Walking with TJ through his colorful shaded groves, barefoot in the grass, sneaking glances at each other.
“Are you paying attention?” Wily asks me at one point, more matter-of-fact and less annoyed. I pry my gaze from the window, mutter some smiling apology, and say something about needing a coffee. Wily stares at me suspiciously while Raj gets right on that, hopping from his chair to get me some in my favorite smiley mug.
That night in the hotel, Glorious and I stay up well after I get off the phone with TJ, having found a nice nook outside where I try (and fail) to befriend another stray, spooking the poor cat into the parking lot. But after I play and sing for a while, building a new tune on stolen kisses behind curtains and closed doors, I spot the cat watching from under an SUV, shiny eyes on me, listening.
The next show, I’m still piecing songs together in my dressing room minutes before we take the stage, and Dee, sent to come get me, even stops and finds herself sucked in. “That a new one?” she asks, hand to her chest, colorful wristbands covering her forearm. “It’s so hot. What’s it called?”
I bite my lip, as if I can actually taste TJ’s last kiss, before I say, “‘Down Bad For Him’.”
“Sounds like a lucky guy,” she says with a laugh—oblivious to the existence of an actual lucky guy—and then the pair of us are off to start another show.
And each time I come off that stage, texts await me. Pics of TJ on a bench. Or in his bed. One by that fountain with a coin on his palm and a handwritten message scribbled over the top: “Give you one guess what my wish is.” It’s the best nightcap I could ask for, still riding the high of another knockout show.
On the bus heading to our next venue, I’m in the bedroom, my guitar out, as I’m penciling down lyrics that keep circling my head. “Glorious has been working overtime lately,” notes Raj, stopping by my door. “Is that a new one about fearing heartbreak? Or being safe from it? I can’t tell.”
I lean back against the headboard. “Both. It’s called, ‘Break My Heart and Keep It’.”
“You’ll have a new album by the end of the tour at this rate. Scratch that. End of next Tuesday.” Then he leaves me to it with a smile, patting his thighs like drums as he walks away.
But no song can replace TJ’s laughter. No strumming late at night can replace his kisses.I’ve got to see him again.
By the time we hit New Orleans, TJ’s got a room booked in the same hotel as us. Guess someone super close to him gave a little hint where the band might be staying—wink, wink.
But we didn’t plan on the hotel being so crowded. Apparently a recording from one of our Texas shows went viral for some kind of “sexy cowboy singer” TikTok trend thing—I don’t know what the hell to call it, I don’t do social media—which caused our ticket sales to spike. The recording also caught my face pretty well, which I guess brewed up a storm online, because I wasn’t able to stroll down the street for a bag of beignets without fifteen people spotting me and screaming. “What do I do now?” I asked Rob just this morning, and he said, “Stay the hell in your room between shows, that’s what.”
‘Course that doesn’t stop my irresponsible ass from sneaking outta my safe hotel room. I wear shades and a hat tucked halfway down my forehead as I slip past a group of girlsin the hallway and a couple members of our crew. I even sneak by Ian himself at the ice machine, too busy talking on the phone to notice a wrecking ball coming through the wall. I hop on the first elevator headed up, then thread myself through the maze of hallways on the sixth.
The second I’m in front of TJ’s door, it cracks open.
Our eyes snap to each other’s—for a moment, dazed that the other one is actually, literally, physically there.
Then I’m yanked inside.
Door slams shut. And we embrace.
Full-on, tight-ass, clingy embrace with no end in sight.
“You smell so good,” I tell him.
He finds that funny for half a second before surrendering to the hug again and whispering, “You too.” Then our faces fumble toward one another’s with no other words exchanged. His soft lips catch mine. My hands slide up his body to the back of his head. I don’t even know what he’s wearing, only that seconds later, our clothes are all over the room and we’re making out on his squeaky hotel bed with such aggression, I can barely come up for air.
There’s an unexpected lull in our kisses, as if we both thought to pull away at the same time to check if the other one is actually here, confirming this isn’t just a dream.
“I brought a just-in-case,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows. “You brought a what?”
“I’m not expecting anything. That’s not what this is. We don’t have to have sex.” He takes a breath. “But I brought a just-in-case. So that we have one … just in case.”
“Are you talkin’ a condom?”
“Three.”
I’m stroking his hair, but I’ve paused, listening to him. “Look, TJ, we can do as much or as little as you—”
“I want it,” he cuts me off. “I want all of it.”
I’m reminded our hips are still crushed together on this bed. I’ve felt his erection grinding against me through his boxer-briefs for however long we’ve been assaulting each other’s faces.