Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
GIA
How is this fair?
Only in my world do I wake up alone on a bed bigger than Noah’s Ark, my scarred heart forever tainted by last night. Staring at the ceiling, it’s like I exist in some weird fog. I feel trapped in my head, unable to think about anything but him.
I kissed JC first, but he had taken me, with insane hunger, against the wall. His mouth was a gin-soaked dreamland I kept falling and falling into, and some sober, tomorrow part of my mind screamed no, not here, while my body vibrated with the thrill of dear fucking god, yes!
How I made it through the gala without crawling over JC like an out-of-control vine is a miracle. Dani kept shooting me I know what happened looks, while every cell in me felt delicious, hot, and transformed.
I roll over to push the button above the nightstand.
Velvet purple drapes slide open to reveal a heavy gray January sky.
Rain falls in a steady drizzle, and the mist swirling along the Thames reminds me of how I floated after our kiss, my skin dusted with giddiness on the taxi ride back to the hotel.
How JC smiled at me in the back seat, his eyes lit up; the seductive curl of his lips carried what felt like a promise.
My heart felt full for the first time in weeks.
Then, poof—the dream night ended like a slap in the face.
Tai and Brady lounged like wharf rats in the hotel lobby, waiting. They’d flown over with Shae on a later flight, dumped bags in the tour bus, and beelined to the hotel. After some next-level begging, JC agreed to booze it up with them, giving me a helpless shrug of it’s the bro thing to do.
I pretended not to give a shit. Easy to yawn along with Dani and Rhys and claim to need a good night’s sleep more than Guinness-fueled fuckery orchestrated by Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.
But I gave plenty of shits.
And still do, judging from how I’m struggling to contain the flutter inside my chest.
Holy hell, he’s got a banging body. I felt him, hard and hot, pressing into me like last night’s heavy, humid air. And the sensual possession of his tongue set off tiny fireworks in my heart. He tasted so good.
I was a slave, a goner.
I let myself surrender for two minutes of incredible electric urgency.
And now, it’s back to normal.
I feel like Cinderella the morning after the ball.
My borrowed dress and shoes lie on the tufted bench at the foot of the bed, to be packed up this morning for delivery to someone who can actually afford them.
The minibar I intended to trash with JC still intact, unlike my heart.
All because my prince got sidetracked by my infernal stepbrothers.
I reach for my phone and power it on. In a moment of warmth and silence, my heart skips a beat. JC sent me a text at two a.m.
JT: Wish you were here.
I’m grinning before I realize it. He knew exactly how to kiss me, and rolled his hips to meet mine with devastating precision when my fingers tangled in his hair. Night and day from high school dances and boys with sour beer breath grinding hopeful boners in all the wrong places.
I text him back Good Morning. After a beat, I send a peace sign emoji.
I hope he’s awake. It’s ten, and we’re meeting Dani and Rhys for breakfast at eleven.
Then off to the tour bus for bag drop before sound check.
How am I supposed to get through it? Every nerve is frayed at the thought of JC and me naked and touching.
His lips were so soft.
What will they feel like down there?
I can’t help smiling at that.
But it’s time to say goodbye to silk sheets and a bedroom larger than my front yard.
I kick off the duvet and stumble into the bathroom, a glittering palace of subway tiles and too many shower nozzles to count.
I shower for twenty minutes—no one yelling at me to conserve water—then swan around in a robe, stuffing every complimentary amenity into my bag.
And I’m going to order steak at breakfast, because why not?
Well, here’s why.
The danger of tasting the high life this early in the game is like JC kissing me.
I want more. Lots more.
I want us.
Okay, now it hits me.
Gia Barlow in the Royal Albert Hall. I’m actually here, standing on the same stage musical legends have graced. This is crazy! And what will it feel like to have five thousand fans singing along to my lyrics? Next time I talk to Sawyer, maybe I won’t throw shade. He’s getting it done.
Shae clomps around in her Old Gringo boots and faded sundress, even though it’s eight degrees outside, barking orders on her walkie to the roadies loading in all our gear. Totally oblivious to the magic glow of the crimson velvet seats and gold-flocked wallpaper because she’s been here before.
JC, too.
I glance over at him, crouched down to adjust his pedal board, a sweet custom purple sunburst Les Paul slung across his shoulder. He’s been quietly drifting in his own world ever since Brady asked him on the taxi ride over how it felt to lay down such an epic show.
Almost thirteen years ago to the day, Read My Rights played a sold-out show here.
I’ve seen the grainy YouTube clip enough times to know the crowd went full bananas when they encored with “A Day in the Life.” Leave it to JC to slay an almost untouchable song, whipping the Brits into Beatlemania frenzy.
JC didn’t offer a reply to Brady, only a brief, indeterminate nod, eyes hidden behind aviators.
I’m not the hoping-wishing-praying type, but is he giving any thought to our kiss?
JC staggered in late for breakfast, bleary-eyed and apologetic.
Sat across from me, next to Rhys. Smiled and said hello.
Dani side-eyed me, questioning, like me.
Did he regret what happened? Or was he downplaying things in front of Rhys?
They went off in their own world, reminiscing and joking.
To see JC so loose fascinated me. I could totally see those two as shit disturbers.
While they gabbed, Dani excused herself to take a call, and I ate my steak and fries in silence, trying to think of something super-brilliant to say that was not Take me now, you glorious, hot manifestation of everything I desire in a man.
