Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“I’m about to leave work.”
“How did managing the crowd go?” I try to tease, but there is an edge in my tone.
“Good actually. Still would rather be there with you.”
“I wish you were here too.” Maybe I could fly out to LA. It’s not a long flight. “You know—”
“Dylan!!” I stop speaking when I hear a girl scream his name and then another.
“What’s going on?”
“Shit. Let me call you back.” He doesn’t say bye; the line just cuts off. I stare down at my phone, all my emotions starting to bubble over. I power my phone off, needing a second. My mind is so fogged by Dylan I’m not thinking straight.
I had sex with a man I hardly know. Without protection, mind you. I hadn’t thought about that until after he’d left. When I’m with him, I feel closer to him than anyone else in the world, but maybe lust does that to you. If this is lust, I don’t want to know what love is.
CHAPTER 14
CLOVER
I shove the phone in my pocket in frustration. “Can you clear those fans out?” I bark at Security. “No fans down here.”
“Sorry, Mr. Sign. They slipped in. Won’t happen again.” The hired security guard motions for someone to take the girls away.
“Check their phones. They were filming something.” I shake my head and make my way toward the artist staging area where the catering is set up. I want to grab something to eat before going back to the hotel. “Chris,” I yell when I get there.
His head pops up from the black leather sofa that we cart to every concert. “What’s up?”
“There were stalkers down in the tunnel. I was on a call with my girl, and she heard them yell my name.”
Concern floods his face. “Your girl? The woman you met three days ago is now ‘your’ girl?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re supposed to be upset about random people breaking through security and bullshitting their way into our private spaces, not that I’m attached to someone.” I pick up a plate and gesture for the chef to cut me off a slice of the prime rib shank he’s got on the board. I add some mashed potatoes and greens and throw myself into the chair at a makeshift table.
“I can multitask.” He hauls himself off the sofa and pulls out his phone to text someone.
“I already took care of it.”
“Sorry,” he says and joins me at the table. “Groupies are part of touring and being a star. They exist. Your girl”—he emphasizes the possessive—”will have to understand that.”
“Why?”
“Why does she have to understand that groupies exist? Because they do. Because no matter how married you are, how many kids you have, someone out there is going to imagine themselves in love with you, and that all it will take is one look out in the crowd and you’ll be smitten.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I’ve toured in front of a million people in the last few years, and I can’t remember one face in the crowd, not even the fans who I’ve taken photos with or whose hand I touched as I sang. Fans are one large body for me, not individual faces.
“I know that, and you know that, but the single fan doesn’t.”
“Regardless, I don’t know what that has to do with Irish. I pay enough money to get good security and if I have to, I’ll shell out more so that this space”—I gesture around the artist room where the band mills about with a half dozen other stylists, dressers, press people—”is private and safe.”
“You thinking about bringing her on tour with you? That’s a big commitment for a girl you just met.”
“I might.” Although, how I would do that without revealing that I’m a musician, I haven’t worked out in my head. “For now, though, I want to be able to have a call with her without her hearing random women shouting my name.”
“Just invite her backstage, and she’ll understand how chaotic things can get.”
“I’ll do that.” Just not right now.
Three days later, I’m landing in a practically deserted airfield about twenty minutes from Loveland. A car and driver are waiting for me.
“Don’t really get many jets landing here,” the driver says when I belt in. “Prop planes and twin turbos, but no real jets.”
“It was the only plane that was available to me,” I reply.
“It looks nice. Expensive, too. How’s it ride?”
“Okay for short trips, but for the longer ones, it’s like flying in a tin can. You’re better off flying commercial for anything over about seven hours.”
“Good to know. Never gone anywhere but Mexico myself.”
“Mexico’s nice.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the backrest. I’m exhausted. Four shows in a row, press obligations, meetings with my label, and a couple of producers who wanted to sell some tracks for my upcoming album that I haven’t given much thought to. I want to find Irish, kiss her senseless, and then sleep for about ten hours.