I laughed, enjoying the attention, until I looked back at Grace. Her focus was on me, with way more interest in my conversation with the bride-to-be than in beating her brother to the ground.
“Sorry, I can’t let you in. My manager says no.”
“Get away from the window,” Tucker barked.
I ignored him.
“Can you come out, then? Talk to us?”
Removing my upper body from the window, I got a look at Tucker’s murderous face and then returned to my enthusiastic audience. “Um, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because my manager thinks you’re going to devour me, and drummers are hard to find.”
“Ah, baby. We’ll take good care of you.”
I laughed, chuckling alongside Mike and Matty, who were both now hanging out the windows talking to their own admirers. Again I checked on Grace. She was no longer working, the words and music no longer flowing creatively through her mind. No, she looked pretty pissed. I was going to be hearing about this tonight during our text talk.
I turned back to my admirers. “Sorry, I can’t.”
There were cries and pouts all around, but even I realized the stupidity of stepping off the bus.
“Well, can you sign something for us, then?” Karine asked.
“Sure, what do you want me to sign?”
“Do you have a guitar pick?”
“I’m a drummer, so no.”
“Dude.” Matty spoke to me out of his window. “You should always carry toothpicks to hand out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because they’re like dollhouse drumsticks. It would be funny.”
I gawked at our guitarist. “No, they would just be toothpicks. How am I even supposed to sign them?”
“You could probably get one of those etching machines.”
“No offense, Matty, but if I handed out machine-etched toothpicks to my fans, I wouldn’t have any left.”
“Fine. It was just an idea,” he said, all bent out of shape that I didn’t think it was his best ever. “You don’t have to be a dick.”
Karine tried again. “Do you have a headshot you can sign?”
“What’s that?”
The woman blinked up at me.
“He’s new to all this,” Mike explained.
Undeterred, Karine asked, “Well, what do you have in the bus that you can sign and throw out?” she asked.
I popped my head back into the bus and looked around.
Quinn was now watching me, amused, his guitar tucked in the crook of his arm. I got off the couch and searched for something, anything better than toothpicks. Snagging a Sharpie off the desk, I rummaged through the drawers in the small kitchen until I came upon the first flat surface to write my name on and carried it back to the window.