I wanted to have a minute of peace with JC, but then the boys showed up, we all piled into a taxi, and here we are.
So far, no alone time to talk in private.
“How’s the vocal fury holding up?” Brady calls out from somewhere behind me, snapping my attention back. He crosses the stage to join me at the front. Shirtless, as usual. “Or did you go all soft after your bougie swankfest?”
“Nice try.” I point to the rafters. “Any pigeon sitting outside will feel it.”
“Sweet.” Brady nods and keeps on nodding. “You had us worried.”
My eyes slide to his. “About what?”
He pauses, maybe thinking about what he’s going to say for a change. “The past few months. Audrie walking. The Magician joining us.” He tips his head toward JC. “All your new fucking rules. The shift is real.”
“Nothing’s changed,” I insist.
Brady laughs. “Says the chick who strutted into The Savoy dripping in bling and attitude.”
“Attitude is my trademark, in case you forgot.”
“How can we forget, when you remind us every day?”
I absorb that, and yet the words catch me by surprise.
Is he throwing down bitterness for real?
His unblinking eyes tell me nothing, other than he never met a stare-down he didn’t like.
Maybe he’s wiped from last night. JC shared at breakfast that their merry band of musketeers wobbled home at three in the morning.
“Someone has to keep this ride rolling along. It’s not easy.” A twinge of irritation leaks into my voice. “I have good days and bad. I’m human.”
“Then don’t forget we are too.” Brady’s gaze drifts off to a duo of roadies squabbling over cable and who needs more of it.
“And last I heard, humans make mistakes. Sorry we missed the flight and the gala. But it would’ve been nice for us all to party together after the fact. A band is a team effort.”
Shae interrupts us—the sound mixer is ready in ten. True to her management skills, our sound check hums along right on schedule.
When she’s out of earshot, I whisper-talk to Brady. “Get it out of your thick skull that we’re not in this together, alright? Tonight, we bleed for it. Let’s turn the floor as red as those seats. Capiche?”
“Cool, cool.” Brady shrugs it off like he’s shrugged off his gold star hangover. “We rock and roll. Business as usual. Fucking going to hammer this joint tonight. Right, buddy?” he shouts at Tai, deep in conversation on his phone.
Tai flashes the peace sign and strolls offstage.
He doesn’t even look at me. Tai’s more sensitive than Brady, and I shit on them hard yesterday for missing the flight.
But it’s more than that. Tai picked up on my disappointment upon finding them in the hotel lobby last night.
The thing is, I wasn’t mad at them. It wasn’t personal.
Just me not knowing what the hell to do with the person who literally consumed my tongue and soul and then left me hanging in my own swirl of feels.
Business as usual? Not exactly.
I swing my gaze stage right, where JC continues to futz with his pedals. He’s not a fan of digital modelers to fake the right sounds; he says pedals are more intuitive than fiddling with buttons and knobs. It’s how he plays too. No shortcuts. No faking it.
Just raw, instinctive, and heartbreakingly real.
His two albums didn’t go platinum by accident.
But is it an accident that JC said nothing about his last show here? He’s frustratingly tight-lipped about anything deep in his past. Just as a strange feeling is carving out a space in my gut, JC looks up and smiles, eyes crinkling with that easy charm.
And all I can feel is him.
The door to our dressing room bangs open, and Shae hollers, “T-minus five, friends. Everyone on deck. It’s showtime.”
Brady launches into his pre-show routine of tuck jumps and Tarzan-like whoops.
(Impressive, considering his painted-on bell-bottoms.) Tai stretches out his back, channeling Carlos D’s lookbook of stovepipe pants, dress shirt, and leather suspenders.
JC? In his predictable uniform of T-shirt, Diesel jeans, and Converse, he’s calm as a yogi master.
Or pretending to be.
We’ve spent enough time together for me to read the signs. He fidgets with the subtle gold hoops in both ears and tucks his hair back repeatedly when he’s preoccupied. But he’s rested. After sound check, he crashed hard in the dressing room, jet lag, and his late night catching up to him.
I spent the last five minutes doing laps up and down the hall to shake off the butterflies. You cannot be unaffected before a show. It’s total system override. Heart slamming. Brain goes fritz. This is the edge of everything.
Why we do what we do.
“You ready, champ?” JC approaches me with his slow, beautiful smile.
I blink up, meeting those piercing eyes gone past gray into storm-black, pupils blown wide. Just like last night, when our tongues tangled, and he breathed hard and fast.
“Hell yeah,” I say. “And thank you. For being here. For everything.”
My gush of gratitude earns me a stifled laugh from Brady. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Tai’s posture shift, the smallest hitch in his shoulders that makes me feel like I’ve just said something wrong.
Whatever.
My heart is tripping all over itself, hands tingling with nerves.
As we make our way to the stage, the house lights drop, and the roar of the crowd crests into one giant sustained note of expectation.
That sound. God, that sound! I can feel it in my chest, that bass-heavy rumble of anticipation.
Everything feels heightened and bright around the edges.
It’s impossible to contain the rush right before you go on stage.
It’s more profound than any other life experience.
I’ve waited months for this night, and now it’s here.
Before we walk out, I raise my fist and wait for the solidarity bumps from my boys. The Pop My Cherry call to arms.
One last breath to force my lungs open. Ready to blow them apart.
Here we go.
Hello, London.