
