“You sure I said that?” He rests a shoulder against the wall.
My hands go to my hips. “A hundred percent.”
“But why would I say that?”
“Because I was staring at your bare chest.”
Effing shitting bastard.
He played me.
My face flames. “You’re such a mut!”
He laughs. “I’m a mut? Jesus, what are you? Twelve? And don’t throw insults at me. I wasn’t the one perving on my hot body.”
“I was not perving!” I cry with indignation.
“So, you admit I’m hot.”
“I, what? No, I don’t admit anything!”
He’s laughing at me now.
Why aren’t any of the guys coming to my rescue here? Cale?
I look over my shoulder to see them watching us with rapt attention. Well, Van and Sonny are. Cale just looks curious. I give him a loaded look and then swing my gaze back to Tom.
“One, I don’t think you’re hot.” Total lie. “And two, I was merely admiring your tattoos. I like tattoos. I’ve been thinking about getting one, so when I see someone with them, I like to have a look and see if they might be something I would like inked on my body.”
Worst excuse ever.
Tom’s eyes flick to mine, his stare hot and heavy. There’s this moment—a stifling, blood-pumping moment—between us.
Then, it’s gone.
His eyes harden. His hand goes to the back of his neck. He looks to the ceiling and blows out a breath.
I’m expecting some smart-ass comment from him, so I’m surprised when he looks back to me and says, “There’s nothing inked on my body that you’d want. Trust me.”
I watch his retreating back as he heads to his bunk to get his clothes. My eyes hone in on the huge tattoo there. It’s a large wooden cross, spanning his entire back, with a blade at the end, like it’s cutting into his skin. It has the words, Only The Strong Survive, woven through it.
It’s beautiful—in a morbid way.
Then, my eyes focus on the text directly below the cross. Thomas III, is inked there, and in much smaller text below that is, Rest in the peace that life could no longer give you.
Tom lost someone important—just like I did.
I guess we have something in common after all.
The Next Day—Backstage at a Club, Seattle
Thomas III.
I’ve come up with so many scenarios as to whom Thomas III could be. It has to be someone in his family for sure. Tom, Thomas III—I’d be stupid not to figure that one out.
I thought maybe it was his father, but for some reason, my thoughts keep circling back to a child.
Rest in the peace that life could no longer give you.
I’ve never heard anything about Tom Carter having a son, but I also know it is possible to keep things quiet from the press for the right amount of money.
Rally taught me that.
I’m not ashamed to admit that after dinner last night—which Tom joined us for, but he was noticeably quiet—I spent the rest of my night in the bedroom Googling him. First search was, Tom Carter’s child. Nothing came up, so then I tried, Tom Carter III. I got nothing relevant, only pictures of Tom. A lot were of him with his band members, but there were also a lot of him with women, lots of women.
I started to feel a bit ill while looking at the pictures of his skankhood, so I gave up soon after and went to sleep.
My mind has been on Tom since last night—well, more his tattoo. The mystery is still bugging the hell out of me. I don’t care about him. I’m just incredibly nosy. It’s an illness of mine. It’s something I’m working on.
“Lyla Summers?”
I lift my gaze from the piece of paper in front of me, the one I’ve been doodling Tom’s scripture on.
I came backstage to our dressing room to work on some new song lyrics while the guys do sound tests onstage where we’ll be playing in a few hours. It’s fair to say that I’ve not been very productive with my time.
Looming over me and smiling widely is a model-thin, beautiful woman, wearing what can only be described as painted on jeans with a low-cut tank revealing a lot of her bust. She has long dark brown hair, flawlessly straight, framing her face that has heavily applied makeup.
I’m far from ugly. I’m often told I look exactly like my mother, and I know she was beautiful. But this woman before me is making me feel like a little kid. That’s partially due to the fact that I’m dressed like one, wearing my trusty Keds, torn jeans, and a T-shirt that has a picture of Homer Simpson wearing only his underpants with the slogan, The Last Perfect Man, on it. It’s not a slouchy, oversized T-shirt. I always get them fitted, but still, it’s a Simpsons T-shirt.
God, I’m so lame.
“Um…yes, I’m Lyla,” I answer with trepidation, wondering who she is.
“Well, you are just stunning. The photo Zane gave me doesn’t do you justice at all. I’m Shannon, your stylist.” She holds a manicured hand out to me.