Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
GIA
“Gigi!” Audrie shrieks. “We made it!”
My bestie barrels into me, rocking us back and forth in a fierce hug. I’m still flying high from the rush of the show, and her girl-love brings me back to earth.
“You looked so hot tonight,” she rambles drunkenly in my ear. “Best show ever!”
Wrapped in her arms, my throat thickens, both eyes starting to water.
Shit. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. In the tiny, sensible, and mostly ignored corner of my mind, our final show was a lay-up.
Me, the picture of poise. Not a vibrating hot mess crashing like waves against JC, my rock.
Nothing can match the insanity from our first electric gig, but we tried.
We all bled for this.
I pull back, wiping mascara-streaked tears off my cheeks.
“Thanks for coming. You two must be beat.” And then I remember: duh, private jet.
Paul Schlitzmann whisked his bride-to-be to Spain before they take off for Italy tomorrow.
He’s behind us, shaking JC’s hand, acting like the CEO of our backstage.
Audrie giggles, “No, but yes,” leaning in to whisper scandalously, “You’re looking at the newest member of the Mile-High Club.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “No!”
I drag her into a corner, craving every morsel of gossip she’ll let me share. Am I thrilled they crammed our show in as a stopover? Not really. But this is her new life—pearl earrings, not fake Zara, designer heels where sneakers used to be—and I need to represent.
“So.” I grin. “How was it?”
“Killer!” she gushes. “I mean, I was kind of worried the flight crew could hear us.” She side-eyes Paul, who’s bringing Wolf of Wall Street vibes in pleated slacks, beige cable-knit cardigan, and penny loafers.
Amusing JC with their tour-Tuscany-for-a-wedding-venue mission. “He likes to talk dirty,” she adds.
I stifle a laugh. That does not track. “Did you pick a date?”
“Paul likes Villa Cora in Florence,” she says like this actually means something to me. “But they might not be able to accommodate August. You’ll love it. It’s so pretty and private.”
And expensive is what she doesn’t say. Gia from a month ago might’ve felt a pinch of envy. But my man spoils me with the riches of the erotic variety and keeps his trash talk to a minimum.
“Yo! Time to cel-e-brate!” Brady and Tai swoop in with fistfuls of plastic glasses overflowing with champagne. Brady shoves one into Audrie’s hand and plants a sloppy kiss on her cheek. “You look like an executive assistant. Where’s the briefcase?”
“I’d kiss you, but I'm not sure where that mouth has been,” she fires back.
“All over Europe,” Tai assures her. “And back.” He shoots me a smile. He knows Brady will get over his crush on me and is helping him along, one man and woman at a time. And good for him. Guys need their buddies.
I wave JC and Paul over. JC loops his arm around the curve of my waist, tosses his impossibly shiny hair and smooches me on the lips. “I’m in love with tonight,” he says, beaming a smile. “So in love with you.”
My heart flip-flops. It smells like old shoes and good times in this bare concrete room, Eau de Backstage, but it feels like I’ve sprung up overnight, fully grown into a goddess. JC has opened up the unthinkable possibility: that I can fit against his smooth edges and still be me.
And did he ever pull out all the stops tonight! Full meltdown from the crowd with his choice of tunes.
“Guys!” Brady interrupts our second torrid kiss. “Can you keep your hands off each other for one second and help me out here?”
JC gladly relieves him of two glasses fizzing with champagne and hands one to me. I wink at Brady, who gives a little shake of his head. But his smile lights me up inside, just like the day he caught me staring at him across the high school cafeteria.
We’ve come so far since then.
And tonight lives inside me forever: standing shoulder to shoulder on stage, bound with sweat and adrenaline, the house lights hitting us like a sunrise. Pure, deafening love washing over us.
There are no words to describe musical ecstasy, but I have things to say to the wonderful souls who have created that magic with me.
I raise my glass, first to Audrie and Paul. “It means the world to have you here. You know how much I love you, A.”
Then to Tai and Brady: “And you two. My dearest friends. My freakshows. My—”
“Jesus, girl,” Brady cuts in. “Why are you going all end-of-the-world on us? I’ll be the same asshole next week.”
“Yes,” I say. “But you’re my asshole.”
JC spits up the sip of champagne he sneaked, choking on laughter, as Tai grimaces. “You might want to rephrase that before the Grammy speech.”
Paul soaks it all in with an amused smile. He might look like a Harvard Dad, but at least he rolls with the punches.
“Seriously,” I say, voice catching, “you’re all idiots, but I love you. Thanks for putting up with me.”
