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“Yeah, yeah,” Ian huffs, his eyes darting from the windshield to the rearview. “Just makes my job harder. As if you fuckers don’t do that enough as it is.”
Rex snorts and slaps a heavy palm on Ian’s shoulder. “You love us.”
“Fuck you.”
I can’t help the laugh that bursts out past my lips and fogs up the windshield as I hold out my makeshift mug, maneuvering the thing in the air to make sure none of the liquid spills in my lap.
Don’t want to add burned balls to the already blue ones.
“You’re not the secret service, Ian.” I clutch the oh-shit handle when Ian whips the SUV out onto another street with little regard for who else is around. “And that’s not the endangered president in the back.”
“Hey.” Rex reaches between the seats and slams his raised knuckle into the ball of my already bruised shoulder. “I could fuckin’ be.”
“Pffft,” I scoff. “In your fuckin’ dreams, dillweed.” I grimace and switch the carafe to my other hand so I can rub at the one now radiating tingles clear down to my elbow that may or may not have slammed into multiple humans just yesterday.
That’s also bruised.
Stupid mosh pit.
I loved every minute of it.
The sloshing of the coffee in the carafe reminds me to take another long pull from the now-cooled elixir that’s just the right temp to not burn, but still warm its way down.
“Did you really have to take that from the bus?” Ian shakes his head and eases the car into a parking lot at a much slower speed now that he knows we weren’t followed.
“Yup.”
I swear I catch him hiding a chuckle when he leans to check his blind spot on his left, but when he faces back to the front, all humor is gone from his straightened face.
“Cold, Ian.”
“Again,” he mutters and throws the SUV in park. “Fuck you.”
The bodyguard’s boots are hitting the pavement and circling the SUV before his door can even finish closing. He’s got his hands to both handles for mine and Rex’s doors and flings them open, only to leave us staring at his back as he just walks away from us.
“Hey,” Rex calls as he unfolds himself and his instrument from the back seat. “Where the fuck you going?”
Ian’s large shoulders lift and I slam my door at my back after securing my now empty carafe on the floorboard as Rex’s chuckle echoes beside me.
“Looks clear as fuck to me,” Ian calls, his feet carrying him closer to the entrance, which happens to be an old rusty door in the back of an establishment that looks like it could use a little TLC. His meaty fist raises, pounding on the surface that threatens to crumble under his assault. “No one said you had to get out of the fucking car.”
Looking around, I note the alleyway we’ve parked in the middle of that’s surrounded by destroyed brick walls. More pebbles and glass litter the ground than actual asphalt, with a rickety fire escape that hangs lifeless just overhead. The supports and paint long ago wiped away by the years of severe weather and serious hoodlum abuse—as if the graffiti painted onto the brick and the bars on the windows weren’t enough of an indication.
I dig into my pocket, fishing out my phone and snagging Rex so that his shoulder bumps into mine. I regret the closeness when pain shoots up my arm, but raise my phone with the camera app open and snap a selfie with the grinning lead singer anyway. I snort when he raises a middle finger to the phone, and join him with one of my own.
It takes two seconds to upload the photo to socials with the single hashtag—where are we?—just as I have been doing since the night this tour started.
“Where the hell did you bring us, Ian?” I step closer to the bodyguard’s back and tap his shoulder.
“Best breakfast in town. Again,” Ian says as he throws his glacial blue, almost grey, eyes over his shoulder and tilts his head back to the car, “didn’t say you had to get out.”
“Right,” Rex snorts and tugs to adjust the strap of the guitar he should have left in the car when the door flings open and we’re rushed inside by a man clad in an already stained apron and one of those weird cook hats.
We’re silently led through the kitchen, Ian taking up the back of the line like the guy in front of us is kosher, and don’t stop until we’re in some hallway that seems to be between where the food is prepped and where the patrons sit. The scent of bacon grease and fresh bread thickens the air in the cramped space and makes my mouth water.
The cook and our bodyguard share a single look before the apron strides away from our group and leaves us standing just down the way from the bathrooms and the milling customers taking up tables in the dining area.
Leaning around Ian to catch a glimpse of the end of the hall, the bodyguard snaps a hand out against my chest and forces me to reverse my steps until my back is against the wall and his bulky frame blocks the view of anyone that happens to get curious.
