“Rock stars win,” he murmurs into the pillow.
“Bow down to your superior,” I mock. “It’s been two weeks on the road.”
“Mmm.”
“Be thankful we’re not on the tour bus. Our first tour with Eleven, we bussed it everywhere. Overnighters, cramped bunk beds, little sleep. Be thankful for the jet, my friend.”
If it weren’t for my relationship with Harley, we’d be on our own headlining tour this year. There were discussions about it when Eleven’s last tour ended, but Harley and I wanted to figure out a way to stay together. This was back when we were good at hiding our relationship. It didn’t take much to convince the label Radioactive wasn’t ready for our own tour yet and that being on stage with Eleven was the best exposure for us.
We did get a plane out of it though. We’ve had added press coverage this tour, so it was more conducive to have the band fly ahead to the next city to do local radio interviews and promote the shows.
Soren grunts.
Poor guy. He can play eighty-two hockey games in six months, but two weeks on a stadium tour is kicking his ass. Though, in his defense, we’ve been put through the media wringer since coming out as a couple.
The label’s happy because it detracts from the Harley rumors and promotes the tour at the same time. Soren isn’t part of the interviews, but his appearance on the sidelines is enough.
Arrive in a city, talk to a radio station. Interview for an online magazine, then go to soundcheck. We get a few hours of downtime after that if there aren’t more reporters sniffing around us. Then rinse and repeat. Sometimes in reverse order. Some cities we play two nights, some just one.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower, and then we’ll go to sleep,” I say.
But when I get out of the bathroom, Soren hasn’t moved. Hasn’t even tried to get under the covers before passing out.
I find some sweats to pull on. Unlike him, I’m too wired to sleep. Some shows are so full of energy it takes a while to come down from them.
I climb on top of the covers next to him and turn on the TV.
I shouldn’t have.
There on the news is a shaky video of Harley onstage tonight, getting down on one knee and proposing to a woman I’ve never seen before in my life.
Woman might be stretching it. She’s a girl. Young. Cute but still hot. Or … society’s definition of hot. She’s the perfect beard because she looks sweet enough to be everyone’s best friend but pretty enough to be believable.
I hate her.
Okay, not her, I kinda feel sorry for her, but I hate the idea of her and the label’s insistence on her importance.
It’s complete bullshit.
Lyrics tickle the back of my mind.
I jump out of bed and find the notebook I keep for moments like this.
Words fly out of me in lines that probably don’t make much sense. I curl up on the couch in the suite and keep writing.
The news plays that stupid clip on a loop. Over and over again, I watch Harley get down on one knee in front of a stadium of screaming fans.
“Thank fuck we left early,” I mumble to myself.
“What, baby?” Soren asks in a groggy voice. His hand reaches out for me, but when he finds no one beside him, he sits up.
“Nothing,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”
He doesn’t. He gets out of bed and makes his way over to me on the couch. His head lands in my lap. “Whatcha watchin’?” Soren’s eyes close and he yawns.
“The news.”
“Fun times.”
“So fun.” Maybe my dry tone is what catches his attention.
His eyes crack open.
“Look what we missed tonight.” I nod toward the TV where it’s on again.
“Wow. He went through with it, eh?”
“Yep. It makes sense they do it here.”
“Why here?”
“Oh, so you read about Harley’s real name but didn’t know that he’s from Kansas City? His family is here, so it’s gimmicky for him to do it here.”
I feel Soren’s scrutinizing stare on me without taking my eyes off the TV.
“You need anything?” he asks softly. “To talk about it?” A hand travels up my thigh. “A distraction?”
“I don’t need a distraction, but I’ll never turn down a blowjob.”
Soren laughs, but it fades when our eyes lock. I try to cover whatever the fuck I’m feeling by fake smiling. He doesn’t buy it.
He sits up. “Jet, it’s all right for you to think this sucks. If Bryce was getting married, I’d be hurt.”
“He can do whatever he wants.”
Loud knocking on the door echoes through the hotel suite.
“Expecting someone?” Soren asks.
“It’ll be Luce wanting to yell at me for not hanging around for the meet and greet again.” But something in the pit of my gut tells me it’s not Luce.