CHAPTER 21
TYLER
Over Christmas break, Tyler and Cary spent their days watching the World Juniors at her dad’s house and their nights tangled in hotel sheets.
It had been the best week of her life—maybe ever—which made saying goodbye that much harder.
When he left for the US leg of his tour, it felt like he took a piece of her heart with him.
The time zones should have made things easier, but somehow they made everything worse.
The US leg was packed: press appearances, interviews, concerts—more than anywhere else in the world.
His schedule was insane, and she only managed to talk to him in stolen moments between flights or after his sets.
Meanwhile, she was glued to her phone like a lovesick teenager, afraid to miss a call or text.
It was pathetic.
But she couldn’t help how she felt. She missed his touch, his lips, the way his scent lingered on her skin.
And the sex. They went from having it every day—sometimes several times—to nothing, like quitting something addictive overnight.
But the lack of sex was nothing compared to sleeping alone, dreaming of him, only to wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
The distance left a permanent ache in her chest, dull and relentless. She could hardly eat, couldn’t sleep, and started second-guessing everything—especially herself. Was their relationship even sustainable? How could she trust her judgment after Dave?
The upcoming trip to Los Angeles was barely two days— hardly enough time to cram in everything they needed to do, let alone figure out where they stood.
Five months had passed since their first coffee date and he still hadn’t said the L-word.
She’d considered telling him first, but what if he didn’t say it back? Talk about being humiliated.
Yes, she was an independent woman and all that, but come the fuck on. She deserved love just like everyone else.
Tyler landed at the Los Angeles International Airport at noon.
She’d taken the first flight out of Vancouver to spend the day with Cary before Yestown’s showcase at the Troubadour that night.
He’d asked her to come out to Malibu, but she’d insisted on staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel with her band.
Plus, she’d lined up meetings for tomorrow with record labels and music publishers—all the experts in town.
The hotel was rock-and-roll friendly, sure—but what did it actually have in common with its namesake, Teddy Roosevelt? From what she remembered, he was a well-read, morally upright outdoorsman. Meanwhile, the hotel’s guests were mostly drunk, half-dressed, and allergic to ethics.
“Tyler Robertson,” she announced to the front-desk employee, placing Rory’s carrier by her feet. He’d been as good as gold on the flight, and the crew had adored him.
The employee’s name tag read clifford. But they—she wasn’t sure of the correct pronoun—weren’t a big red dog; quite the opposite. Clifford wore their blue-black hair in a tight, low ponytail, and their makeup had been fashioned out of a MAC cosmetics ad.
They were exquisite.
“Tyler Robertson . . . here for two nights?” they asked. She nodded and handed them a credit card, but Clifford waved her off. “Everything’s been taken care of.” Their voice trailed off, scanning the computer screen. “You’re in the Marilyn Suite.”
“I booked a single room.” Tyler showed them her phone. “I have an email confirmation.”
Clifford moved the computer mouse in figure eights. “Your reservation was upgraded by a . . .” They squinted. “Kim Tanaka.”
Cary. I should’ve known.
“May I have a single room, please?” She was not about to start living Cary’s life and the fancy things that came with it.
“Sorry,” they said flatly. “We’re completely sold out. How many keys?”
“One, please.” She leaned on the counter and smiled. “I’ll leave the other one here for my guest, if that’s okay.”
They nodded, typing away. “Guest’s name?”
“James Kirk.” She’d booked enough hotel rooms for Cary Kingston to know his pseudonym was Captain Kirk, or “CK.”
A few minutes later Tyler texted Cary from the Marilyn Suite.
At the hotel :) she said.
He texted back How’s the bed?
Why?
You’ll see.
You’re all talk!
I’m all action, babe. xo
After waiting an hour, Tyler was officially pissed. Cary had texted he’d be there “in a while,” but this was ridiculous. They hadn’t seen each other in a month, and the few conversations they’d managed were all about work—his shows, mostly.
The door to the suite beeped, and Cary finally walked in.
“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Rory sprang up on the bed and wagged his tail. “Hi, buddy!” He pointed at the stuffie. “Is that Teddy?”
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, babe.” He flashed his famous smile. “Traffic’s brutal this time of day. Well, any time of day.”
“Where’s your bag?” She scowled at him, not amused by his lackadaisical attitude. “You didn’t ask the bellhop to bring it up, did you?”
