Chapter 7
seven
Kate
Josh and I are in the greenroom in Atlanta applying his body paint while we wait for everyone else to get back from playing with the rescue puppies they brought in. He’s still sulking because he had to leave and everyone else got to stay, and it’s kind of adorable.
“I miss the puppies,” he pouts, shoulders slumping as he tosses the tube of silver paint back into his case. “Why can’t I just wear a shirt like a normal person?”
“I think you’re about ten years too late for that revelation,” I say, finishing up the last of the black paint on his right arm.
Tonight, I painted his entire back, neck, right arm, and shoulder with matte black, which extends diagonally across his chest and stomach.
On the left side, he added a metallic silver base that covers the other half of his chest and left arm, with darker, angular lines etched around his abs, pectoral muscle, shoulder, elbow, wrist, and knuckles, giving him the illusion of some kind of futuristic robot.
It’s his most detailed look yet, and it paid off. He looks like an absolute badass.
“Alright,” I say, taking a step back to admire him. “This is my favorite.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his lips tilting up into a smirk.
“You look fucking incredible.”
“Language!” he teases, and I roll my eyes as he rotates his upper body a few times, studying himself in the mirror.
“So why do you do it?” I ask, watching him closely, hoping to keep him talking just a little longer.
“The paint?” he asks, catching my eyes in the mirror. I nod.
He shrugs casually, but there’s weight behind it as he starts capping the rest of the paints and dropping them back into the case.
“Tons of rock guys go shirtless on stage. When we were starting out, I wanted to look like that too—confident and untouchable. But I was scrawny back then, and if I’m being honest, pretty insecure about it.
So, I started painting myself. Made me feel less exposed.
Like people would see the color before they saw what I hated. ”
I blink, caught off guard. “Wait. Are you saying you were insecure?”
He glances at me with a half-smile, like it’s obvious. “Yes, Kate. I’m human. Of course I get insecure.”
“But…” I shake my head, struggling to reconcile the image of him—all swagger and sex appeal—with the idea of self-doubt. “You’re Josh Calloway. ‘Sexiest Man Alive.’ A literal rock god. Women lose their minds over you. What on earth could you possibly feel insecure about?”
I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but the disbelief slips out anyway.
I think of my own doubts—the way I pick apart my body in front of the mirror, the nights I lie awake replaying everything I said, everything I didn’t say.
I’d always assumed that kind of self-doubt was reserved for people like me—normal people.
Invisible people. Not someone like him. And somehow, knowing that Josh Calloway once felt like he needed to hide too makes me feel a little less alone.
His response is interrupted as everyone else files into the greenroom.
“Holy shit!” Tyler says, her jaw dropping as she stares at Josh. “You look incredible! This is the best one yet.”
“Yeah, damn man,” Eric says, moving closer to inspect the detail. “This is fucking sick.”
With everyone’s eyes on him, Josh is back to his usual, energetic self. Completely over missing the adorable puppies as he twists and turns and everyone inspects his work.
Once we get the call from the stage manager, we file out of the greenroom and head through the halls and to the stage, lining up for our silly little ritual of secret handshakes.
To be honest, this is my favorite part of the pre-show backstage stuff.
One last moment to lighten the mood and laugh together before the guys zone in and take on their on-stage personas.
Since Josh has to navigate through the pitch-black underbelly of the stage to reach his platform, he’s always first down the line.
When he makes it to me, he grins, and we dive straight into the most iconic handshake of our generation—the one from The Parent Trap reboot with Lindsay Lohan—before he’s ushered beneath the stage to crouch on the platform that will launch him into the air as the first song starts and the crowd inevitably goes bananas.
Max, Kevin, and Eric go down the line and rush onto the stage, and Tyler, Dani, and I weave our way through the crowd and to the back of the floor to stand in front of the sound booth.
Being at the front of the stage against the rail has its own thrill—the energy, the crowd, the close proximity to the band—but if you want the best sound, this is the sweet spot.
Where the mix is perfectly balanced and there’s no distortion from the speakers or weird echo bouncing off the walls of the arena.
The crowd tonight is high energy, but not as much as the last two nights in Nashville. Those two nights set the bar high for the remainder of the tour.
Much too soon, the show is over, the post-show greenroom shenanigans have wound down, and we’re dragging ourselves back to the RVs to head to Charlotte.
