“Who cares?” I cut in. “Let’s just go.” I grab my purse and a piece of chocolate from a basket on the end table. “I can’t even with her. She is the rudest, snobbiest, brattiest, most selfish, ignorant, ridiculous, phony—”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Mom interrupts. She throws her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s not let her ruin our night.”
I sigh heavily and try to shake it off as we make our way out of the studio, but my heart is pumping fast and my whole body feels hot. That girl infuriates me more than any other person on the planet.
“Nobu, West Hollywood,” my mom reminds our driver as he holds the door open for us outside. “You know,” she says as we get settled, “I think Kayelee’s just threatened, Bird.”
I crack my window and take a deep breath. I want to push the run-in out of my mind. This is my first night out since the tour started, and all I want to do is eat sushi and enjoy time with my mom. I do not want to think about poor little rich, successful Kayelee Ford.
3
“THAT IS SO disgusting,” I hear Stella say from outside my door on the tour bus a couple of days later.
“Why?” Dylan asks.
“You licked my ice cream cone!” she cries. “Your tongue touched my food.”
I yawn and look over at the time on my phone, nap officially over.
“So? It’s no worse than kissing.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Disgusting.”
“As if you don’t dream about it every night.”
“I dream about ways to strangle you, not kiss you.”
I smile.
“Denial is the first sign,” Dylan goes on.
“No, ‘da Nile’ is a river in Egypt.”
He groans. “Oh, you are even cornier than Bird.”
At that I laugh out loud.
“Bird, are you awake?” Stella calls. “Your brother is an idiot.”
“Your best friend wants me!” Dylan calls in response.
I giggle and stretch as I throw my covers back and get up. We’ve played seven cities in the last two weeks, and on top of that, Troy booked me a big-time sponsorship meeting yesterday back in LA that I couldn’t miss. It was nice to stop by the California condo and sleep in my own bed, but getting up at five this morning to fly back and meet up with the tour for tonight’s performance in Boise was torture. When the Open Highway team and I originally worked through the tour schedule, we agreed that I’d push it and do eleven to fourteen shows a month. My dad worried that was too extreme, but I really wanted to go hard. That’s been my motto since the early planning stages: Go hard. My show is a little longer than ninety minutes, and I want it to be full of surprises and excitement the whole time. I don’t want my fans to think, Now is the perfect song to go grab a hot dog. No. There is no perfect time to eat, to pee, to do anything other than watch the show, because every minute of the Shine Our Light Tour is packed with drama.
In those planning stages, I figured a schedule like ours meant I’d only be working half of each month, which would still give me plenty of time off to rest; what I didn’t count on was how fatiguing the travel would be and how often I’d be spending many of those “free” days working. Troy has all kinds of things in the works, constantly reminding me how important it is to “capitalize on tour momentum.” Who am I to argue? Thanks to yesterday’s meeting, I get to be the face of the new Sephora campaign!
“What time are we walking over there?” I hear Dylan ask Stella.
“My call time’s not for an hour.”
Ugh. I’ve only got an hour to shower and eat before sound check.
The tour itself is going more smoothly than any of us could’ve dreamed. We started rehearsals in June and worked out all the kinks, both onstage and backstage, going over each song meticulously. I’m working with Jordan again. She was the stage manager on Jolene Taylor’s Sweet Home Tour, which I opened for last year, so I feel confident that she can handle making the show actually happen each night. Meanwhile my tour manager, Marco, is a friend of Dan’s, and he deals with the business end of life on the road. Yeah, I’ve got three managers now. Who knew I was so high maintenance?
I grab my shower caddy and a towel and make my way to the bathroom.
“Bird, look at this,” Stella says when I slide the divider open.
I look up at her bed but am surprised to see her sharing the middle bunk with Dylan instead.
“Sit with us,” she says, patting the spot next to her. Dylan has his laptop open, and they’re looking at something on his computer. “It’s the photos from the World’s Largest Ball of Paint.” I throw my stuff onto the vacant bottom bunk and hop up beside her, smiling as she scrolls through pictures the three of us have taken in the very little amount of time we’ve had to sightsee so far.
“That was really fun,” I say.
“Yeah, and all the pics are linked to this map, see?” Stella clicks on a pic of us at Disney, and it minimizes to Orlando.
“So each of these pins is a tour stop?” I ask.
“Yeah, he’s pinned the pics to each place,” she gushes. “It’s so cool.”
Dylan clears his throat. “I just made it to document our trip,” he says, a little embarrassed. “I found a template when the tour started just to, you know, remember all of this or whatever.”
Stella leans her head on his shoulder. “This ol’ softy is a sensitive guy after all,” she says mockingly. He shrugs her off.
“Can I see?” I ask.
He passes me the computer, and I expand the pin on Alexandria, Indiana. A couple of pictures pop up, and I laugh at one where Stella is pretending to lick the paint ball. I click on Seymour, Wisconsin, the Original Home of the Hamburger, and a few more funny images of us maximize. “This is awesome!” I say as I continue clicking across the map. There we are stuffing our faces at the chocolate factory in Birmingham and laughing our butts off as Dylan model-poses on a race car at the Nascar Hall of Fame in Charlotte.
