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“Vida.” The deep snap comes from the back of the bus and belongs to the one man that can get Mac to calm down.
Even if it’s only for a minute.
The same man that was blamed for the leak of a video that happened to occur in Mac’s hotel room and received a broken nose, curtesy of one overprotective and concerned twin.
I still don’t know how the hell he got back on the job, or who was really in the video, but I guess that’s not mine to know. As long as Ian’s good, Rex isn’t breaking noses or worse, and Mac is cool, then so the fuck am I.
Bigger fish and all.
Like making sure no one gets too close to Cedar.
“Not fair.” Mac shoots up from his seat and heads after his bodyguard, who is also missing his shirt, and I try desperately to ignore the undone jeans around his trim waist.
“You’re the one that said you wanted to run. Now let’s go.” Jordan Kauffman wraps his thick and newly tatted arm around the back of his client’s neck and drags him the rest of the way down the short hall to the room in the back of the bus.
“I saidcardio,” Mac mutters as the door slams behind them and shuts them off from the rest of us before he can say any more shit I don’t wanna know about.
“So?” I turn to see Rex towering over me, his hand held out in offering. “We eat and we write.”
Furrowing my brow and rolling my eyes so far that they actually hurt, I sigh and slap my free hand into the lead singer’s palm. “We better fuckin’ write this time.”
“Yep.” I force the man to lift most of my weight up off of the couch until I’m the one towering over him—if only by an inch—and hold up the carafe still attached to my other hand.
“But I’m taking this.” I take a sip when Rex steps back, certain that I’m not going to flop back into the comfort of my seat, and release my index finger from the handle to point it in his direction. “And you’re buying me more coffee.”
“Fine,” Rex mutters as he rolls his eyes and adjusts the strap of his guitar bag back onto his shoulder.
Almost like it was practiced, we both turn to Ian, who stands at the ready, his eyes peeking out of the blind of the little window set in the door, then we both look at each other.
“Ian,” I poke.
“There’s going to be a shit ton of people,” Rex adds oh so helpfully.
“Shut up,” Ian mutters.
“We’re camped right inside a music festival,” I state.
“I can feel the fucking bass from here,” Rex comments, his lips pinched between his teeth to tame his rising laughter.
“Can you two let me do my job?” Ian growls, his sight not leaving whatever target he’s zeroed in on and I have to bite back the grin that threatens to break free when Rex’s brow wings in my direction.
Fairly sure that was a non-verbal way of saying that we need to make Ian’s life difficult.
Okay.
“Or,” I start and tag my knuckles against Rex’s bicep when he inches closer to the irritated security guard.
“You could let us do ours,” Rex finishes. I snort at that when Ian’s heated gaze swings on the two of us now standing right over his shoulder in the cramped space that was not meant for one six-foot-tall guy, let alone all three of us over that.
Ian releases a growling sigh and tosses the door open, leading us out into the wild that is the backstage camp of the venue.
Cameras flash and backstage passes bob past as we make a quick escape down the side of the RV to the gap in the fence with one of our security vehicles parked just on the other side.
“They weren’t supposed to let all these fuckers back here,” Ian growls once we’re all secured in the vehicle and the engine roars to life.
“You say that like other bands and staff can’t be fans, too.” I snap my seatbelt in place when Ian floors the SUV out onto the service road in the direction away from the venue.
“And like they aren’t inviting fans in to ‘hang out’.” Rex uses air quotes to make his point, securing his guitar between his knees so he can hold on for dear life when Ian turns a corner too fast.
