Chapter 16
Rhett
Tonight was another knock-out success, another sold-out show, and we’re in the fucking music capital of the world. Some days I still can’t believe I made it this far.
I jog down the steps to the backstage area, where our routine has been smoothed to a high shine. Noah tosses me a towel to wipe the sweat from my face and neck, a protein bar, and a peppermint toothpick, then my PPO, Bear, walks me to the meet and greet room.
The Lunar Echo execs are very happy right now, as they should be. “Electric Heartbeat” is number one on the charts in the United States, which is huge in and of itself, but “Chasing Shadows” and “One More Night” are also in the top ten.
My dad had four hits on the charts at once, so I’ve still got some work to do, but this is my first year as a signed artist. Pretty sure I’m not only going to match his record—I’m going to annihilate it.
Saylor thinks my success is because the songs I wrote in rehab are authentic and shit, talking about my addiction, but I don’t know if I believe it. Several of my top hits weren’t even written by me. The execs thought I needed some “different vibes” on the album, too. Whatever.
Sometimes you just need a stroke of luck to get your break.
After the meet and greet, Bear escorts me toward the greenroom, where a huge buffet of food better be waiting for me, because I am starving. That protein bar earlier did little to fill the gaping hole that is my stomach.
When we enter, there are more people than usual in the room, but the snack bar still looks pretty stocked, thank god.
I’m heading that way when Saylor comes up to me.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. She looks fucking hot as always in that tight black dress Leo picked up in New York.
Over it, she’s wearing a red-and-white Bruno Mars T-shirt I’m pretty sure she stole from my closet.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?” Then, because we’re in a group of people, I pull her in for a kiss. Ever since we almost did something more in the bathroom, she’s been skittish. I haven’t dared kiss her when we’ve been alone, even if it’s practically all I think about.
“Waiting for you.”
Fuck. Blood surges to my cock. I would love nothing more than to properly thank her for waiting, maybe on the sofa in the corner or against the wall, but I highly doubt she’d be down for any of it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, and reach for a bag of crisps on the table.
Normally, she heads back to the hotel or the bus as soon as the concert is over, and I don’t blame her.
Touring life takes its toll on everyone.
“I know,” she says, and tucks some hair behind her ear, something she does when she’s nervous. “But I have a surprise for you.”
My lips curve into a half smile as I open the bag. “A surprise. Please tell me it’s new lingerie under that shirt you stole from me.” I can say these things in public without her freaking out, and the blush that stains her cheeks only makes her that much more gorgeous.
“Stop it,” she hisses, but there’s a flash of pleasure in her eyes; I’m sure of it. She likes flirting with me, even if she pretends otherwise.
“Then what is it?” I pop a crisp into my mouth, then slip my hand around her waist and pull her close, desperate for another whiff of her smoky scent.
It’s mingled with a hint of my cologne, and fuck me seven ways to Sunday if that isn’t the hottest thing ever.
Her wearing my clothes, my scent imprinted on her? Is she trying to kill me?
She comes to me willingly, which gives me hope that this will turn into something more than a show for an audience before the tour’s over. This whole thing would be much more fun if we were having sex.
My nose is still buried in her hair, so I notice the cowboy boots first. I release Saylor so I can greet the person approaching us. But when I look up, I realize it’s not a person. Well, it is, but it’s also . . . my dad.
“Surprise,” Saylor says softly beside me.
Randy Cole—legendary musician and leader of the rock band Cole Brothers—is standing in front of me.
He’s at least six three, topping me by two whole inches, something that aggravates me more than it should.
He also looks ten years younger than he is, thanks to the tight black T-shirt and white jeans he’s wearing.
Even though it’s streaked with gray, his hair is still thick, and he has it styled in a trendy fade.
A blindingly white smile splits across his face as he looks at me. Then he throws one beefy arm around my shoulders and slaps me on the back. “Congratulations, son.”
My throat is too tight for me to say more than a mumbled “thanks.” All of the people stuffed into this room suddenly make sense.
I haven’t seen my dad in five years, not since my twenty-first birthday party, when he popped in for a few minutes to give me a new guitar, then disappeared to god only knows where.
We’ve talked on the phone several times since then, but he’s always been too busy for a conversation lasting more than a couple of minutes.
