“Nope! Stay right there!” Ava’s voice cuts through just as she hops onto the bus, arms full of envelopes and a couple of small packages. She nods at me with a grin. “We’ve got more for youto sign. Fan mail came in—security already screened it in the roadie bus. And there’s a big one in there.”
“Really?” Missy says, excitement clear in her voice, lifting her head just as a massive flat cardboard box makes its way inside. It’s huge as fuck, and a very disgruntled-looking Asher is barely visible behind it.
I can tell it’s already been checked since the top’s open, but my grin still ticks up. I fuckinglovefan mail. Always have. And I’m dying to know what we got this time.
“Ah, look at them,” Bowie muses as Ava dumps the pile onto the coffee table and plops down cross-legged, immediately digging through the stack. “So cute. They’re still excited about this.”
“You should be excited as well, always,” Ava says, tossing a small packet toward Missy, probably with her name on it. “It’s a privilege. We should always thank them. Without the fans, there’s no band.”
“She’s right about that,” Asher adds, settling beside his girl. “That one’s yours, Jace.” He nods toward the big box now stationed in front of the TV. “Ava wanted to open it, but—”
“Look, it’s a leather thong!” Missy exclaims, waving it in Bowie’s face, dangling it by the end of the Sharpie Ava just handed her. “If I wasn’t in doubt about whether it’s new or, uh… previously loved, I’d totally wear it for you.”
Bowie chuckles, draping his arm behind her head. “You sure you don’t wanna keep this up after the tour? I’m down if you are, ya know.”
She flashes him a quick smile, one of those easy, unreadable ones. But I know her well enough to recognize it. This is a fling, just a tour thing. She likes him, sure. I can see that much. But she doesn’tlovehim. Not like she loved Lamar. Bowie’s a very convenient, very sexy rebound. Maybe she and Lam will find their way back to each other. Maybe not.
I still think she made a mistake. But it’s not my place to judge it. I can only be there when she needs me. Like she’s always been there for me.
My attention flickers to the big flat box again. What could a fan possibly send me that wouldfitin there? It’s too flat to be anything other than a cardboard sign from a concert or something like that. Maybe from some wayward fan wanting us to have a piece of their night.
“Was there a return sender on it?” I ask Asher as I veer around the coffee table and lift the box. Yeah, it’s very light. That only confirms my theory. Can’t be anything offensive, though; it’s already been checked.
I catch myself smiling, already kind of excited. I love those signs. The love and heart our fans put into them? It fuckinggetsme. And I especially love all the neon they put into it. It’s flashy as hell, but Ava nailed that aesthetic. It fits us perfectly.
I tilt the box at an angle to peer through the open flap, but can’t quite make out what’s in there.
Suddenly Mick and Bowie are next to me, helping hold it steady so I can slide out the—
That’s not a sign. The shape is all wrong.
We pull it all the way out, and yeah, it’s a full-size cardboard cutout of… what? I flip it upright, my brows soaring as high as then can go, and—
Holy shit.
I blink. Bite my bottom lip to keep the amused snort from bubbling out of my throat.
Oh, I’m going to havesomuch fucking fun with this. The whole day just got a hell of a lot better. Fuck it, my entireweekgot a hell of a lot better.
“Oh look, there’s a little flap at the back so it can stand up,” Bowie says, fiddling with it. We get it upright, and there it is.
A life-size version of thehottestphoto I’ve ever seen of my quarterback.
Holy hell. It’s in full high-res, glossy finish. I can see every fucking vein on Ty’s tawny arms where they’re crossed over his chest, every tiny dot of dark stubble along his jaw, even the goddamn outline of his magnificent dick through those black shorts with orange side stripes.
“Really? Is this what he thinks is a good gift or something? Is it supposed to beromantic?” Mick scoffs behind me, and I can hear the fucking disdain in his voice.
Because yeah, he’s right. This really issonot Ty’s style, and it’s not romantic at all. It’shot as fuck.
“This looks more like foreplay to me,” Ava chimes in, and I glance over my shoulder to see both girls nodding in tandem. “If you start dry-humping that thing, I’m filming it. Just so you know.”
I shrug. “Is it weird that I kind ofwantto hump it?” Shit, it’s even the right size. The board’s just as tall as he is. My arms actuallyitchto pull it close, hell, to drag it to my bunk and sleep on top of it or something.
I can think ofotherthings to do with it, too. And take pics while doing them, just for him.
“Jesus,” Bowie mutters, circling the cutout. “He even has muscles in his neck. That’s not normal, right?”
I don’t know why I do it, but I grab the orange and black scarf that’s haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch—the one Ty’s mom, Anne, made me for Christmas—and wrap it around cardboard-Ty’s neck in a rush. It’s stupid, I know that. But it’smycardboard-Ty. And everyone else can fuck right off with their snickering.
