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I don’t know when the sobs start. But I make it to the couch and cry into the arms of the man that has saved my life already and leave trails of snot over his never-really-clean shirt.
“Cedar,” Dad attempts to soothe, though I can feel the rage radiating off of his skin like the glow from the sun. “You are never going to have to worry about that prick again. I’m going to make it better.”
“Dad, no.” I grip his shirt and sob, desperate to keep him from ruining the life he hustled so hard to build. “No prison.”
“Never. Again. Cedar.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fin
“Wherethefuckhaveyou been?” Exasperated and throwing his hands up, Leo paces the floor of the RV living quarters with his normally meticulously styled blonde hair poking in all different directions and his pressed white shirt covered in wrinkles. “Just like Toby over here with the goddamn disappearing acts.”
I raise a brow at the band manager and set my helmet that still smells like her down on the marble countertop next to the door that slams shut behind me. “Well hello to you, too, Le,” I mock with the nickname we all know he hates.
“What the fuck, Fin?” Leo spins to me, rushing up close to my face with wild eyes and a heaving chest. “I called a meeting two hours ago.”
“And?” I scoff and brush past the abnormally obnoxious band manager. “I’m here now.”
“And?” Leo laughs, the sound on the verge of exposing the crazy. “This shit and we have a show in less than six hours. Andyou fuckers want to change shit up?”
“Yup.” I plop my tired ass into the leather cushion of the couch between Rex and the arm. I haven’t slept in … shit, I don’t even remember the last time I actually passed out for more than ten minutes, only to roll over and find Cedar’s ass high-tailing it out of the bed in the very back of this same bus. The thought alone makes my cock stir with memories of her hot pussy wrapped around me, the southern part of my brain counting all the ways to get back there again. “I had to check something out.”
“Bro,” Rex chuckles quietly and shakes his head at our brother, who goes back to pacing. “How was she?” he whispers to me with a furrow to his brow, his clasped hands covering his mouth, his elbows braced on his knees when he bends forward.
“She’ll be good,” I mutter back. “But I’m going to need a hand.”
“Name it.” I meet Rex’s hard stare and grit my jaw at the sincerity I see echoing back. Jutting my chin in acknowledgement and appreciation I know he picks up, I let out a tight breath.
Because I also know that Leo doesn’t lose his shit over nothing.
Theput together, keep all of us in line, take none of our shit without giving it back tenfoldband manager is still pacing the space like the tile beneath his feet will show him the answers to whatever has thrown him into a panic so long as he wears it down enough with his Oxfords.
This can’t be good.
“Are youfucknutslistening?“ Leo growls from his power stance at the front of the group when my gaze swings to him.
“Nah,” I attempt to jest with a shrug that feels forced. “Can you start from the top?”
“Okay, listen here, you assholes.” Leo brings his hands together in a thunderous clap that jolts Toby back to life from a dead sleep—which is probably a drunken stupor—and has the man that looks on the verge of homelessness snapping straight in his seat and wiping the sleepy drool from his bearded chin. Glancing around at the rest of the group—Rex and then Mac on his other side, Ian standing cross-armed at the helm of the bus with Jordan on his heel and Peach leaning against the frame that leads to the bedroom—we all swing our concerned glares on the manager and wait.
“Alright,” Rex grunts and rubs his hands together. “You got us, Le. Let’s go. What’s got your panties all twisted up?”
Leo shakes his head, his arms falling loose at his sides when Ian steps forward, his fancy go-go-gadget tablet in his grip. He taps the screen and spins it to show us a picture that makes my stomach fall through my asshole. The photo is dark, because it was taken at night—last fucking night—and filled with the very stage we’re supposed to play on in less than sixhours.
But it’s not the stage that has me thrusting to my feet and snatching the device from the brick shithouse of a bodyguard with no regard for my own safety if I piss him off.
No.
It’s what’s onthe stage that has me pinching at the screen and zooming in.
“Who?” Red hot anger rips through my veins and tightens my already tense muscles, the tablet creaking with the force of my grip when I raise my heated gaze up to Ian’s.
“Pure speculation is floating around on who has a pair of legs wrapped around them on stage after hours, but it won’t take long. I picked it up right away when the photo flagged.”
“The fucking guitar,” Rex growls from my left.
My guitar.