Saylor says something beside me, but I don’t even hear what it is. I’m too stunned. My dad is here. He knows about my success. I have dreamed of this moment more than all of the tour stuff combined.
“You were at the show?” I finally manage to ask.
He nods and takes another bite out of the apple he’s holding, the crunch loud in spite of the noise level in the room. “I was. It was pretty good.” He turns his grin on Saylor. “Your pretty girlfriend here invited me.”
I don’t miss the patronizing way he talks to Saylor, but I’m still reeling at the revelation that Randy Cole was in the audience tonight and I didn’t even know it. “I played the Martin,” I say, realizing as soon as the words are out of my mouth how ridiculous they sound.
“I know. I saw it.” Randy tosses the apple core into the rubbish bin. “The old girl sounds good.”
He gave me the Martin D-45 when I turned eight. Birthday guitars became a tradition after that, at least on the ones he showed up for.
“So, what’d you think?” I sound like a little kid who needs his parent’s approval. I don’t; I’m strictly interested in his opinion as a professional.
Randy shrugs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “There were spots that could use a little help, but you sounded pretty good for a first-timer.”
A first-timer. Leave it to Dad to bring even crazy success down a peg or two.
“Do you want to come to the after-party?” I ask.
I already know he’ll say no, that he has somewhere he needs to be—it’s his favorite excuse—so when he says, “Attend my son’s after-party? Of course I do,” I couldn’t be more surprised.
Fortunately, Saylor doesn’t seem to be struggling to maintain her composure, even in the presence of one of the most famous rock stars of all time.
She lets the security team know we’re ready to leave, and as we head out the door, I’m still holding the bag of crisps, my raging appetite vanished in the wake of my dad’s appearance.
The party is a blur of bodies and drinks and music. Not my songs this time, but original Cole Brothers hits that are at least fifteen years old. Who the fuck picked the playlist?
I pictured sitting on a sofa with my dad, discussing different chord progressions or the latest guitars he’s added to his collection, or even just life.
I have no idea what he’s been up to recently.
His Instagram page isn’t any help. It’s just a bunch of staged photos that make it look like he’s having the time of his life. Maybe he is.
I’m certainly not. I’ve barely said ten words to the guy since we got here. He’s more interested in talking to people he’s never met before than his own son.
“I’m going to get a drink,” Saylor says beside me. We’re standing at one of the bar-top tables scattered around the room. “Do you want one?”
“Whatever,” I say, eyes still on my dad, who’s chatting up Diego. Watch him try to steal my own band out from under my nose.
Saylor returns several minutes later and hands me a cup. I don’t even stop to see what it is before chugging it.
“Steady on,” she murmurs.
I ignore her. A stunning redhead walks past us, and I reach out a hand before she can join the cluster of people around my dad. “Hey,” I say as she turns. “Didn’t I see you at the show tonight?”
It has the intended effect. Her face brightens like a light bulb, and she begins fawning over me and the show and my skills with a guitar. For a few minutes, I’m able to forget what a jackass my dad is.
When the girl wanders off, I realize I’m alone. Saylor must have disappeared during our conversation, and now I don’t see her anywhere. Go figure. I walk over to one of the empty sofas and sink into it, nursing a second drink that I don’t even remember getting.
My dad has a group around him, all laughing uproariously at whatever he’s saying. The guy’s not even that funny. I’m about to get the piss out of here when I spot Saylor in his clusterfuck of admirers. Apparently, even my own girlfriend thinks he hung the moon and stars. What a load of shit.
“Why do you keep wandering off?” I ask her when she takes the seat beside me several minutes later.
“Because you’re sulking, and it’s boring.”
“I’m not sulking.” I take another swig from my drink.
“This”—she wags her finger in the air around where I’m slumped on the sofa—“is sulking.”
I roll my eyes, then immediately scan the crowd for Randy. He’s surrounded by groupies—my groupies—who are younger than I am. There should be a law against that.
“I think you’re with the wrong Cole,” I mutter.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. You invited him here.”
She jerks her head around to look at me. “Yeah, for you.”
“You expect me to believe not even a little bit of it was for you?”
“Honestly? I think the guy’s a jerk.”
Furrows form between my brows. “That’s my dad you’re talking about.”
She levels me with a hard stare. “Maybe that’s where you get it from.” Then she turns and walks out of the room.