I give her a chance to lament about her own love life—or lack thereof—until the time I’m supposed to leave creeps up on us and I pull my phone out to order an Uber.
“This is all you’re taking with you?” Monroe asks, as she helps me carry my stuff down the stairs of her building and out onto the sidewalk.
I’ve got a carry-on size suitcase and my violin. My one extravagance is the mini espresso machine JP ordered me to bring under penalty of death if I denied him. I’ve never actually been on a tour before, so maybe I’m severely underestimating my needs, but I can’t see myself wanting more than a few outfits.
“Yep, this is it. You know I like my black and grey. I can make infinite clothing combinations.”
“Yeah, I know. When you hang out with Cole, you guys always look like ninjas. Where are you meeting the band?”
“The place where they’re renting the bus from,” I tell her. “We get into Boston tonight and then play our first show tomorrow.”
My ride pulls up, and Monroe throws her arms around me a second time.
“Call me whenever,” she says into my shoulder, squeezing me tight.
“Thanks,” I manage to reply around the lump that suddenly forms in my throat.
This is it. I’m really leaving. It hits me that I have no idea what kind of life I’ll be coming back to in three weeks. I don’t know exactly what I’m saying goodbye to right now, but it feels like a whole lot more than Monroe.
I pull myself together after I climb into the backseat of the Uber and watch the streets of Montreal fly by. Just like the people here, the houses tell stories too. If you take the time to scan the rooftops, you’ll find crumbling turrets and glaring gargoyles in places you’d least expect. This city looks like it was built by runaway children picking through other people’s scraps.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so at home here.
We keep driving until we reach the edge of town and pull into the rental lot. It’s not hard to spot where I’m supposed to be. The Uber driver nods towards the dozen or so people piling black cases into a huge silver bus and asks, “That you?”
I nod, and he drops me off in the midst of the mayhem. I don’t spot any of the Sherbrooke Station guys. Everyone is so busy shouting to each other and rushing around that I stand there unnoticed for about a minute before a guy with a tablet glances my way.
“Oh, you must be the violinist!” He walks over to shake my hand. There are sweat stains blooming along the back of his vibrantly blue button-down, but other than that, he looks exceptionally well put together. Maybe eventooput together; he could have stepped out of an office building. “I’m Sanjay, the tour manager.”
He steps back after dropping my hand and glances at the bags sitting by my feet.
“Those will fit,” I hear him mutter to himself as he nods and then goes back to shouting at people.
I stand there, forgotten for another few minutes, until the sound of a blaring car horn rings out and a rusty old Toyota van wheezes its way into the lot. I’ve been for a ride or two in The Chick Magnet myself, the sorry looking thing that was Sherbrooke Station’s only tour vehicle back in the day. I’m surprised it’s even still legal to have that thing on the road. At the moment, it seems to have all four guys and their stuff in it.
“We’re here, bitches!” Ace calls out the driver’s side window, blasting the horn again as he pulls up.
JP throws the passenger side door open before the van is even in park and vaults out onto the pavement. He starts heading towards the stack of gear still waiting to be piled into the bus’s storage compartments and pauses as he passes me.
“Mademoiselle,” he greets me, reaching for my hand so he can kiss it. “You look lovely this afternoon.”
I roll my eyes. “You flirt.”
He shrugs and winks at me as he continues towards the throng.
“Hey, Roxanne,” Ace calls, passing by as he follows JP.
“Hey, Roxy,” Matt echoes. He’s got a guitar case in each of his hands and heads over to talk to Sanjay.
Which means there’s only one more person left in The Chick Magnet. I keep myself angled towards the tour bus, but that doesn’t stop me from hearing his footsteps approach on the asphalt and pause a few inches behind me.
“Hey.”
One word. Just one word from him, and I shiver. I pull my hands into fists at my sides. I didn’t come here to get tongue-tied. I came here to sort shit out. Drawing in a breath, I turn around to face him.
“He—”
I don’t even finish the word before the air gets lodged in my throat. He’s so damn beautiful. The harsh lines of his cheekbones are softened by the hint of a beard, and the swell of his full lips is so decadent it’s almost obscene. That’s all that’s soft about him, though. Everything else is sharp points and angles. Even the black ink that covers his arms has a fierceness to it.
