Mercs is doing my head in.
I can’t get him out of my fucking mind as I scrub the smudged pink lightning bolt off my face. Glitter and paint swirl down the drain in a glittery whirlpool of regret.
What’s he doing right now?
Groaning aloud, I duck my head under the hot stream, closing my eyes as the water pelts against my skin. Holding my breath, I let the last of the makeup rinse away, then pull back, swiping my hands down my face to clear the water from my eyes.
I should be excited for tonight’s show, but the thought of running into Mercs again makes my stomach twist. Things feel awkward now. Maybe I’m reading too much into what he said. Maybe his comment about forgetting it ever happened was simply a throwaway line?
But those kinds of words stick.
I want to remember everything in my life, especially the beautiful moments. Pretending they never happened feels like a slap in the face.
I know I’m probably overreacting. It’s just, he’s the first person outside my little circle who’s liked me for me, not just Effervescent, the persona. That matters to me more than I can admit.
Trying to ease my tension, I linger in the heat for a few more minutes before finally turning off the water and drying off. There’s still time before we need to head to the stadium, so I figure I’ll try to calm my thoughts and maybe grab some lunch.
To appease Luke, I’ll call Raoul or Cooper if I go out. No way am I staying cooped up like a sardine in this hotel room. That won’t help me find any kind of balance. I need to feel the world outside these walls and take a breath that’s mine.
I toss my damp hair into a loose braid—it’ll wave nicely for tonight’s show—and I head to my room to get dressed. I throw on a pair of loose, tie-dyed harem pants and pair them with a gold-dot backless halter. No makeup.
Simple.
Real.
Me.
Catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I smile. This is Vespa Carrington—the barefoot girl from Nimbin, not the glam-rocker on tour. And even though I love being Effa, sometimes I need to find my way back to my roots, to remember who I really am underneath all the glitter.
Phone in hand, I head out.
The hallway art is modern and sleek, just like the rest of this upscale hotel. I grin as I step into the elevator, the cold marble under my feet reminding me how far I am from home.
By the time I reach the restaurant, it’s about ten-fifty—too late for breakfast, not quite lunch. Brunch it is.
A waitress gives me a once-over, nose wrinkling slightly before turning away. I just chuckle. Judgy looks are nothing new.
“Effa!”
A deep, booming voice cuts through the restaurant, making someone nearby drop their cutlery with a loud clang.
I turn, startled, then laugh as I spot Jett, the lead singer ofSwift Division, sitting at a table, one plate already cleared and another half-eaten in front of him.
Luke had asked our label to find a solid American opener, andSwift Divisionhad the perfect sound. We clicked right away at the meet and greet, and now they’re sharing our hotel.
I nod in greeting and head over.He’s the only familiar face in here, so why not brunch with him?His sapphire-blue eyes light up when I approach, his bed-tousled black hair a perfect mess. He wears it well. Even the scruff on his jaw suits him, causing his face to look more angular. His grin is contagious. It’s easy to see why fans are already eating up his band.
“Hey, Jett, mind if I join you?” I ask, reaching for the chair across from him.
“Please do. I wanted to pick your brain anyway,” he says, motioning for me to sit.
I slide in as he crunches a strip of bacon between his teeth.
“Sure. What’s up?”
He looks me dead in the eyes, a smirk curling his lips with a mischievous edge. “So… we’ve been doing a thirty-minute slot before you gals come out, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, and you’ve been killing it too. The crowd loves you guys.”
