“What the hell are you talking about?” she spits, bunching her hands on her hips.
“Every guy in your band, every backline guy, your producer, your manager,” I say with a flip of my hand at Billie, “they’re all out for themselves. Some of them want to fuck you figuratively and the others want to fuck you literally, but if they know you’ve got a pair of balls, they’re less likely to.”
The heat of her glare scouring my face leaves me feeling sunburned. “You are drunk.”
I shake my head. “All guy musicians are whores, Lucky. Every fucking one of us. Max, me. You need to stay the hell away from all of us.”
Her whiskey eyes widen in understanding at the same time as they darken with rage. “You’re jealous of Max. That’s what this is.”
She’s right, so I can’t argue that point. Instead, I argue the bigger point. “He wants his fifteen minutes of fame. That’s all you are to him, like Mark Anthony to JLo.”
“Wow,” she says, backing away. “You have totally lost it.”
I bob a small nod. “I must have, because I’m trying to talk you out of letting me fuck you, which is all I’ve wanted to do since I met you.”
Suddenly I can’t read her expression. She’s still pissed, but there’s something else, something more feral shining out of her eyes. “Go to hell,” she says, then spins back to where her manager is still fighting with the reporter.
And now I’m oh for two on great ideas, on the edge of striking out.
Chapter 8
Shiloh
That asshole doesn’t want me to be with Max? Well, fuck him.
I storm back to Billie. “Let’s go.”
As we walk back to the buses, all I can think is that I wish Tro and his band were in the bus complex too. Roadkill doesn’t do buses, apparently. They fly and stay in hotels. Up until now, that’s been good. Easier to avoid him, but now I want him here to see what he’s set in motion.
When we get to our bus, I head for the shower. I come out feeling a thousand times better. I change in my bunk, then head up front for something to eat.
Our bus is configured pretty much the same as the guys’. The bathroom and bunks are in the middle, with a sitting area and kitchen up front and a lounge in back. If there’s not a day off between shows, we travel at night, but when we’re on the road during the day, Billie’s always at the table, right where she is now. It’s her office, more or less.
“So,” she says, closing the lid to her laptop. “I talked to a lawyer today while you were at your sound check. He seems to think that we could make the legal guardianship happen if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
A cold shudder skips along my spine.
When I don’t answer right away, she turns in her seat, facing me. “I only want this if it’s something you want, Shiloh.”
“I just don’t see why you would want me. I mean, it’s not like adopting a baby. I’ll be seventeen next week.”
She smiles softly and pushes up from her seat, coming to where I stand at the counter and enclosing me in her arms. Her chin rests on the top of my head and I feel her warm breath in my hair as she says, “I want you because you are a special person and I care deeply for you. I know you’ve had a rough upbringing, and I know you don’t need me to be a parent, but I want to look out for you in any way I can.” She pulls back and looks at me. “I love you, Shiloh. I just want to keep you safe.”
The icy shell around my heart melts a little. “If that’s really what you want, we can talk to him, see what it would be.”
“He made it sound like it’s just filing the right documents with the courts. Not too complicated.”
We sit on the couch. “Would I come live with you?” I gesture at the bus. “After this is over?”
“You would,” she says with a nod.
I cringe a little in embarrassment, feeling like I should already know the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Where do you live?”
“I’ve got an apartment in LA, but I’ve been thinking of moving to the burbs. We could find something nice in Beverly Hills or Manhattan Beach.”
“Sounds nice,” I say, thinking of that old show that runs on late night Nickelodeon that Will Smith used to be in.
She pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s going to be amazing, Shiloh. I’m so excited to start our new life.”
“Me too,” I say, trying to decide if that’s what the weird ache in the pit of my stomach is.
#
Two hours later, I’m sweating onstage. Several times, Max come up next to me, and I don’t discourage him tonight.
We finish our set and when we file off the stage, I glance around backstage for Tro, but don’t see him. I tell myself the sinking feeling in my chest is only because I wanted him here to see that he can’t tell me what to do.
“So, the party’s private tonight,” Max says, slipping up behind me. He leans closer, his mouth brushing my ear as he add, “More intimate.”
I turn and cut him a sarcastic look. “I don’t do intimate.”