When he comes into the kitchen and finds me eating, Lucas immediately apologizes for Tyler, but I wave it off and force out a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t think you were celibate or anything while we were apart.”
He slides onto the bar stool beside of me at the center island, the fabric of his jeans brushing up against my bare knee in the process. “He was a dick. It won’t happen on the tour, and if it does, you come to me. I’m not going to let him play games with your head to cause problems. I won’t do that kind of shit just for the sake of record sales and media plugs.”
“Will that actually sell records?” I ask as he takes a drink of my orange juice. “You and I getting into it?”
He coughs on the juice, sits the glass down on the counter, and then takes my chin in his hand. “People always give a bigger fuck about you when your life is in ruins; I thought you knew that all ready, Red.”
Oh, I do. I learned that first hand after my mother got arrested for drug trafficking when I was high school. I’d gone from just another face in the hall to the most talked about girl on campus. Still, it doesn’t mean that I have to accept how screwed up and vicious some people can be.
Lucas glances down at his watch. “It’s a little after 10, we need to get going.”
I chug the rest of my juice and take my soiled dishes to the dishwasher. “By the way, how’d things go? With your road manager, I mean.” For the first time since he came back into the house, I notice how drawn his expression is.
“Sinjin had a fucking moment, but Tyler says it’s been worked out.” He slides off the barstool as I come around the counter and places his hand on the small of my back.
Though I’m not too sure what a moment for Sinjin entails, it’s a no-brainer that it’s bad news for Sin and something that could possibly be detrimental to the tour. Though he doesn’t mention Sinjin again while we take care of last minute details around the city, I know that whatever is going on with the drummer is bothering Lucas.
By the time 4:30 rolls around, and the band has their sound check at the venue in Pomona, even I’m worried like crazy over Sinjin, especially when it becomes clear that Sin likely forgot about the rehearsal this afternoon. Or as Cal puts it, “Just brushed the shit off.” As Lucas and the rest of the band speak to each other backstage in angry, hushed tones, I excuse myself to tour the venue.
This place is less than a quarter of the size of the Staples Center, which is where Your Toxic Sequel will perform the final show of the tour in September, 45 days from now, but Lucas had told me earlier that playing here was a given. It’s where the band played their first “big” show, so there’s a sentimental pull. Plus, with its intricate design and artsy atmosphere, this place is absolutely gorgeous.
I’m in the lobby looking at posters for upcoming shows when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Expecting to see Lucas, I put on my warmest smile before facing him.
“Did he show—” The words catch in my throat when I come face to face with Sinjin. Thank god I hadn’t turned and immediately groped his junk. “Sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be.” He looks better than he did the last time I saw him. Still skinny, but so much better. Dressed in dark jeans, a black shirt that says Stranger (With Benefits), and a plain black baseball cap, there’s no wild look in his green eyes. No disdain. Only amusement. “Guess they’re waiting for me?”
I hit the home key on my phone and check the time. “You’re 20 minutes late.”
He drags off his baseball cap, revealing a mess of short, jet-black hair, a complete turn from the blonde he sported the last time I saw him. “Not sure what those fucks in there told you, but I’m always late. Can’t manage time to save my life.”
I wait for him to show any sign of what Lucas had alluded to in the car, but if he’s high, I can’t tell. And I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around screwed up people to be able to read the signs. “So I’m guessing Tyler getting you up at an ungodly hour won’t go over well on the tour.”
“Tell Tyler to eat a dick.”
I’m not surprised to hear him say this. “I’m sure you’ll be telling him yourself.”
“No doubt.” As he heads toward the grand hall’s double doors, he calls out to me, “Lucas wants me to apologize. Thing is, I don’t like sorry. It’s just a word, and it doesn’t mean shit. So, I’ll have to figure out a way to make it up to you.” He doesn’t look back at me, but I wish he would so I could at least read the expression on his face. “And I can’t sing, so this might take some time.”
“That was a good enough apology,” I say softly but he’s already gone into the grand hall.
A few minutes later when I hear Cal, the lead guitarist, rip into the beginning of “Handcuffs,” I walk through the double doors, too.
“This is amazing,” Tori shouts out over the buzz of the backstage crowd. She tilts her head to one side, sending her dark waves cascading over the wide strap that holds her little black dress up. “No, this is beyond amazing. It’s insane.”
Earlier this evening when I’d offered to bring her with me to the concert over drinks, she accepted my invitation without hesitation, cancelling her late nightclub plans with a group of her co-workers on the way to Pomona.
“Just a little.” I move out of the way of a sound guy who’s too busy talking on a headset to notice me. “I’m still trying to catch my breath.” I have been ever since late this afternoon when I was reintroduced to each member of the band and to various roadies, including the wardrobe crew, which consisted of one woman. Maggie had come right out and told me that dressing YTS was the easiest and most laid back gig she’s ever had.
Shooting a nervous look in my direction, Tori nibbles her bottom lip between her teeth, smudging her ruby red lipstick slightly. “You sure he doesn’t care if I’m back here?”
“I swear it’s fine. Now stop, you’re getting lipstick all over your teeth.” I press my back flat against the wall to avoid a couple of giggling women dancing past us. Liquid sloshes out of the bottles held closely to their chests and falls on the concrete floor, leaving behind the scent of whipped cream vodka. Once they disappear around a corner, I motion for Tori to follow me.
“I’ve got to admit, even my desire to kick Lucas in the balls 95 percent of the time wouldn’t have stopped me from seeing that show.” She catches up to me on her mile high pumps. “And I don’t even like rock,” she adds in a low whisper.
For someone who doesn’t like rock, she sure as hell knew enough YTS lyrics to scream them out along with everyone else during the concert.
“Finally.” I point to the only door back here with swarms of barely clothed women, and a few men, hanging around it. “This has to be it.”
There’s a bodyguard—an enormous mixed guy who makes Lucas, in all of his six-foot-four, muscular glory, seem absolutely normal—guarding the entrance. He’s in the middle of an argument with a woman claiming to be there for Wyatt. She’s red-faced, seething, but the bodyguard doesn’t seem fazed.
“What fucking list are you talking about?” she demands. “This isn’t a nightclub. Just let me in—Violet Dawson.” She says her name slowly, emphasizing it into five syllables.
I wait for the bodyguard to tell her off, but he seems completely relaxed when he responds. “Only the band and guests are in there right now. Press and Henley in the Morning contest winners get inside in half an hour. You’re not on either list.”
Violet heaves a frustrated sigh. “Look, I hung out with him and Cal after their show here a year and a half ago. He’ll want to see me.”
“The band that plays together—” Another woman standing close by begins, but Violet shoots her a withering look. The bodyguard leans over to tell Violet something discreetly, and Tori motions for me to bend down a little, too.