Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
GIA
Also cliché: the band photo op in front of the Eiffel Tower.
But holy shit! The Eiffel Tower.
You only see it for the first time once, and it makes you appreciate what architecture can do. And thank you to whoever controls the weather in France, because the clouds finally broke just as all four of us hit center frame on the grass for our first official European photo shoot.
I’m working the stylish Parisian angle in cherry-red capris and black flats. The humidity wrecked my Amy Winehouse updo into a full-blown 80s hair band casualty, but you can’t wipe the smile off my face if you tried.
Because JC is like Paris in man form.
Sexy and romantic and lit up with a certain glow.
And he’s radiating dream-man vibes, one arm slung across my shoulder. Magic-hour glow kisses his stubbled jaw, those mercurial eyes somehow the same slate-gray as the iconic landmark we’re standing in front of. I’m physically incapable of not looking at him when he’s close.
And I’m not the only one.
A swell of tourists surrounds us, phones raised, everyone trying to capture the circus that is my band lighting up the Paris afternoon.
Pick your crazy. We just doubled it.
“Space, people. Merci.” Shae shoulders through the semi-circle of fans, her cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat commanding instant respect. That look takes guts in Paris.
Click. Click. Click.
JC leans close, murmuring, “You look amazing. Cover of The Rolling Stone.”
Wow. This feels like a living dream. It’s like I’m walking in on a scene from my own life and realizing the details aren’t anything like what I remember—JC, not Audrie, beside me, posing for photos in Paris and not some hick Manitoba town. My favorite guitarist ever in my band.
“Oh my god!” a twenty-something woman in a poncho gasps, her attention bouncing between JC and me. “Wait—are you two, like, together-together?”
The breath in my lungs stills. This is one of those moments you can’t prepare for. Some fast talking is required, and cue Brady, half-drunk and draped in a ridiculous pink feather boa.
“We have money riding on that answer,” he hollers back.
JC laughs, his eyes bright, hair loose and flowing. “Strictly musical, I promise.”
The woman and her curly-haired friend giggle, asking JC to pose in their selfie, which he too happily obliges. A stab of jealousy pierces my heart. He knows what he does to the opposite sex. Didn’t our conversation this morning set the record straight?
What is this?
I’m drowning in feelings, like, right over here.
Click. Click. Click.
“And I’ve got better taste than that,” I blurt out, sharper than intended.
JC throws me a surprised look. Curly Hair scoffs, her brown eyes mean slits. “Right,” she says, voice dripping with condescension. “Where have you been eating?”
There are several good reasons to shut up and not ramble the combative response that comes as naturally to me as breathing. But if I can be counted on for anything, it's disruption.
“If you—”
Tai’s fingers slip through mine, stopping the words cold. His grip on my hand means business, although his voice is soft when he whispers, “Down girl.”
With heroic determination, I swallow my pride. He’s right, as usual. Tai’s got a sixth sense for when to defuse a situation—my savior, dressed in camo pants, wife-beater, and black puffa.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Over here!” the photographer calls, snapping our focus back to her lens.
I slide to Tai’s left so he can deal with JC’s perfect cocktail of pheromones.
Smile for the camera.
Click, click, click.
Ignore the distractions, Gia.
But JC has awakened something wild and dangerous in me. When I pinned myself against his erection on the bus, every part of me came alive. The heat curling up my spine, the blood rushing to my head.
But will I regret giving myself to a guy programmed to melt every female heart?
Click, click, click.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on the small of my back. Tight, warm circles drawn repeatedly with JC’s palm.
Jesus. Really?
Paris, you’re killing me.
After the shoot, we ride to the top of the tower. JC wants to treat us all to a glass of champagne at the bar. But first, we scatter like dice to admire the 360-degree view. The whole city glows pink and gold, light spilling over rooftops like honey.
I wander to the handrail to take it in. That’s where Tai finds me. He parks himself beside me, blocking out a couple talking loudly in German.
“This is unreal,” he says. “Beats Burnaby by a long shot, huh?”
I nod toward the crowds below. “I overheard some loser down there say Paris is old, shitty, and overpriced.”
“Philistines!” he declares in a fake French accent. “History screams at you from every corner. Makes me feel sad for the Main Street hipsters who think vintage means buying jeans from the eighties.”
“Do they even sell jeans here? The Parisians are so put together.”
He eyes my capris. “You look super cute in those.”
