Jake introduces me to him as Ben. He’s one of Jake’s other security guys. He works under Dave.
Security seems a little tighter for Jake here. Maybe it’s because of the hype of the tour, brings the crazies out.
Ben, I’d guess, is in his early thirties and attractive in a Jason Statham kind of way.
I follow along with the three men, Ben wheeling my suitcase for me.
We all ride in silence up in the lift, getting out on the top floor.
I follow Jake down the hall, Dave and Ben behind us.
Jake stops outside a door and produces a key card from his back pocket.
“This is your room for the next few days.”
He opens the door and I step through. I actually gasp.
This isn’t a room. It’s a bloody suite. And a huge one at that.
“Thanks,” Jake says to Ben and Dave. “I got it from here.”
Ben parks up my suitcase just inside the room and closes the door behind him.
I slowly turn around to face Jake.
“Jake this is awesome … but it’s too much.”
“All the suites on the floor are the same size,” he shrugs.
“But I’m just one person, I don’t need all this room.” I wave my arms around.
“So am I, and I’m staying in one exactly the same as this.” He seems a little irked by my statement.
“I just …” I can’t seem to find the right words. I run my fingers through my hair. “Are all your staff staying in suites like this?”
“Some.”
“Who?”
He meets my eyes. “Tom, Denny, Stuart, Smith and Dave.”
“And the rest?”
“On the floors below.”
“In normal sized rooms … rooms that are just that – one room and a bathroom.”
He nods, slowly, not moving his eyes from mine.
“I should be in one of those rooms, Jake.”
He looks little annoyed now, and also a little hurt.
“I’m not trying to sound ungrateful, Jake, but the first class at the airport, and now this … I don’t want you spending money on me like this.”
He folds his arms. “It’s my money; I can do what I want.”
“I know, but …” I’m at a loss to find a plausible and strong enough argument against him. “I just don’t want to piss your other staff off when they find out I’m staying in such a lovely suite.”
His face lightens. “Tru, you won’t piss anyone off, it’s not in you to be able to do so, and anyway you’re important. You’re writing my bio, so I have to keep you sweet so you write nice things about me.”
“Ahh, so that’s what all this niceness has been about.” I kink my eyebrow.
He grins. “Not at all, but if it gets you to stay in this room with no complaint, then I’m sticking with it.”
“Suite … not room,” I correct.
“Whatever,” he waves me off. “So you wanna unpack first or do you wanna meet the guys now?”
I glance at my suitcase.
Hmm, let me think unpack or meet rock stars…
“Meet the guys,” I beam.
“Don’t get too excited,” he frowns. “They’re uglier in real life than they look in their pictures.”
“Are you jealous, Jake Wethers?” I tease.
“Me – jealous? Never. Come on.” He opens the door. “I left those idiots in my room draining my mini-bar when I came to get you, knowing those greedy bastards they’ll still be there, saving their own for later.”
I can hear the male voices laughing and joking as we approach Jake’s door. I get a little ball of nervous energy in my tummy the closer we get.
I am, in a few seconds, about to be standing in a room with some of the best musicians the world currently has to offer.
I’m going to be in a room with The Mighty Storm!
I’d have to be crazy not to be a little excited.
Jake opens his door, allowing me through first, putting me immediately in the living room and I see the guys all sitting around the dining table, playing cards, drinking beer.
“Tru, this is Denny.” Jake stands behind me, he places his hand on my lower back and points over my shoulder at a dark haired guy, who is very cute, and who of course I instantly recognise.
Even distracted by Denny, I still tense under Jake’s touch.
“Denny – this is Tru, my old friend from Manchester, and biographer for the tour.”
“Hey Tru, it’s great to finally meet you,” Denny smiles at me, running his hand through his short haired.
Finally meet me? So Jake’s already told him about me?
Of course he has dopey, you are their biographer.
“Hi,” I smile nervously at him.
“And this is Smith, our session guitarist who is playing lead for us on the tour.” Jake points at the only person in the room I don’t recognise.
And sweet baby Jesus, he is gorgeous. Long, messy blonde hair and dark green eyes. He looks like a surfer.
“Hey,” Smith says in a Southern drawl giving me a nod.
“He’s married,” Jake whispers in my ear. I feel his fingers tense against my back.
What?
I look up at Jake, wanting to ask him what the hell he meant by that with a look, but he’s not looking at me.