I’m not going to bullshit and say that it’s not a little rocky, but the first couple of days on the bus aren’t the potential clusterfuck I prepared myself for. Sinjin’s not walking around screwed up out of his mind, so he’s decent company, and Dave keeps to himself whenever we’re secure and inside. Because we have no other damn choice, we fall into a quick routine. Sienna focuses a lot of her attention on wardrobe, while Sinjin and me work on music and Dave comes and goes after shows, keeping an eye out for stray sets of tits and ass trying to find their way onto the bus.
Still, I’m sick of the bus—with it’s full-sized master and standup shower—by the time we check into our Denver hotel mid-afternoon on the third day of the tour. Sienna’s obviously ready for a break too. Even before the door closes in our suite, she falls down on the bed, curling her bare toes into the crisp white sheets and grinning.
“I thought I never wanted to see another Four Seasons again, but this is heavenly,” she sighs.
Fuck.
Since I’m on the other side of the hotel room and her eyes are squeezed together, she doesn’t see my muscles tighten up at the mention of what happened in the Atlanta hotel. I’d treated her like shit. By the time she sits up, raking her fingers through her hair, I’m back in control. I cross the room slowly, allowing myself a little grin as her chest rises and falls faster and faster with each of my steps.
“It’s a good break from Sin’s goddamn drumming, huh?”
“The guy makes a drum set out of everything he sees.” But she’s smiling. She pulls her knees up to her chest, and I let my gaze follow the path her red toenails make up the bedspreads, imagining how they’ll look on my shoulders a little later. “How long are we staying for?”
“Tomorrow morning. Next city is only a few hours away.” The need to be inside of her is a second away from trumping everything else I’ve got planned, and I know I’ve got to leave this room before that happens. I’ve already told Tyler that I would stop by his hotel for a meeting, and even now my phone is going off in my pocket. “Get some rest. I’ve got some band shit to take care of and then I’m yours.”
She starts to protest, but I bend my face to hers and cover her soft lips. “Here I was thinking I’d managed to break that annoying habit of yours.”
It takes her a second to answer, and when she does, she traces her tongue around my lips every couple of words. “Isn’t my”—she clears her throat and when she continues, her voice is a few octaves lower—“habit of being infuriatingly compliant to everyone but you what drew you to me in the first place?”
She starts the rotation of her tongue once more, but I pull it into my mouth. I lean in to her, my hands cupping either side of her head. She moans softly, pleadingly as our mouths crush together. The moment her fingers touch my thigh, I jerk away.
“Get some rest,” I tell her again. The look she gives me is just about enough to break through my thin layer of control, but I turn abruptly and make a quick exit.
Because Tyler’s staying in a different hotel, Wyatt and I walk over together with David following several paces behind us. The Embassy Suites is about five blocks away, and Wyatt bitches all seven minutes of the trip how Cal and one of my sister’s friends have been keeping him awake with their loud ass phone sex.
“I’m just waiting for the really weird fetishes. Balloon popping bullshit or—” he pauses when a woman pushing her kids in a double stroller turns and glares him down. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says to me more quietly.
"Why would I think you have too much time on your hands?”
“Fuck you, Lucas.”
I go inside of the hotel lobby with my head down. Even though it’s only just after two, women are already mulling around the lobby, earning pissed-off stares from the hotel staff. With one of the tour buses stupidly parked at the side of the building, it doesn’t take a goddamn genius to figure out what they’re here for.
Luckily for Wyatt and me, Brady Callahan, Wicked Lambs’ lead guitarist is already in the lobby signing boobs, back dimples—whatever he can without getting tossed out of the building by hotel security.
Once we’re far away from the fray and almost to the elevators, I speak to Wyatt under my breath, “If it’ll help, I’ll buy you some earplugs. Then you won’t be able to hear Cal and Heidi about balloon popping or whatever and I won’t have to hear you bitch and moan about it.”
His eyes are lowered to the floor too but when I take a glimpse in his direction, I can tell he’s grinning. “Nah . . . but I do feel bad for Sin. Has to fucking blow living with the king of ropes and cuffs. ” Before I can respond he makes a face at the crowd at the elevator. “Taking the stairs. See you lazy fucks at the top.”
Almost immediately after he turns the corner in the direction of the staircase signs, the elevator doors open and the line starts to die down. Figures. I wait until there’s nobody left to catch a ride.
The moment David and I step inside the elevator, we get company.
A couple of women—both dressed in little black shorts and tight T-shirts—trip all over themselves to come inside. They look like their minutes away from lining up outside the venue. They also know who I am. That much is obvious by the flushed skin and the fumbling for cell phones.
Fuck.
“I’ve seen you on tour four times.” The woman speaking to me is redheaded—not natural, but it’s close to the same fiery shade as Sienna’s. I can’t help but wonder if she colored it on purpose—like my ex-wife had earlier this year. “I love your music. Love “Handcuffs” and “Ten Days” and—” She moves forward, but David steps between her and me, shaking his head to each side.
“Ma’am, you’re going to need to take a step back.”
Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. I guess it makes me a dick to admit that, but I wouldn’t. I would step off this elevator at the very next floor and there wouldn’t be a doubt in my mind that the redhead and her friend would still come to my show tonight. It was a control thing.
It was also fucked up.
I rub the pad of my thumb across my chin and lean against the elevator wall. “Which shows?” I ask. David’s eyebrow jerks up, but I ignore his surprise.
The redhead looks momentarily stunned and her mouth hangs open for a long time. Finally, her friend answers for her. “Two years ago. Los Angeles, Vegas, and Salt Lake City.” The brunette stretches her arms out against the railing surrounding the elevator and shakes her head. “Teresa runs Everything YTS.”
I have no fucking clue what Everything YTS is, but I nod and make a mental note to Google it once I’m done with Tyler. “Okay, so only three shows so far. But I’m seeing you tonight,” Teresa says.
Hearing her say that makes we realize why I haven’t gotten off of the elevator yet, despite the fact I just missed Tyler’s floor. These women haven’t come on to me, or offered to fuck me in a three way in the first floor laundry room, or even spoke to me with a hint of invitation in their voices.
“Then I guess I better sing my fucking ass off, huh?” I ask, and Teresa snorts.
“Lucas Wolfe doesn’t disappoint. Ever.”
We hold up the elevator for another minute, and by the time we get off, I’ve taken a photo with both women. David gives me a funny look when we finally head left to room 708—Tyler’s room.
Everyone but Sinjin is already here, and after Cilla shows up shortly thereafter, smelling like booze with bloodshot eyes, Tyler’s important meeting takes about 15 minutes. Sin’s birthday is in a week, and Tyler wants to make sure we’ll stop by the surprise party after the St. Louis show, which is the night after one of our days off. It’s something that could’ve been done by text or email, and when I let Tyler know as I start to leave, he gives me a cool smile.
“I take it you won’t be coming to Sin’s party?”