Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“Where is Justine?” I ask, suddenly needing to see her, to make sure she’s handling all this okay.
“Downstairs making breakfast,” Hendrix says. “Elle called an emergency meeting with both bands when we get to the hotel.”
“Emergency meeting? Fun said no one ever.” My stomach clenches. This could be a good thing, and Elle is strategizing or it’s a bad thing and she wants to do damage control. In hindsight, I should’ve waited until my sister recovered from childbirth. Not a week after having the boys, she’s meeting us at the hotel. Hopefully, after this, she’ll go home and rest.
“Relax,” Dana says. “It’s not an emergency like someone died. It’s an emergency like your sister needs to completely restructure her media strategy because her client just became half of the most talked-about couple in rock music.”
“I fucked up,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “My actions were incredibly selfish. She just had twins and she’s flying around putting fires out because . . .”
“Stop,” Ajay says after he hangs up with Jamie. “You’re allowed to live your life. It’s not your fault your manager doesn’t trust her assistant to take care of things and must have her hand in the cookie jar all the freaking time.”
I stare at Ajay and process his mini rant. I don’t even know how to respond except to say, “I’m telling Elle.”
Everyone busts up laughing. Hendrix snorts, making us laugh harder. Ajay waves us away, looking annoyed.
“Sorry, man.”
“I’m just trying to help,” Ajay says.
I get up and give him a hug. “Thanks. I do agree, but my sister doesn’t delegate well. I think I’ll text Ben and tell him to put his foot down and keep her ass at home.”
Dana cackles. “Good fucking luck, dude.”
On that note, I stop by my bunk, put some sweatpants on and head downstairs. The girls are huddled in the small kitchenette, making breakfast. The smell of bacon makes my stomach pang from hunger. I glance at the clock on the microwave and see that it’s after one in the afternoon.
“Isn’t it lunch?” I ask. At the sound of my voice, Justine looks over her shoulder. The smile she gives me, mischievous and sexy, causes my knees to buckle and leaves me no choice but to reach for the table.
“It’s only lunch for people who got up before noon,” Justine says.
“And we all got up late,” Wynonna says. “Do you like pancakes?”
“I love them,” I tell her, barely taking my eyes off Justine. “Everyone upstairs does. Hendrix in particular likes his with chocolate chips.”
Wynonna blushes at the mention of Hendrix’s name, and instantly I’m curious. Does she have a crush, or has he been flirting?
“We’ll bring everything upstairs,” Priscilla tells me. I nod, reading the cue loud and clear, and head upstairs, letting everyone know breakfast will be served in the lounge. I hate feeling like I’m being dismissed, but I get it. As much as I’d love to spend every second with Justine, I have to share her with her bandmates.
After some time, we’re gather at a truck stop to have a meeting with Elle via video chat. Per her last email, she needed to eat, wanted grease, and she was the boss, so we had to stop even though she isn’t with us.
The diner is one of those classic American establishments with checkered floors and vinyl booths that have seen better decades. The smell of coffee and bacon grease hangs in the air, and there’s a jukebox in the corner playing Patsy Cline. It’s surreal to be discussing media strategy for rock’s “newest power couple” in a place that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1975.
Justine hurries in with the rest of Plum just as our waitress—a woman named Dolores according to her name tag—brings us coffee and a stack of menus. Justine slides into the booth next to me, and I catch her hand under the table. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and some of the tension in my chest eases.
She looks tired but excited, the top of her hair pulled up in a messy bun and yesterday’s makeup slightly smudged. She’s beautiful and seeing her makes everything else fade into background noise.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, squeezing my hand. “You?”
“Better now.”
Elle clears her throat, and we all turn our attention to the computer. She’s in full manager mode wearing a blazer and a serious expression, but something tells me she has sweats on where the camera can’t see.
“Okay,” Elle starts, not bothering with pleasantries. “The good news is that everyone loves you two together. The story is overwhelmingly positive—heartbreak to healing, finding love through music, all that romantic bullshit people eat up.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.
Elle ignores me completely. “The bad news is that everyone wants a piece of you now. Interview requests, appearance requests, photo shoots, reality show offers that I’ve already declined without asking.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. “Justine, Plum’s Instagram followers tripled overnight. Your streaming numbers are up 400%. Sinful Distraction’s numbers are similarly up across all platforms.”