I think he knows he fucked up with his comments during Ty’s visit and is dialing it down a bit. Even though more pictures of us together seem to pop up by the day.
I swear he has some secret private detective taking those shots, because every time he touches me during a jog—little things, like clapping my shoulder or leaning on me while fixing his shoes—it’s online within hours.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure hewantsthe story out there. And I haven’t said this to Jodie or the band, but I’m starting to believe it’s not even aboutmeanymore. It’s about media exposure.
Let’s face the cold, hard truth: yeah, they’re one of the biggest rock bands of the last decade—but their sales have been dwindling. They haven’t had a hit in quite some time. Their last album? Flopped. Big time.
And us? We’re young. We’re hot. We’re everywhere right now. You can’t open social media or any major music site without seeing our faces plastered across it.
I’m sure that what started as an infatuation, as some flirting, has now morphed into something else. Something toxic. Even though he’s been quieter and his remarks are less offensive, he’saroundmore.
Like right the fuck now.
I eye him warily when he steps on the bus and walks to the little pop-up office me and Jodie kind of created at the breakfast nook in our bus. Bowie drops on the couch where Missy’s lounging after he followed his brother in. We’re parked at the next venue, and me and Jodie needed to go over a few things for my dad.
I thought we lived in a digital era, but apparently when your visa gets mixed up, you’ve got a million documents to print, sign, and file like it’s fucking 1997.
“So, still not sure if you’re gonna keep gracing us with your presence?” Mick asks, tapping one long finger on an envelope Jodie just set down—the address for the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services clearly visible. “Well, I for one, hope you can stay. Tour wouldn’t be the same without you.”
He sounds almost… remorseful. Like he’s actually trying to be a considerate human being for once or something equally unbelievable. I quirk a brow at him.
“What?” he adds with a smirk. “Why did that little quarterback of yours not just offer to get hitched so you can stay? I’ll marry you in a fucking heartbeat. Green card or not.”
Andtherewent the fucking remorse.
A stone the size of his stupid head drops into my stomach. Fuck him for insinuating that Tyler wouldn’t marry me if I asked. He would. Iknowhe would. Shit—I’m sure we’re in this for the long haul. I feel it in every fucking fiber of who I am, and everything I’lleverbe. He’sitfor me. If I believed in any of that soulmate shit, then fuck yes, he’s mine.
But I don’t want him to marry me out of obligation. I wouldneverask that of him. It’s not the basis I want to build our relationship on, and I’m pretty sure Ty knows and agrees with that.
We haven’t talked about the deportation issue much. We’ve been letting my dad handle it. He’s still saying it’ll be fine. That’s why I’ve got this twenty-page-long form sitting in front of me, which he forwarded to us, waiting to be signed and sent.
I snort, the corner of my mouth pulling up, still trying to be somewhat nice whenever I interact with Mick. “Thanks for the generous offer, but I’d rather get deported than be married to you.”
His gaze sharpens, turns challenging, and then he gives me a fucking wink. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Just remember that the offer stands when they decline your permit.”
He turns around with that, dropping next to his brother, putting Bowie between him and Missy.
“He’s serious about that, ya know?” Bowie says, clapping Mick on his knee, which earns him a huff and a glare. “He hardly ever offers anyoneanything. And if he does, he follows through.”
Mick tilts his head slightly, dark eyes back on me, voice low and seductive: “I’mverygood at following through.”
I meet his gaze. And yeah, maybe I was wrong. Because thewant? It’s still very much there. Sharp and obvious and clinging to him like what-the-fuck-ever.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to really give them a piece of my mind about hisoffer, but I bite it back. Barely. Four weeks, Iremind myself. I have to survive four more weeks. Then we’re free, free of them, ofhim, and can finally focus on doing our own thing. Our own tour, which is going to be so much fucking better.
Thank fuck my BFFF—best friend for-fucking-ever—Missy, comes to the rescue.
“Please. If he’s going to marry anyone to stay in the country, it’s gonna be me,” she says, all casual confidence. “I already offered, and he accepted. Besides, we look fucking hot together, so fuck you very much.”
“What? Really?” Bowie chimes in. “You didn’t even think I should know my girl wants to marry someone else for citizenship?” But his grin gives him away. He’s just shitting around.
Missy rolls her eyes. “Please, don’t start, Bow. We both know this is a tour-fuck arrangement at best.” Then she turns to me with a sharp snap of her piercing gaze. “But you know, ‘Missy Janssen’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue. Maybe I should rethink it.”
I give her a grateful smile. Yup. She offered, all right, the day after Tyler left. And I’m pretty sure that if it ever comes to that, if marrying her is the last resort, I’ll take it. I’ll have to. I still don’t think it’s going to get that far, but it helps to know I have the option. Even though I’m well the fuck aware there are strict rules and inspections around that sort of thing.
Jodie taps her pen impatiently on the stack of papers she just lined up in front of me, refocusing my thoughts. “Just sign these, and then they’ll be good to go.”
I do what she says, hand her the papers, and throw the pen on the table before moving to get up, planning to excuse myself and go retreat to my bunk until Mick’s outta here.
