Happily Ever Aftermath: A Romantic Comedy (The Aftermath Series Book 1)

1. Enter the Dewy-Eyed Fawn

IAN

She came up the tour-bus stairs with unbearable optimism. A spring in her step, a song in her heart. In an instant, I knew she had a great relationship with her parents and still believed in trusting people.

I had never been that young. My twenty-eight years felt like a hundred.

Then she saw me, the hideous scar down my face on full display. Her eyes widened, and she took an involuntary step back.

And why wouldn’t she? I was Frankenstein’s monster. “Shit,” I muttered. I pulled my hair out of my man bun, but it was too late. She’d seen it.

Next in her line of sight was Archer. The poor girl took in his golden glory and was rendered speechless again. What a contrast we made, my best friend and I. Depths of hell, heights of heaven.

Bambi was having a hard time finding her voice, so it was a lucky thing that the third of our strong trio was at the ready.

“Hi,” Mal said. He stood from the little kitchen banquette and offered her a friendly smile. “I’m normal-looking. You can focus on me.”

“I can, um, I mean . . . oh.” Good manners were having a three-way with horror and lust in her brain.

“What can we do for you?” Mal had an easy attitude. His smile made people overlook the muscles. Like most drummers, Mal was powerfully built, but the sun came out with his grin. “Want to sit? Are you with the record company? Are we leaving early? I thought we still had half an hour before this convoy got rolling.”

“I—oh. Thank you.” She sat in the swivel chair next to me. Easier to look across the bus at Archer. At least she was on my left and wouldn’t have to look at the scar as long as I stayed in profile to her. “I’m supposed to travel on this bus now.”

Her eyes were darting nervously between Archer and me, so she saw his eyebrows go up. Archer looked at Mal and me.

“I thought we were the only ones on bus eight,” he said. “That Bruce guy said.”

“Oh,” she said. She dropped her floral backpack on the floor and pulled out a tablet. “Bruce Cantrell, tour manager, bus two. Yes, it’s here. I was supposed to be on bus two, too—bus two-too, ha ha. No, but Sheree’s personal assistant is taking my place, since Sheree and her new husband want to be in the star coach alone, so bus eight is the first bus with room . . . and that’s your bus. See?”

She held her tablet out hopefully to Archer. He squinted at her with the smile that made girls pass out with lust and refused to reach for the tablet. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

No medical devices needed—I knew he was raising her blood pressure. He’d been doing it since sixth grade. I went back to playing scales on my Olson. E-minor was my current favorite.

“Oh. I’m Nicky. Nicky Swanson. Hello. Um, hello.”

Mal gently took the tablet from her hand and scrolled through the list.

“Look at this,” he said. “This girl has all kinds of information here. Damn, there are eleven buses on this tour and four semis. Shit, the Sheree Untethered tour is like the invasion of Normandy.” He looked up with a grin. “Gentlemen, we’ve moved on from the days of three guys in a minivan. To Aftermath—opening act for the hottest rock star in the world!”

He and Archer cheered, and I nodded. Yep. Great. For two months. Then back to normal.

Mal saw my half scowl. He laughed and turned to Nicky. “That’s Ian,” he said, gesturing to me. “He’s grumpy. Don’t worry about it. The scar is from a mountain-biking disaster last year. You’ll get used to it. It’s healing, but there’s nerve damage, so he can only smile with half his mouth. Or scowl.” I glared at him, and he was unimpressed. “It’s healing. It is.”

It wasn’t. I was doomed forevermore to look like a marionette with half its strings cut. At least it suited my mood.

Mal continued with the introductions. “Ian is our lead guitarist. This ugly fellow is Archer, lead singer and a very indifferent bass player.”

“Hey!” Archer swatted at Mal’s meaty biceps but took the time to tip a wink at Nicky. She gulped and licked her lips.

“And I’m Mal. Drums, of course. Backbone of the band. Strong foundation. One might go so far as to say the musical genius of Aftermath.”

“One might,” Archer said, “if one were something of an idiot. So, what’s your story, Vicky?”

I shook my head but stayed silent. Mal corrected him for me, although he got it wrong too. “She said her name was Becky.”

“It’s Nicky,” she said, showing the first hint of a spine in her emphasis. Good for her. I approved. “Short for Nicola.”

