Chapter 9
“Hello Brooklyn” - All Time Low
Rhett
I cannot believe this day has actually arrived. I’ve been dreaming of going on tour my whole life, but now that I’m standing here in the airport with my band—waiting to board a plane to the United States, of all fucking places—it’s impossible to make it feel real.
The guys are sprawled out across the seats in the VIP lounge, messing around on their phones or napping. I don’t know how any of them can be relaxed enough to sleep, but maybe they haven’t been fantasizing about this ever since discovering their dad is a famous rock star.
A tinny voice announces flights on the intercom, but it’s become background noise by now. Noah, our tour manager, is in charge of travel. He’s currently flirting with the stewardess at the desk, so as long as they don’t sneak off to the restroom for a quickie, he won’t let us miss the flight.
I head to the bar. The three martinis I threw back earlier haven’t done shit for my nerves.
I order another, then glance behind me as the bartender mixes it.
Saylor’s still not here. I’ve been telling myself not to worry, that she said she’d come, but it hasn’t kept me from pacing the lounge and glancing at the clock every five minutes.
The bartender slides my drink across the smooth countertop, and I down it in three gulps.
I toss him a large bill as a tip, and he nods his thanks.
The alcohol hits my empty stomach, but it’s not enough to shake my anxiety.
I know it’s ten in the morning, and my therapist would have my head if he knew how much I was drinking, but at least I’m not taking anything harder.
Instead, I pull a peppermint-flavored toothpick from my wallet and unwrap it.
I scoffed at the idea initially, but they’re actually pretty dang effective when the cravings come.
I make my way back to the band. Jentry, our bass guitarist, glances up from his phone with a smirk. “Mate, you need to chill. There’s still forty minutes until our flight.”
I want to tell him to fuck off, but he’s right. I’m stewing for no reason. Saylor has plenty of time to get here. If she wasn’t coming, she would have called me.
When I announced that I’d be bringing my girlfriend on tour, my manager, Marcus, nearly shit his pants. Noah also thought it was a terrible idea, until I assured both of them that Saylor was my muse, and that my music would only improve if she came along.
They’re both lies, of course. But since having Saylor there will prevent the label’s investment—me—from making stupid decisions, which is their only concern, I’d say it’s more of a fib than an outright lie.
“Can’t wait to meet this girl,” Diego says without opening his eyes. He’s slumped in his chair, arms crossed, ball cap pulled low over his face. “She must be fine if she has you this bothered.”
My jaw clenches. “I’m not bothered, you asshole. I’m just afraid she’s going to make us late.”
“Even Rhett Cole doesn’t have the power to delay the plane,” Jentry says. “Don’t worry, mate. If she’s late, she’ll catch the next flight.”
If she’s late, I’m afraid she’ll never come. I won’t relax until she’s strapped into the seat next to me.
Jamal whistles from the chair to my right. “Yo, mates. This one’s mine.”
One of the personal protection officers nearest him moves, and I turn to see what they’re looking at.
And there she is, strolling across the lounge in a vintage David Bowie T-shirt and leather pants. Her tight black curls are covered by a knit beanie. She looks fucking adorable. A tiny smile brightens her eyes when they land on me.
I flick the toothpick into the nearest rubbish bin without looking. Bolting across the room, I swing Saylor around in my arms the way they do in those historical military movies Maeve is always forcing the rest of us to watch.
Surprise jolts through her. “Put me down this fucking instant,” she hisses.
I chuckle into her hair, but obey, burying my face in her neck—she smells really fucking good—and say softly, “I thought you weren’t coming.”
She has her arms wrapped around my neck, but she manages to find a piece of loose skin on my shoulder and pinch it. “I don’t break my word.”
I can feel the eyes of the band on us, so I slowly release her, less willing to do so than I’d like to admit. I should’ve gotten laid before leaving, something I’m starting to regret as I think about platonically sharing a suite with Saylor for the next six weeks.
I link our fingers and lead her back to the rest of the group, who are all awake now and staring at my girl with obvious interest. “Boys, this is Saylor,” I say, looking at her the way I imagine an adoring boyfriend would. “My girl.”
She doesn’t meet my eyes, just gives the guys a wave. “Nice to meet you all. Thanks for letting me tag along.”
