“We can fix that,” he offered.
“How?”
“We’ll go get one.”
“Wait, serious?”
“Hell yeah, come on,” he said, catching me by the sleeve and tugging me back into the room.
“Hey guys, new plan,” Rebel declared. “Kit’s never flown a kite before. There’s a bunch of people flying them in the park; let’s go pick up a couple and show him how it’s done.”
“Never flown…” Johnny sputtered as he turned the flat screen off. “Yeah, we need to remedy that.”
“Huh, wait, we really don’t have to…” I sputtered, snagging a wing as I was swept past the table and out the door, where we were joined by the men assigned to guard us.
Johnny’s mouth was going a thousand miles a minute as he explained what we were up to, and all the while I just bit into that wing and wondered if I was up to the challenge of keeping up with their brand of chaos.
The answer was easy.
Hell yeah, I was!
Chapter 7
(Rebel)
“So, what’s it going to be tonight, after-party, or are you sneaking off somewhere with your favorite guard?” Johnny asked, slinging a sweaty arm around my shoulder, not that I wasn’t a hot mess too.
We’d just finished an outdoor set in the blazing heat, tripping over water bottles after we’d chugged the hell out of the contents, and I could still use another one, especially with a hot body draped all over me.
“Not my favorite,” I complained, brushing him and his damn powers of observation off me so I could grab another cold bottle of water from catering.
Johnny being Johnny, he just followed me over to the table and snagged a couple of bottles for himself; one he dumped over his head before shaking his damned hair everywhere like an oversized puppy.
“I was already planning on a shower, thanks,” I grumbled, wishing for the t-shirt I’d been wearing at the start of the set so I could wipe my face.
I’d tossed it into the crowd three songs in, the moment I’d started growing overheated, and seriously considered stripping off my denim shorts too and playing in just my boxers. My guitarwould have covered any bits that happened to fall out, though if anything had slipped and wound up on social media, Draven would have had my head. That was the only thing that held me back, well, and my tendency to stage dive with Johnny while Ozzy was playing one of his infamous drum solos.
“Seriously though, are you coming to the after-party tonight?” Johnny persisted.
“I’m shocked you’re going,” I replied, still deflecting, because now that he’d mentioned my favorite guard, I realized I’d maybe been a bit too obvious when I’d sought him out after shows.
Would it stop me from seeking him out again? Hell no. But I’d certainly be more circumspect about it.
“Draven said there are supposed to be a few DJs there that he wants us to chat with in the hopes they’ll want to have us on for an interview,” Johnny explained. “Between the two of us, I figure we can share just enough behind-the-scenes tidbits to snag their attention.”
“Or you could just show them the video of you dangling upside down from the rigging with your pants around your ankles, still singing for the fans,” I pointed out. “That should be good for an invite or two.”
“There was nothing else I could do but sing in that situation,” Johnny growled, “and fuck you all very much for not erasing that video.”
“Hey, I did erase it,” I protested. “From my phone. You never said anything about the cloud or any other digital storage places.”
“I hate you so hard right now,” Johnny grumbled.
“Good, maybe you’ll stop bugging me about the after-party."
“Hey, if you don’t want to go, just say so, and I’ll go pester Dash,” Johnny said. “But it’s always more fun when you and I work a room.”
“It used to be,” I said. “Before Draven claimed that ass and turned Johnny Fuckin’ Amaral into Johnny ‘don’t fuckin’ touch me’ Amaral.”