I bump his hip. “Thanks. You’re looking mighty fine too. If those hoes weren’t slobbering all over JC, you might’ve had a chance.”
Tai leans against the railing, hands clasping together. He’s quiet for a beat, jaw grinding in that thinking way. Then: “Remember how I stepped into your girl fight in ninth grade? Saved you from suspension?”
I shoot him a look. “Is this your way of saying I haven’t changed?”
“Au contraire, mademoiselle. I knew then you were a force. Had no clue you’d end up crashing through everything in your path.”
Something tics in my jaw. “That makes me sound destructive.”
“Damage can be of the nonphysical variety.” His tone leaves that open to interpretation.
“So you’re saying…”
“I’m asking if this JC thing is a crush, the real deal, or a power play?”
“You really think I can make JC Trenton do anything?” I conveniently skirt a real answer. “C’mon. Huge bands have begged him to join. He turned them all down.”
“But not us.”
“I told you; he came to The Troubadour gig. Liked what he heard. Our band is on the verge. He gets to claim he was part of it.”
“That’s my other point,” he says. “If I wanted a comeback, I’d do the same. Ride the wave of the next big thing. You see what I’m saying?” Tai studies me. Even in the bleak Vancouver winters, he looks tanned and healthy with his bronzed Brazilian skin.
“I’m not going to let him ruin what we have.”
His eyebrows knit together. “You sure about that? ‘Cause, right now, it feels like our tour is happening in a fucked-up season of The Bachelor. You two are bringing the drama, and we’re stuck in the middle.”
“I highly doubt—”
“Gia,” he interrupts. “You just dissed him during the photoshoot, in public. Hate to say it, but you sounded like a jealous bitch. That kind of shit gets captured on camera, and we go viral for all the wrong reasons.” He pauses.
Sighs. Looks off into the distance. “I’m here to play music.
Not to be a bit player in a soap opera.”
A Japanese man wedges closer to us, angling for a selfie.
We shuffle down to give him space, giving me precious seconds to cool my head.
Brady and Tai have come to rely on me and have slacked off because I do it all.
They show up when they need to, and so far, that’s been enough.
But with JC in the mix, I sense a strange rift.
The smallest thread is beginning to unravel.
My next words come out tight. “I take it you’re speaking on behalf of you and Brady.”
Cue Brady’s loud cackle echoing across the observation deck. Tai and I glance over at Brady and JC. Side by side and laughing. Shoulders touching.
After a beat, Tai says dryly, “I think he wants to sleep with JC as bad as you do.”
Something like a frown tugs the corner of my mouth. “I do not come across that desperate.”
He shrugs, and I groan inwardly. I haven’t said a thing to either of my bandmates about my feelings for JC, but I fritz out like bad electronics whenever JC even talks to another woman. It’s like he knows how badly I want him and finds joy in torturing me.
Touché, Barlow. I see your move from miles away and will drive you crazy with temptation because I’m JC Trenton, and every woman wants me.
I look at the ground, hair tumbling forward so Tai can’t see the expression on my face. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”
There is a long beat of silence before he replies. “This is the beginning. A million lifetimes ahead. Places to go. People to meet. Guys to shag.”
My throat tightens. “But I like him. A lot.”
Tai reaches over to tuck my hair behind my ear. His eyes are kind. “I’m glad it’s him and not me. When you focus on something, no pitbull alive can stop you. But you can’t look at a guy as a goal. He’s not a conquest. If you treat him like one, how do you think he deals with that?”
I feel strange sparks shoot up my spine.
I’d like to pretend I thought about that.
Because, yeah, I chase what I want. Always have.
Winning is the way I keep score. And no man before JC made my insides clench when they walked into a room, or made my heart explode, serenading me with a song.
He’s never played fair from the start, the second he looked at me like I mattered. Like we were equals.
Like we were inevitable.
“Bubble time!” Brady yells. “The Magician’s paying. Let’s toast the sunset with the good shit. Très magnifique, oui?”
Tai and I exchange eye rolls. Classic Brady—loudest man in Europe—no care in the world with a hundred glances from offended tourists.
Seconds before we rejoin them, I squeeze Tai’s hand. He’s right. I need to dial back my emotions. Forget trying to orchestrate and let things between me and JC unfold in real time. If I walk outta this with a mangled heart, fine. Let me weep in a corner until all my tears dry up.
But no universe exists where I can douse what JC’s ignited in me.
Quietly, with all the belief I have left, I tell Tai, “I will not fuck this up. I promise.”