"Just curious. You know how all these old-timers are now touring less and less."
"Nah," he says, flicking an ash onto the ground. "It’s in my blood, you know, the music? I can’t just walk away. I’ll be sixty and I’ll still be itching to go on the road."
I know exactly what he means by the music being a part of him. The bass isn’t just an instrument—it’s a fucking anchor, something that keeps me grounded when everything else is spinning out of control.
"I saw your new Fender," I compliment his new bass that he’s been sporting on this tour.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Found it in a pawn shop in Detroit. Guy had no idea what he was selling."
"Lucky bastard," I mutter. "Neck’s a little wider than the newer models, though. Takes some getting used to, right?"
"True," he agrees, offering me the cigarette.
I decline with a shake of my head. I’m trying not to get sucked into the oblivion like Chance has. One bad habit on top of another, and then you can’t go on stage unless you’re strung out, because your body doesn’t function without the stimulators anymore.
"But once you get the hang of it, there’s no going back," Ramses goes on. "The tone’s richer, deeper. You can feel it in your chest."
I nod, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Like it’s part of you."
"Exactly."
For a moment, we just stand there, looking at the chaotic fairgrounds and the Ferris wheel in the distance rising above it all. Tomorrow, this place will be flooded with fans, and lines will be drawn between the bands and the attendees, but tonight…tonight we have this entire field to ourselves to explore.
Ramses eventually breaks the silence. "I’m serious, though. If you’re tired of touring, holla at me first, yeah? Get your boy a recommendation letter." He cracks a loopy grin.
"I’ll keep that in mind," I say, knowing that I will not be stepping away anytime soon. It always feels like something is missing, but it’s not enough to make me want to stop touring with only the biggest rock band on the planet and give up that massive paycheck.
No one said being in a band with three entitled assholes would be a walk in the park.
And I’m a pro at beating the odds.
The smoke from the cigarette is curling around me like a ghost of my own thoughts when she catches my eye. I don’t even know where she came from. One minute, she wasn’t there, and the next, she’s directly in my line of vision.
A sparkle of orange in the colorless chaos—bright, untamed, like a little candlelight cutting through the darkness of a room. She’s walking with purpose but also a kind of uncertainty, like she’s not entirely sure where she’s going, but damn if she’s not going to get there anyway. Her hair is short, cropped at just above her shoulders, and it glows under the recently turned on festival lights like molten copper. It’s wild, and I can already tell it’s as much a part of her as the ink—old and new—on my skin are a part of me.
"Who’s the girl?" I ask Ramses, my voice casual, like I’m not already hooked.
She’s small, but she carries herself like she owns the ground beneath her feet. Her gym bag swings at her side, and I notice the way her arms flex slightly with the weight. There’s strength there, hidden beneath the soft curves of her figure. She’s wearing a tank top, and her jeans are ripped in all the places that matter. Her eyes—Jesus, her eyes—are wide and searching, the color of whiskey in dim light. They’re sharp, like she’s always one step ahead, but there’s a vulnerability there too, something raw and unguarded.
Ramses follows my gaze, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "That’s Wendy. Jett’s girl."
Jett’s girl.
The words settle in my chest like a stone. I didn’t peg Jett as the type to keep someone around long enough to call them his. He’s more of a hit-it-and-quit-it guy, the kind who leaves a trail of broken hearts and empty promises in his wake. But Wendy…she doesn’t look like someone who’d let herself be left behind.
"Jett’s got a girlfriend?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Since when?"
Ramses shrugs, his expression unreadable. "A while now. They’ve been…steady, I guess you could say."
I snort, shaking my head. "Steady? Jett? Didn’t think your drummer was the settling-down type."
Ramses snorts. "He’s not. But you know how it is. Girls who date rockstars either don’t know better or they don’t care. They stick around anyway."
I glance at him, grinning. "You saying she’s one of those?"
He shrugs, flicking an ash off his cigarette. "Who knows? Maybe she’s just riding the wave. Or maybe they have some sort of agreement. Beats me. Girls like her—they’re not exactly simple."
I watch her take a long swig of water from the plastic bottle she’s holding.