There’s a muffled chorus of hellos as they shift in their seats.
Jamal sticks out his hand and introduces himself. “Rhythm guitar,” he says, throwing her a wink as she shakes his hand. I’m going to have to keep an eye on the bastard.
I introduce the rest of the guys—Jentry, bass guitar; Diego, drums; Chase, keys—and when I’ve finished, I place a hand over my chest. “Rhett, front man and love of your life.”
She rolls her eyes in that way girls do, saying “Oh my god, isn’t he adorable” without words.
“You want something to eat or drink?” I ask, pulling her away. I’m already greedy for her full attention. Her hand is still wrapped in mine, and I intend to relish every second of it.
She shakes her head. “I just had breakfast.”
“You got your luggage checked in?”
“Yep.” She shifts the tote bag on her shoulder. “Everything except this.”
I take it from her. “Let me carry that.”
I tug on her hand, leading her to an empty section of seats. We sit down, and it’s amazing how much calmer I feel now that she’s here. Maybe she’ll end up being my muse after all.
She still hasn’t untangled her fingers from mine, and I’m desperate to know if she’s just trying to keep up the ruse, or if this feels as natural for her as it does for me. I wasn’t worried about touching her—plenty of experience with that—but it’s easier with some girls than others.
With Saylor, it’s like breathing. Like being underwater for way too fucking long and suddenly breaking the surface, gulping in huge lungfuls of air.
Is it possible that our bodies remember each other? We didn’t do anything at that stupid camp besides kissing and some heavy petting, but maybe it has a bigger impact when you’re young.
I gesture toward her Bowie shirt. “Will you wear my face?”
She smirks at me, and a tiny thrill of pleasure races up my spine at the thought. “Maybe.”
“Who’s taking care of your plants?” I ask as she lets go of my hand to pull a sweater from her bag.
“Paula.” She sticks her arms into the sleeves, and I mourn the loss of the small amount of skin she was showing.
“The reborn doll lady?”
“The one and only.”
“You trust her inside your flat?” I leave my hand palm up on the armrest on the off chance she’ll take it again.
She doesn’t, just wraps her arms around herself as if she’s still cold. “She’s not that bad. If you can overlook the dolls.”
I’m already shrugging out of my navy hoodie. “Overlooking the dolls seems dangerous to anyone’s mental health.”
My T-shirt rides up as I pull the sweatshirt over my head, and I catch her eyeing my bare stomach. She looks away immediately, but her gaze lingered just long enough for my cock to wonder what else she might find attractive.
I drop the hoodie onto her lap. “Here.”
“I have a sweater,” she says.
“Yeah, but you’re still cold.”
She makes no move to pick it up, so I tug it over her head. She obediently pushes her arms through the sleeves, giving me an exasperated look as I pull her hair through the opening. “Is this what I can expect for the next six weeks?”
“What? Chivalry?”
She shakes her head, but a tiny smile lurks in the shadows of her face. “You look normal for once. How does it feel?”
I glance down at my solid gray T-shirt and jeans. “I dress like this. Sometimes.”
Her only response is a cocked brow.
“Do you always wear those boots?” I lean forward to take another look at the worn Doc Martens on her feet. They’re the same ones she had on that day outside Restore Hope.
“Do you have a problem with it if I do?” she asks.
“Not in the least,” I assure her. They fit her vibe. “I like them.”
“Your dad lives in the US, doesn’t he?”
The question takes me by surprise. I don’t know if she remembers that from camp or if she’s been visiting my Wikipedia page. The verdict is still out on which would make me happier. “Last I heard.”
“Are you planning to see him?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t talked to him in three years.”
“But he knows you’re going on tour, doesn’t he?”
“Unless he’s been living under a rock.” It’s not a subject I like to dwell on. I learned a long time ago not to expect shit from my dad, but somehow he still always manages to disappoint me.
“I bet he’ll come to a concert.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out her passport. My eyes flick downward as she opens it, taking in the name printed at the top: Saylor Seegmiller.
What the actual fuck?
I wipe my palms on my jeans and look away. My pulse is going crazy again, and I reach for another toothpick. This cannot be happening.
