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Bo still snored—the guy could sleep like a baby through anything. Sloan’s bunk was empty, as were Kit’s and Matt’s. The bus wasn’t moving so they must be parked somewhere. They were probably off getting breakfast, but he just wanted a long, hot shower.
Was Sloan right? Is that what everyone else thought too? Taylor let the water wash away the grime he always felt from sleeping on the bus along with his negative thoughts. Sloan was just being his usual dick self. He hadn’t always been like this, and Taylor missed the funny, caring guy he used to be. He missed the man who was his brother and he wished he knew how to get him back.
When he opened the bathroom door, Bo was standing there waiting his turn. Without a word, Taylor patted him on the back and dragged his weary ass to the kitchenette with the intent of making himself some tea. It cures everything, right? He put the kettle on, sat down at the banquette to wait, and closed his eyes.
Before the whistle on the kettle blew, the bus door squeaked open. Expecting to see Sloan and the boys, Taylor was surprised to see their manager, CJ, instead. Curtis James, but he didn’t like to be called that. They all loved the bloke, and they trusted him implicitly. Did as he asked without question. He’d put up with them, and their debauchery, from the beginning. Not that he didn’t benefit from it. The guy got a nice percentage and more pussy than most men see in a lifetime.
“Hey, Taylor.” CJ slapped his shoulder.
Sloan and the boys were right behind him carrying in containers of breakfast takeaway and coffee, judging by the smell.
“Here.” Sloan handed him a Styrofoam container and a paper cup like it was a peace offering. “It’s tea. Where’s Sleeping Beauty?”
“Thanks.” He took the tea and the food. “He’s in the shower.”
As he chewed on a strip of bacon, Taylor wondered what CJ was doing here. He met them out on tour from time to time, but he usually stayed behind in the city. Something must be up. He didn’t recall this visit being planned. CJ and the boys joined him at the banquette, not looking at him with their faces planted in their food, going at it like a pack of wild dogs.
Taylor glanced out the window to see a larger-than-life hockey player in blue and white painted on a parking garage staring back at him and washed down the bacon with some tea. Tampa then. He smirked. “Here on business, CJ, or did you just want to get away from the snow and the whinger?”
No one laughed.
CJ looked up. “Actually, uh…” He dropped his plastic fork. “…uh, it’s both.”
“Well, go on.” No one else picked their head up. “What is it?”
“Yeah, uh.” He swallowed. Taylor could see the muscles work in his throat. “There’s a nineteen-year-old girl…no, she’s twenty now I think.” He sighed. “Anyway, she’s claiming you’re the father of her newborn daughter.”
He laughed because how many times had he heard that before? How many times had they all heard that before?
CJ threw a thick envelope on the table. “Process server paid me a visit yesterday. You’ve been named in a paternity suit.”
Now that had never happened before.
The fuck?
He angled his head to the side, not believing what he’d just heard. “What?”
“This girl claims she engaged in consensual sex with you after a concert in the back of this very bus, right here in Florida. Kid was born in Orlando a couple days ago.”
He was counting backwards nine months on his fingers. They were in Florida last May on the last leg of their tour before they came home. “Who is this girl and why is she just coming forward with this shite now?”
Sloan shrugged with a chuckle. “Maybe she wanted to see if the kid came out looking like you first.”
“It’s not funny, Sloan,” Bo softly admonished him. Taylor hadn’t even noticed that he was there until he spoke.
“Sorry.”
“Who is she?” Taylor slammed his fist on the table.
“Her name is Shelley Tompkins. I was able to find her on Facebook, but she hasn’t posted anything in the last six months and not much before that…” He sighed again. Taylor wished he would quit doing that. “…except this photo at your concert last year.”
A photo of two giddy-looking girls in front of their tour bus, in front of Amalie Arena, stared back at him. He was well acquainted with that look and he kept himself well away from it. Usually. One of the girls was blonde. Pretty enough, he supposed.
“That photo don’t mean shit.”
Thank you, Matt.
Bo looked over his shoulder. “The blonde?”
