“Eat!” She claps and kicks her legs.
Poor thing is so sweaty. So am I. I wipe my forehead with my arm before I pull out a cloth diaper, dampen it, and wipe her face and neck and arms. “Better?”
“Behha.”
If Jace and I break up, I’ll lose Layla too. The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I dig through my backpack until I find her bottle, which I’ve kept cold with an ice pack. She needs to hydrate. She sucks it down and makes hungry little noises. That won’t hold her over long. I need to get her some dinner. I meant to bring her a snack, but it’s not in my bag.
Do I go back to the bus and skip the promo table? That’s not a tough decision tonight.
Screw the dumb promo table. Frank can take video if he wants it.
I finally brave my phone. The screen lights up with three missed calls from Jace. Yeah, I’m not calling him back right now.
I pull up our texts. There are four new ones.
Jace: I’m so sorry about tonight.
Jace: I swear I didn’t plan that.
Jace: Where are you?
Jace: Call me!
Layla kicks me, and I realize her father could be worried about her.
It’s a good reality check. Jace hired me for a job, not to be his bedmate. Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean I can slack on my responsibilities with Layla.
So even though I’d like to toss my phone at the nearest concrete pillar and tell Jace to go fuck himself, I respond rather professionally, I think.
Me: I’m tired and I forgot Layla’s dinner. Headed back to the bus. Please tell Frank to record whatever he wants, and I’ll post it tomorrow.
I hit send and shove it in my purse.
More than anything, I feel stupid for encouraging Jace to do that duet. I can appreciate that he didn’t have much of a choice, but there I was, trying to be supportive, pushing him to sing with that gorgeous woman.
I’m so in my head, I forget to call Edmond to tell him I’m returning to the bus. I pause in the hallway because the next act has started. Marlowe.
Listening, I pause and close my eyes. She’s so versatile. Earlier, with Jace, her voice was light and airy. But now it’s huskier and more emotional.
If I didn’t hate her so much, I’d be a huge fan.
My feet weigh a hundred pounds as I push Layla’s stroller through the concourse. When I get outside, I breathe in the cool air, relieved I’m almost done for tonight. It’s drizzling, so I pull out a small blanket from my backpack and cover the baby.
I push the stroller through the main parking lot. It isn’t until we reach the back area that I realize it’s completely blocked off. What the hell?
As I stand in the rain, I realize I’ve never approached the bus this way. I’m always backstage where I access the tunnels the roadies use.
I bite my tongue so I don’t curse like a sailor.
I’ve never felt like I was going to have a full-blown meltdown as an adult, but here I am, once again on the verge of tears.
I’m not sure how, but I manage to keep my emotions in check. An eternity later, I’m backstage, hoping to avoid Jace. I spot him and his band on the opposite end of the large room where the production crew runs around and VIP fans wait in line, hoping to spend a minute with Wayward Sons.
Jace smiles and signs autographs while women fawn and gush and tell him he’s their favorite, batting their abnormally long eyelashes at him or shaking their large assets.
Jace doesn’t seem fazed at all by what happened tonight. Why am I the one tied up in knots when he’s freaking fine?