She was Saylor Jones at summer camp. I remember, because it’s the perfect girl-next-door name. If that’s not her name anymore, it can only mean one thing.
“You’re married?” I say.
I can’t have a married woman pretending to be my girlfriend, for obvious reasons. If the record label caught wind of it—hell, if my fans caught wind of it—my career would be over before it even began.
She glances at me, that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, but it vanishes in a millisecond. “Relax.” She snaps the passport shut. “I just haven’t changed my name back yet.”
Relief floods my veins as fast as a hit of insidion, and it feels nearly as good. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You mean about my terrible decision to get married at twenty-one to a guy I didn’t know well enough and who turned out to be an asshole? Gee, I don’t know, Rhett.”
I close my eyes for a second and sink back into my chair. I hate the thought of her having been married, but thinking about someone mistreating her is even worse. “Did he—”
“Hurt me?” she asks, eyes on her bag as she rummages through it for something else. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I grumble, and grab her wrist. Not if she thinks I only care about physical abuse.
She stops rifling through the bag and looks at me long and hard, unblinking.
I see a million things in her eyes, a million moments she’s lived, a million times she’s been hurt, a million instances no one was there for her.
Every single one of them kills me a little, until I’m nothing but a shell of a man, walking around with a million stab wounds and a million reasons to hate myself.
Her eyes flutter shut, and she tugs her hand out of my grip to pull her phone out.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“For what?” She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Whatever he did.”
She opens WhatsApp and starts typing a message. “It’s not your problem, Rhett.”
“For the next six weeks, it is.”
This gets her attention. She swings her gaze toward me, a hard edge in it. “I don’t need you to fix me. This”—she motions between us—“is fake. I don’t need you swooping in with your savior complex and upending my life, okay?”
I let out a humorless laugh and hold my hands up. “Fuck, woman. I got it.” I shift in my seat. “And for the record, I don’t have a savior complex.”
Her attention is already back on her device, thumbs furiously tapping on the screen. “No savior complex. Noted.” She finishes the message with alarming speed and tosses the phone into her bag. “What else do I need to know about you?”
* * *
We board the plane a few minutes later, leaving the sharp metallic scent of luggage and diesel fuel behind and heading for the first-class suites.
“What are we doing?” Saylor hisses, yanking on my hand.
I turn to her with a frown. “Boarding the plane?”
“Aren’t we supposed to be back there?” Her attempt at a whisper is hilarious. She motions to the coach cabin behind us.
I give it a cursory glance before looking down at her again. “You’re with me now.”
“Oh,” she says. It’s full of wonder, that “oh.”
We stop in front of our suite. It’s an unnecessary upgrade, since it’s not an overnight flight, but the look on Saylor’s face is worth every cent.
Inside are two ergonomic chairs, a flat-screen TV, and two beds that have been combined into one double bed, rose petals scattered across its stark white linens.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees it.
I glance down the corridor to make sure none of the guys are watching. The label paid for business-class tickets, but I upgraded Saylor and myself personally. “Don’t worry. It’s only a seven-hour flight,” I say, nudging her into the suite.
We may not be sharing a bed on the plane, but judging from her reaction, she isn’t expecting to share a bed with me at all. Probably a conversation we should have had before crossing the Atlantic together.
“So.” I drop her tote bag onto one of the chairs. “We should probably discuss sleeping arrangements.”
She spins around to face me. “What about them?”
I shove a hand into my hair. “You get that we’ll be sharing a hotel room, right?”
A tiny crease forms on her forehead. “Of course. I just assumed there would be two beds.”
“There will. I’ll make sure of it.”
She nods as though that solves everything and bends down to see out the plane window. We haven’t lifted off yet, and the baggage handlers are still loading the cargo hold.
“The tour bus, though—” I stop, unsure of how to phrase this in a way that won’t send her running back down the corridor and off the plane. “There’s only one bed.”
Her spine straightens as she slowly stands, but she doesn’t turn back around. “I assumed there’d be bunks.”
“They rented one with a bedroom when they found out you were coming along.”
She whirls on me. “You agreed to no shenanigans.”
“It wasn’t me, I swear.” I’m once again holding up my palms, defending myself to this girl. It’s not a lie. I didn’t request the bedroom, but I sure as hell didn’t object when they told me.