Page 19 of The Rogues

“I was just seeing what shots they got,” I comment, my voice smaller than usual.

She lets out a low huff. “It’s just getting started. It’s going to be a lot worse by the end of this god-forsaken tour.”

Her fingers trail over the magazine as she looks at the pictures, the memory of that night seemingly playing behind her eyes. “What did you and Jamie talk about?”

I raise a brow. “What?”

“Jamie Morrison,” she clarifies. “He’s the keyboardist. Probably the best damn key player I’ve ever heard play besides you, but nonetheless. You were talking to him at the bar, laughing.”

The way she says it sounds accusatory, but I don’t see any malice in her eyes, only curiosity.

I try to give a casual shrug. “We just exchanged pleasantries.”

“Hm,” she murmurs. “You know he and Cyrus are bonded.”

My head snaps to her. “What? I thought he was bonded to the guitar player.” I just barely stop myself from saying Malaki’s name, worried that she might read into it if I knew his name so quickly.

“He is, but he is also bonded to Cyrus. No one else, though, just those two. But they can’t tell anyone because their band relies too much on the idea that Cyrus is ‘available,’” she says with air quotes. “I suspect they’re all a pack but can’t let the public know.”

I purse my lips in amusement. “How did you know, then?”

“Well, I signed an NDA, so,” she looks at me conspiratorially. “Don’t go telling any gossip blogs, Miss Loose Lips.”

I actually laugh, because she knows I’m the last person who would ever go tattling on her for breaking her word, much less out someone to the world.

Then she looks at the photo of Remi and me, her eyes dancing over the image. “I see you met Remington.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just shrug. “He’s nice.”

“Don’t go falling for him now,” Cleo tries to joke, but I can hear the seriousness in her tone. “He is the heartbreaker of the band, after all.”

“Heartbreaker?” I ask, diverting to something more comfortable.

“Well, yeah. He’s hot,” she says so blatantly. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t sleep with him?” She picks up the magazine, flashing the picture of him and me once more.

I bite my lip. I’m not sure what to say here, but I can’t admit the truth: that not only does he look incredible, but he smells even better. His crystal-blue eyes are enchanting, even more so when they are peering into your soul. His hands, steady and powerful, planting his heart at your feet and waiting to see if you’ll stomp it out or cradle it into your arms.

“No, not really,” is what I settle on, turning so she can’t see the red flush taking over my face.

I pick up the burrito so I can have something to do with my hands, and she grabs her own as well.

“Are you doing anything to prepare for the tour?” she asks, unfolding the foil. I watch as the steam falls out as it opens. “I wish I could ask for a halt on rent for my studio.”

“But you can afford to leave it unattended for the tour,” I point out and chuckle.

She laughs with me, shrugging. “Old poor habits die hard. That money would just go to ridiculous stuff anyway. No point in moving out or anything. But Lark has to give Rox to her parents until we come back, and I know she’s probably sad about that.”

I think of the cute German Shepherd, who is more cuddle-bug than guard dog, just like Lark herself. “At least he’s being babysat by people who love him and treat him as their grandchild.”

She chuckles as she grabs a packet of picanto salsa. “That’s true.”

She hands me an extra packet, and I open the corner so I can pour some on my burrito to take a hearty bite. When the savory potatoes and spicy chorizo hit my tongue, I let out a satisfied moan, completely content in this moment.

When I swallow the bite, I turn to her. “I’m not doing anything except going to my parents later for dinner. You know, to see them before we head out.”

Cleo turns serious. “What do you mean? Are they not in New York?”

I shake my head. “They’re at their place in Beverly Hills, so I’m going to stop by for dinner.”