CHAPTER 8
CARY
“Say hi to Rory for me?” Cary repeated as he climbed into the car and slammed the door shut. He had to go and ruin a perfectly good kiss with that stupid comment.
Vegas tapped on the back of the driver’s seat. “Let’s go.”
“That’s what I told her.” He buckled his seat belt, shaking his head. “To say hi to her dog.”
“Real smooth, Ex-Lax.” Vegas pulled his hair back and laughed.
Cary shoved his tour manager’s shoulder, but he barely flinched. “How come you didn’t know it was her birthday?” He didn’t mean to sound like a spoiled child and corrected his tone. “I mean, you two are friends, aren’t you?”
“We’re not Facebook friends, man.” Vegas scrolled through his phone. “It’s not in my calendar either. I’ll fix that.”
“Did you know Bert was her dad?” Cary raised an eyebrow of suspicion. Why hadn’t this come up before? He’d practically spent every waking moment with Vegas. Hell, they’d even listened to some of Bert’s old records together. Not a peep out of Sebastien, either.
“Of course,” Vegas said. “Everyone from Winnipeg knows Bert Robertson.”
“The Robertsons are like a real-life musical family.” That summed them up perfectly. “I wish I were closer to my folks, but with all the touring . . . well, you know how it is.”
Over the years, he’d grown apart from his family.
Life on the road was grueling, and he’d built walls to protect himself.
Fame was strange, isolating, and he doubted they’d understand.
But seeing his mom’s happiness tonight hit him hard.
His parents had always supported his dreams, and all he’d given them was a Tudor-style house—some called it a mansion.
In Brandon, real estate was easy to come by, so even that hadn’t felt like a big deal.
“Yeah, I know,” Vegas said. “I make an effort, though. I call my mom every Sunday.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“They don’t care, man. Moms are good that way. So, when are you seeing Tyler again?”
He closed his eyes. That kiss . . . her lips . . . say hi to Rory for me. What a chump.
“I guess I’ll see her next month at my show. Or now.” Cary pulled out his phone and frowned at the screen. “Her Instagram’s locked.”
“Stalker,” Vegas joked.
“Trust me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel like one.”
“Just send her a follow request.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
What if she didn’t accept? He’d be left hanging without a net. But he wanted to see her, needed to see her, if only in two dimensions. He took a deep breath and clicked on the screen.
His request was now pending.