Mac sucks in a sharp breath. “Excuse me?”
My greedy hand cops a slap and I retreat, laughing. She knows I’m teasing.
“Maybe you should try growing some muscle on that weedy frame of yours,” she retorts.
I flex a bicep. Mac tries to wrap both hands around it but can’t get her fingers to touch. “Not big enough, huh?”
“Not nearly,” she jokes, letting go and settling into my side. “How are you supposed to give me my Dirty Dancing moment with those puny twigs?”
“Ha! You’re a closet romantic!” I crow. Evie plays that movie so much my eyes will bleed if I have to suffer through it one more time. Who knew Mac was secretly watching it a thousand times too? “Should I start calling you baby now?”
“Fuck off, Romero.” I can’t see her face; it’s buried in my neck, but I feel her grin against my skin.
“No?” I drag her body on top of mine. Mac sits up and straddles my hips. I take advantage and tickle my fingers down her sides. She hunches, giggling. “Nobody puts my Princess in a corner.”
We tease and play for a few minutes before settling down. Mac eventually drifts off at my side as I trail gentle fingers through her hair. It’s hard to imagine not having this every day. That she might not want this every day. Moments like these are heady for me. They heighten my love for her so much it hurts.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I climb slowly from the bed, careful not to wake her. After tugging on my underwear, I jog down the carpeted stairs and walk to the kitchen where my phone rests on the counter. I pick it up and dial. It’s late but I don’t care.
“Romero. Son,” Steve Valentine answers in a groggy voice after three rings. “What’s up?”
I lean over the kitchen bench as I reply, resting my elbows on the counter. “I want to know if you have any update on the Ross situation.”
I’ve been told that father and son don’t keep in touch. Alan has no contact information for Ross. And according to Elijah, Ross finding him in the parking lot of the Florence Bar was a random approach. Ross was trying to hit him up for money, which makes sense, considering Elijah is just three short months away from a considerable inheritance.
“I tried phoning Alan earlier,” he tells me, “but I got voicemail. He’s at the annual Governor’s Ball, so I imagine he hasn’t any new information. Hang on.” A muffled clang comes through the phone. “Let me check my emails.”
He taps at his keyboard for a few moments before he replies. “He’s sent a quick message. Intel shows Ross returned to Melbourne yesterday. They located his flight details, and they have video confirmation of him exiting Melbourne airport.”
My relief is so acute I sag against the counter.
He’s gone, I repeat to myself. He’s gone.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Steve assures me. “We’ll keep tabs on him. That gesture he made last night was probably nothing more than him trying to get to you. And it worked.”
“You’re right.” I sigh deeply. “He got to me.”
“Relax, son. He won’t be coming back, but if he does, it won’t be without us knowing about it first, okay? Get some rest. You have a tour soon. You’re going to need it.”
JAKE
The tour is a success. Every show sells out. Our debut LP skyrockets from the exposure and goes platinum. It’s surreal, as though it’s happening to some other band and I’m just watching on. The celebratory party is held on a tour bus as we drive through the night along a dark road from Pennsylvania to Michigan in the United States. Even Mac is screaming and jumping up and down at the news. Champagne sprays over us in a fizzy shower that soaks our clothes and swamps the floor.
It leaves us hungover for our last show of the tour and likely contributes to the meltdown Mac has after we finish up our final song. I should have seen it coming. She’s been increasingly exhausted as our tour progressed. Quick to snap and generally irritable with faint bruising under the tender skin of her eyes. As our band manager, I can’t imagine how intense and demanding it is for her to handle a tour of this magnitude, but I’m suggesting a holiday when we return. Somewhere tropical. White sands. Blue water. Pina coladas. Massages. It’s the type of rejuvenation we both need.
I jog down the stairs by the side of the stage and head backstage after the show. Fans scream as I walk alongside the hip-high fence barrier that separates us from them, their arms outstretched, willing to touch any part of us they can get their hands on. Some hold pens and pictures, hoping for an autograph. Most hold phones up high and snap whatever photos or video they can.
Jared is with us, forming part of our personal security detail. He shields Evie heavily, his body a barrier as they lead the way. She’s just over six months pregnant now, and while she’s barely showing, Jared still protects her belly as if Satan himself is going to rise from the Underworld and snatch it away.
I’m last in our procession, trailed only by Mac. The threat of Ross seems a million miles away, but I can’t shake it and glance behind to make sure she’s close. Her eyes are glued to her clipboard, and she’s talking into her headset. Ripped black jeans, a worn Jamieson tee shirt, and a purple lanyard around her neck complete her outfit. Her hair is in a messy side-braid with the back fastened in an untidy knot, and her expression is resolute.
She’s been dealing with idiots and assholes for weeks, yet she’s managed to bite her tongue. I fear it’s coming to a head soon. Her pressure valve has reached critical levels. My princess is about to blow. God help whoever gets in her path, I pray silently.
It happens sooner than even I can predict when I’m grabbed from the side while distracted. For a moment I’m stunned, an exhausted kind that renders me ineffective for a fraction of a second. Apparently that’s all it takes for an arm to snake around my chest, another to slither right into the front of my jeans and grope my junk, and last but definitely not least … Mac to notice.
“Oh hey now,” I say laughingly to whomever has me from behind. The hold isn’t a strong one, and the arms and hands are slender and feminine.
I’m pulling myself free when Mac steps forward. Her eyes are flat. She’s taking in the fanatical fan behind me like she’s Muhammad Ali sizing up a lesser opponent. “Hold my clipboard,” she barks and slaps it against my chest.
I grab it and watch, speechless, as Mac reaches the barrier and cocks back a fist with zero hesitation. Oh shit. I’m tossing the clipboard and grabbing for her, but I’m too late. Her white-knuckled hand punches forward in a blur. It connects with her target. Right in the bared midriff of the girl who had her hands on me. The girl folds instantly, hunching over the barricade but by no means down.