Brady tries to gulp down his drink, but JC blocks the glass with his hand. Startled, Brady looks up at him fondly and kisses his knuckles. “Finally! You’ve come to your senses. I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Dude!” Audrie roars. “Inside voice!”
“It’s okay.” JC grins and slowly reclaims his hand, taking it all in stride. “All I wanted to say is props to the one and only Miss Gia Barlow.” He lifts his glass. God, he’s gorgeous when he smiles. “Thank you for the wild ride.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Brady mutters. He tosses back his drink, eyes ballooning with a drank-that-too-fast expression. Then he lets out a belting burp that echoes off the walls.
Tai can only groan. The father to his eternal trainwreck son. “Forever classy, Mr. Bowen.”
Audrie smirks, steps forward, and promptly dumps her champagne over Brady’s head.
The sentiment catches fire. One by one, the rest of us join—Tai, Paul, me.
JC brings it home with a flourish, grabbing the bottle of C?roc and spraying it like a victory lap.
The cold stickiness coats my skin while our shrieks and collective laughter fill the room.
Our loveable showboat pretends to be offended, but we all know Brady loves the attention. When he shakes his dripping locks and asks, “Which one of you lucky souls wants to lick this off me?” I shake my head, pulling a slow grin.
Here we are.
Is there a better way to end our last show?
As Tai chucks a towel at Brady, JC slides beside me. His warm palm circles the small of my back, the steadiness I didn’t know I craved.
“Nice speech, Miss Barlow,” he murmurs. “Almost made me emotional.”
“Almost?”
“You’ll have to try harder next time.” He leans in, brushing his lips against my temple, barely there, but enough to make me feel it in places only he knows.
“And what about you?” I ask, throwing it back at him, just as playful.
His smile is pure mischief. “I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot. And the night’s still young.”
An hour later, we’re on the outdoor patio of the W Hotel, a warm wind whipping around us. I’m nestled in JC’s arms, his heartbeat slow and steady against my spine. Waves crash on Barceloneta Beach, the beachfront promenade a curl in the dark, spooling along the shore toward the city.
We dropped into the party, did a lap, and JC is already champing at the bit to leave. He has plans.
“Finish your drink and then we blast?” he whispers into my hair.
I burrow into his warmth and murmur yes.
The glitzy crowd was fun for a hot minute, but the bedazzled outfits and too-cool-for-school bros wearing sunglasses at night are not my scene.
Still, I need one last inhale of Spain. The end of our long, strange trip that gave my life and my heart a different shape.
I can’t lie; it’s been amazing and brutal, learning how to be a better person.
I take a deep breath and release it slowly. “Thanks for the upgrade.”
JC nuzzles my ear; I can feel his smile. “Can’t have rock and roll’s next big thing slumming it in economy. What would the press say?”
“Guaranteed, I’m going to rock business class like a pro.”
“How will this new Gia handle bitter flight attendants?”
I laugh out loud. “The same way I handle you: with authority.”
JC turns and kisses me until I’m woozy, pressing me so close I can feel him already swollen and ready for what’s to come.
I shut my eyes and pretend, like I sometimes do, that I discovered him.
That no one else holds a single claim. That I own him in the way Boomers believe Bob Dylan is theirs alone.
Mine, all mine.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dancing. “Not tonight,” he says, his voice tender, flirty, and so very dirty.
The possibilities crash over me like a breaking wave.
I can’t wait for what he has in store for me.
And there’s so much left to learn about him.
I tip back the last of my wine, and we head inside, assaulted by a wall of thundering house music.
JC holds my hand tight, shouldering a path past the chocolate fountains and rosé towers.
The party is this weird mash up—half nightclub, half industry conference.
Booths line the far wall, staffed by film and TV studio executives with teeth white as piano keys, smiling and hyping their shows.
Actors work the crush of obsessed fans oohing and aahing and angling for autographs.
Trying to get out of here is like Grand Central Station at rush hour.
JC bumps up against a wall of Asian muscle, does the Canadian thing and apologizes, then stops moving altogether.
He’s still as a statue, his gaze locked on the woman in front of us. She’s one of the most beautiful Asian women I’ve ever seen, but my brain tries to make sense of the cropped ash-blonde wig and what must be blue-colored contacts.
For a second, my heart disintegrates. I see the old JC—the player. Is she another girlfriend from his past, another Amber with an axe to grind? Because the way his body goes tight, the way he looks at her, this isn’t just shared history.
It’s unfinished business.