“So,” Dani says as she braids her long, blonde hair and I brush my teeth in the bathroom at the back of our RV. “What do you think of all of this? Are you having a good time?”
I spit my mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and rinse out my mouth.
“It’s been a lot more fun than I thought it would be,” I admit. “I did almost stay behind in Nashville, though.”
Her fingers still in her hair and she looks at me.
“Because we left you at the arena?” I nod.
“I am so sorry about that. I’m not used to you being here.
I think since we hung out before the show my brain was like ‘Yeah, it makes sense you saw her, this is where she lives’ and didn’t make the connection that you’re here because you’re here. On this tour.”
“It’s fine,” I say, chuckling.
“Why did you stay?”
I shrug.
“Josh groveled his ass off?” she guesses.
“Kind of.”
“You’re getting along with him alright? Other than the name thing that you refuse to bring up.”
“Yeah, he’s great,” I say, removing my contacts and placing them in the containers of solution on the counter.
“At first, I thought he was an asshole, but the more I’m around him the more I realize that he’s just…
inadvertently oblivious. You can tell he’s a good guy; he’s just spaced out most of the time.
He reminds me of that golden retriever from Up. ”
“Dug?”
“Yes! Dug. He’s there, but his brain is constantly shouting ‘squirrel’!”
“That’s probably the most accurate assessment I’ve ever heard,” she agrees, tying off the end of her braid with a black silk scrunchie.
We exit the bathroom, and I turn off the light as we head to bed.
Since the RV only has one bedroom, we switch out every other night, and tonight is Dani’s night in the bedroom, my night in one of the bunks in the hallway.
I had assumed that spending six months living in an RV would be a total nightmare, but it’s not as bad as I expected. There’s more space than I thought, and—aside from this two-week stretch—we get plenty of breaks with hotel stays to keep us from completely losing our minds.
I climb into one of the bottom bunks and plug my phone in to charge. When the screen lights up, I see that I missed a text from Josh.
Josh: Please explain why my post-show wind-down routine now requires a romantic comedy.
I bite at my bottom lip to stifle a laugh.
Kate: Because your brain is finally learning that emotional vulnerability is soothing?
Kate: Also, rom-coms slap. Don’t fight it.
Josh: How about I fight you for doing this to me?
I’m unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up this time.
Josh: Can I talk you into watching Ten Things I Hate About You with me?
Kate: Damn it, that’s one of my favorites. But I am barely hanging on to consciousness. I wouldn’t last five minutes.
Kate: I expect a full report tomorrow, though.
Josh: If it’s one of your favorites I’ll wait and watch it with you.
I don’t know why, but reading those words stirs something in my chest. I spent four years in a relationship with someone who never even pretended to care about the things I loved, and now my boss—someone who doesn’t have to give a shit about me at all—is telling me he won’t watch one of my favorite movies without me.
It’s such a small thing.
But small things feel big when you’re not used to being considered.
“I’m sure this is a stupid question,” I say, looking up from my phone to watch Josh put the finishing touches on his body paint.
Tonight, he decided to mix up a dark red, dilute it with a little water, and pour it over his shoulders.
I watch through the mirror as the thick, blood-red paint slowly runs down over his pecs and into the grooves of his chiseled abs.
He looks like he just stepped out of a slasher film. Ruthless. Savage. Dangerous.
I shift my attention back to the email currently open on my phone before I can focus too much on why my brain chose this moment—where he looks like a crazed serial killer—to find him so…attractive.
Jesus Kate, he’s your boss. You do not find him attractive.
“You were invited to the Rock Solid gala at the Hall of Fame in Cleveland in two weeks when we’re there. You interested?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely!” He crosses the room to stand behind me and look at the email invitation over my shoulder. “Ugh, black tie?” he says, groaning and making a face.
“What?” I ask, turning to face him fully. I make a point to look him up and down before I say, “Minus the paint, I’m sure you look good in a tux.”
“I do,” he says, flashing his signature cocky grin. “Doesn’t mean I like wearing one though.”
“Alright, I’ll send your RSVP.”
“Make it for two,” he says.
“Oh, does Mr. I Don’t Do Relationships have a date?” I tease.
“Hopefully.”
“Alright, what’s the poor girl’s name?”
“Katie Martin.”
My fingers freeze on my screen and my eyes snap to his.