Archer flexed his chest at her. “Now, how did a Nordic princess like you get such an Italian name?” He’d taken to wearing his blond hair quite short (to better contrast with me and my attempt to hide the scar with long, dark hair?), and it showed off the action-hero jawline.

She blustered something about her mother liking the name. He was right. She looked Norwegian or something. Compared to Archer’s goldenness, Nicky’s hair was so blonde it was almost white. Pulled back into a ponytail that added bounce to her perky personality. Short skirt. Good legs. Clunky shoes.

I looked away before she caught me checking her out side-eye.

“Damn.” Mal was still searching Nicky’s tablet. “Sheree’s security keeps two motorcycles in the luggage compartments under her bus. That’s smart. Put her in a full-face helmet and no one in America would recognize her. Sorry, Ian.”

My nose curled with involuntary distaste. I ignored the flash of heat in my skin. Adrenaline. Leftover angst about my mountain-biking trauma.

Mal should have shut up, but instead he shone a blazing spotlight on me when he explained to Nicky. “If he’d been wearing a full-face helmet, he wouldn’t have cut up his face so badly. Still would have broken his collarbone, but the razor-sharp chunk of granite he landed on wouldn’t have sliced half his face off.”

Nicky winced.

“Thanks, Mal,” I grunted. I ran through the notes faster. The only coordination in my life existed between my left and right fingers.

“Does he just play guitar scales like that all day?” Nicky asked Mal. Like I wasn’t there. Like I couldn’t hear her.

“Well, yeah. Couple hours a day at least. It’ll fade into the background. So, tell us about you, Nicky.”

She’d opened her mouth to gush some giddy, silly, happy answer when the bus driver thumped up the stairs. We’d met him when we boarded. Ken. Big slab of a seen-it-all union driver.

“Bus two is looking for someone named Daniel Thorn. Anyone know him?” Ken regarded the four of us with equal disinterest.

“Oh! That’s me!” Nicky held her hand out and Mal surrendered the tablet.

“I thought she said Ricky,” Archer said.

“Nicky. I’m taking Daniel’s place. Should I go to bus two?” She fixed Ken with enormous blue eyes, and he ducked his chin in surprise at the energy of her innocence.

“Are you supposed to be on bus two?” he asked.

“No, I’m in eight now with you guys. I put my suitcase down in the luggage compartment. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Hold on.” He held up a meaty hand. “We’re scheduled to pull out in twenty minutes, so let’s get the rules of the bus down now. Rule one—nobody poops on the bus. Got it?”

Nicky blinked at him. Mal laughed.

“I’m not kidding,” Ken said, a faint Brooklyn accent slurring the words. “You need to poop, you tell me. I’ll find a rest stop. Anything else, you got the crapper back there. But no crap. Got it?”

“Um, I think I need to go to bus two now.” Nicky looked uneasy; she’d clearly associated “bus two” with childhood’s “number two.” Daddy’s little darling didn’t like any discussion of unpleasant subjects.

“Next rule. If you’re sleeping in those stacked coffins they call bunks, you sleep with your feet toward me. Something happens and the bus crashes, you get your feet banged up, not your skull. Agreed?”

“Is something going to happen?” The more Ken spoke, the more Nicky shrank.

“I been driving twenty-three years. No big accidents. But that don’t mean it won’t happen. Now, I’m an old man, so I got my stuff in one of them middle bunks back there. You guys can fight over the other five beds, but I can’t climb up and my hip won’t let me duck down, so I’m in the middle.” Archer opened his mouth, and Ken rounded on him. “And no, you can’t put your guitars on the empty bunks. I been driving musicians for eleven years. Seven for Lyre Records. I know what you want to do. There are fasteners on the wall in the back lounge. Lock your instruments up tight when you’re not actually holding them.” He glared at me.

“Got it,” I said obediently.

“Everything else, we work out. Missy, you get Ismael to radio me if you’re taking the first leg on bus two. He’s the driver. Any questions? All right. Go on, little thing. Go see what they want on bus two.”

Nicky regarded him for a beat, darted a last look at Archer, and fled the bus.

“Good I didn’t tell her no shitting, huh?” Ken looked at me. “Son, what the hell happened to your face?”