Ella smiled. “That’s cool. Don’t you worry about me. I’m just here to keep things organized.” She flicked her eyes to him. “Schedule’s posted on the microwave. Check it every day to find out when and where you need to be. Y’all pick out your bunks?”
Charlee chewed a nail, watching her with a blank expression. “Uh, yeah. We’ve got this one.” She raised a boot behind her and tapped the toe against the mattress frame.
“Man, oh man, I’m in high cotton. Touring with The Burn? And first stop…San Dieeee-ego!” Her voice was high-pitched and way too fucking eager.
He twined his fingers with Charlee’s. “Let’s head up front.”
Past the drape and out of Ella’s earshot, Charlee whispered, “Is she new?”
“New tour. New tour manager.” He kissed her head. “We have to reeducate them every time.”
An hour later, Charlee nestled into the crook of his arm and stretched her legs along the couch in the front lounge. They cruised down the Five just south of San Clemente. The ocean view on the right sparkled in a luster of blues, yet not half as captivating as Charlee’s eyes as she took it all in.
Black Suburbans shadowed the views out the windshield and on the left. Unwanted but necessary reminders of what was out there, waiting for them.
Wil and Laz sprawled on opposite ends of the couch on the other side, hypnotized by whatever video game was sucking their brain cells. The slamming of the fridge and microwave doors meant Rio was eating. Again. Tony, Nathan, and Ella moved to the back to go over the schedule for that night’s show in San Diego.
“I’ve never swum in the ocean.” Charlee circled a finger on the glass, eyes on the coastline. “First thing I’d do is pull down my pants and stick my butt cheeks in the sand.”
A laugh burst out of him. “I better be there when that happens. I’ll help you clean the grit out of those hard to reach places.”
He pulled her in, crushing her back against his chest. They would be pushing out of San Diego immediately after the set was broken down, and the remainder of the trip was inland. He kissed the crook between her neck and shoulder. There would be plenty of downtime after the tour to take her to every ocean in the world.
Swift footfalls that could only belong to Tony whispered through the cabin. Phone to her ear, she grabbed the remote and switched off the guys’ video game.
“What the fuck, Tony?” Laz held the controller in the air, his mouth agape.
“Got it. Thanks, Faye.” She pocketed her phone and flipped through the channels, stopping on a news station. “Alan Patera, assistant to—”
“We know who he is.” Adrenaline heated Jay’s cheeks and spiked his pulse.
Charlee straightened, her twisting fingers echoing his unease. He clutched her hands.
Tony shifted to unblock Charlee’s view of the TV. “He called to warn us of a news report coming— Here it is.” She dialed up the volume, and the camera panned to a middle-aged anchorwoman with botoxed lips.
“Recently retired CEO of Windsor Records, Maxim Windsor, announced today that Jay Mayard, vocalist and guitarist of the popular rock band, The Burn, has been having sexual relations with his daughter, Sylvia Windsor. It is unknown if these relations began before Sylvia’s eighteenth birthday last month. If accused, Jay Mayard could be facing statutory rape charges in the state of California.”
Dread constricted his airflow, and Charlee’s fingers tugged uselessly in his flexing fist.
“What the fuck kind of fucking bullshit is this?” Laz hurled the controller, and it smashed somewhere in the galley.
“Shh.” Tony slashed a hand in Laz’s direction.
“…Oxford Industries’ acquisition of Windsor Records, Mr. Windsor stepped down from his position as CEO of the label; however, he contends that The Burn’s popularity is owed to Jay Mayard’s relationship with his daughter. Jay Mayard has declined to comment on these allegations, and Sylvia Windsor could not be reached for comment.
“Jay Mayard is not new to lawless behavior. His career has been plagued with drug use. In 2011, he was carried off the stage at Madison Square Garden due to a supposed overdose of speedball.”
“Turn that shit off.” Jay jumped up, shoved his hands in his hair, pulling, twisting, his heart tearing through his chest.
“That is so not cool.” Wil reached for the remote and clicked off the screen. “Jay has never OD’d.”
“Jay. Sit down.” Charlee’s tone was soft, too soft.
No way would she believe him after everything he’d done. He didn’t want to face her, didn’t want to see any more pain straining her face.
“Sit.” Stronger that time, but not angry.
He sat, dragged his eyes, burning as they were, to meet hers.
“Have you slept with her?”
The ache in his eyes clouded his vision. His teeth sawed at his cheek. An eighteen-year-old? Never. He was twenty-seven, for Christ’s sake, but why would she believe him?
She raised a hand to touch his cheek and withdrew it before she made contact. His heart sank.