He kissed her on the cheek. “About that . . . I thought we’d stay in Malibu tonight and come back for my exhibit tomorrow. Just leave your suitcase here and pack an overnight bag.”
Are you fucking serious?
She folded her arms across her chest. “I told you I have meetings.”
“I know, but I’ve got a lot going on with the gallery, and—“
“What the fuck, Cary?”
They’d texted about this yesterday, agreeing to stay at the hotel.
His brow lifted, clearly taken aback by her tone. “It’s not a big deal. I live an hour away.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Her voice cracked, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.
He let out a short, frustrated breath. “Calm down, Tyler.”
“Calm down? Seriously? I arrange my life around your schedule—shows, flights, TV appearances. You don’t know how it feels to stare at the phone like some military wife. I’m tired of waiting while you’re out there”—she flung her wrist—“being a rock star.”
“Whoa!” He went to hug her, but she stiffened her arm and locked her shoulder.
“Don’t whoa me. I’m not a horse.” Scorching rage pulsed through her veins as “Fratres” from There Will Be Blood shrieked in her brain. “This isn’t fun—for me, at least. I’m not even a consideration, let alone a priority.”
It was déjà vu from her relationship with Dave. All that time waiting for him while he was on tour screwing groupies. Not that she had any reason to believe that Cary was cheating, but she couldn’t be too sure.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. You’re always on my mind.”
If that were true she would have felt more secure. No, he would have made her feel more secure by putting her first.
“What about this suite?” she asked. “I booked a single room.”
“It was comped.”
Okay, fair enough.
“What about tomorrow? My meetings?” she asked.
“My car service will drive you.”
She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “And Rory?”
“He’s spending the day with me.” Cary scratched the dog behind his ears while he tried to lick his face. “Rory! Who wants to go to the beach?”
The dog zoomed around the room. Rory understood the word “beach” perfectly.
Tyler bit the insides of her cheeks, because there’s nothing worse than laughing when you’re trying not to.
“Or we can stay here,” Cary told her. “No worries, babe. I want you in my bed at some point this weekend.”
She had to admit she was curious—about where he lived, where he slept, where he brought the models and actresses. That was it. The gnawing uncertainty that always came with dating a musician. The doubt never really left, just lurked under the surface, waiting.
“Fine.” She unfolded her arms. “We can stay in Malibu, but I have to head to the venue for soundcheck.”
“We’ll do whatever you want.” He picked up his phone. “What time are you going?”
“Around six.” Her voice returned to normal.
“Perfect. I’ll stop by the gallery while you’re there.”
“Are you still coming to the show?”
“Absolutely.” He lowered his chin and looked at her. “Are we good?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” she said. “I’m sorry for overreacting, but I’ve barely talked to you. Oh, and by the way, you’re my plus one on the guest list.”
“I’ll give you a plus one.” He sprawled across the king-size bed and patted the mattress. “Maybe we should see who’s all talk?”
She stared into his penetrating gaze. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Kim!” Tyler hollered as she rushed into the Troubadour’s showroom, heart still pounding.
Cary Kingston had spent the last few hours proving he wasn’t just talk.
“Hey!” Kim called, hurrying over.
Tyler threw her arms around her. “There’s already a line around the corner!”
“I know, right?” Kim beamed.
Tyler pointed at her pink hair. “Nice dye job, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Kim shook her head. “I got it done this morning.”
“You’re a saint for doing this. If I could, I’d canonize you.”
“Dude, I love Yestown. They’re so easy to work with. And I, like, owe you my life, remember?”
Tyler held up her hand like she was taking an oath. “I swear on my record collection—it was all Cary. He’s the one who insisted you stay on the tour.”
“How pissed is Sebastard?”
“Pissed.” Tyler rolled her eyes. “Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. The Westgrays fired their producer, that guy from the Island. Right in the middle of their session. And get this, they had the audacity to ask for time off to see their girlfriends.”
Kim covered her mouth with both hands. “What did you just say?”
“I said, if they’re taking time off, so am I.
” Tyler shrugged. “Anyway, we’re scrambling to find another TM for this corporate gig, but don’t worry.
I told Sebastien I’d sort it out.” She scanned the room, eyeing the drums, amps, and mics to make sure the backline was good to go. “So, Vegas is flying in tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow morning. I’m picking him up.”
“Is everything cool with you guys?”
“Dude, he’s the best!”
“He is the best.” She agreed wholeheartedly.
“How’s Cary?” Kim stretched a grin across her face.