“Oh man,” I say, giggling. “I’m glad I was able to find the two biggest dorks on the planet to come with me on tour.”
“Takes one to know one,” Stella fires back.
“This would be so cool on my website,” I say, looking over at Dylan. “Can I steal it?”
“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “It’s not that fancy.”
“Who cares? Anita will love it.” I look back down at the screen. “My fans will eat it up.”
“Yeah, but, I mean, I wasn’t really doing it for that,” Dylan says uncomfortably.
As I keep clicking through the map, I realize why he’s not so eager. I expand the photos from Denver and see some of just the two of them, making faces by the gorillas and roaring by the tiger exhibit. “You guys went to the zoo?” I ask.
Stella squirms.
“You had a ton of radio interviews, so we went out on our own,” Dylan explains.
“Okay, but why didn’t y’all mention it?” I ask. “I mean, I wouldn’t be mad or anything. It’s not like it’s your fault I have to go promote my own tour.”
Stella shrugs. “I don’t know. FOMO?”
“Ha,” I say, faking a smile. “Yeah right.”
FOMO. It’s not fair—I know it’s not fair—but I do feel like I’m missing out, especially when I click through another few cities and see more of the same: the two of them having fun without me. And since they didn’t tell me about any of these adventures, it all feels a little intentional, a little personal. I realize they can’t be expected to sit on the bus all day while I’m working, but as I take in their silly selfies, it looks like my brother is spending more time with my best friend than I am.
“Why are you pretending to fall in this pic?” I ask Stella.
Her eyes twinkle. “Because Dylan had just tripped that lady in the background.”
“I didn’t trip her!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she amends. “Dylan just happened to be walking when his feet interrupted the feet of that lady.”
“So th
at’s why you wrote, ‘Having a nice trip in Rapid City’?” I ask.
They both laugh way harder than seems appropriate. I guess ya had to be there… and I wasn’t.
“Seriously, I didn’t trip her,” Dylan says with tears in his eyes. He looks down at Stella. “But it was pretty funny.”
Obviously I see Stella every night in my dressing room and in the quick changes during my show, but I thought there’d be more BFF time on the road than there has been. The first few nights, she shared my bed and we talked and laughed until really late, but the shows started to take their toll and lately, I’ve been so beat that I’ve just crashed afterward. Plus, I leave the tour a lot. Now it’s like Dylan is my stand-in.
I stop at a shot of Stella goofing off in front of an enormous true-to-life dinosaur screaming as if it’s chasing her. “This one’s funny,” I say with a big smile, determined not to make them feel bad. I’m the boss, it’s my tour, so it makes sense that I have less free time than they do. But when I look up, I nearly do a double take. Dylan’s eyes are closed, and Stella is wiping away an eyelash on his cheek.
“Make a wish,” she says, placing it on the back of his closed fist as if they’ve done this before. He grins at her and pounds his hands together, then she squeals and claps her hands when it jumps to the back of his other fist. “It’s going to come true!”
He blows it away and grins down at her. “Hope so.”
Suddenly I feel like I’m interrupting an intimate moment. But that’s dumb because Stella and Dylan are as good as brother and sister, and Stella has personally told me she doesn’t see Dylan in that way. Still, I close the laptop and hop down from the bunk feeling a little off-center.
“This is awesome, Dylan,” I say, passing him his computer. “But I really have to get ready or I’ll be late. Can’t afford to miss anything these days.”
He nods, and Stella opens his computer again. They are immediately lost in their photo map. I open the bathroom door feeling a little lost, too, but I’m not giggling the way they are.
4
“OKAY, SO RIGHT after this appearance at the Venetian, I’ll meet y’all and we can walk the Strip or whatever until our dinner reservation,” I say as we hustle through a back entryway of the luxury Vegas hotel.
“This Emeril guy better be a good cook,” Dylan grumbles. He tugs at his collar, still pouting about wearing a sport coat and button-down on his day off.
“Um, he’s on Good Morning America all the time,” Stella says. “And besides, you look really nice tonight.”
He smiles down at her and, again, I feel a niggling thought at the back of my mind that maybe they’re into each other… which would be so weird.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you, Bird?” Stella asks.
“No, seriously,” I say. “It’s stupid promo stuff for this weekend’s shows.” I lower my voice. “And the Hicks from Thirty-Six are going to be there. Do you really want to hear those guys play on your day off?”
Stella and Dylan exchange a look, all of us having agreed that my opening act is not our cup of tea, onstage or off. “We’ll just walk around, then,” Dylan says. “Text when you’re done, and we’ll meet back up and kill some time before dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
One of the Venetian resort staff members leads them to a hidden exit, and they duck out into the throng of tourists. They blend in easily, in a way I no longer can. The door closes, and I follow my bodyguard and my hotel security team down the passageway, but then I remember that I wanted to give Stella my VIP pass. I hustle back over to the door to try to catch them, but when I peek out, I am stunned to see my brother buying Stella a rose from an “Italian street vendor.” The moment is so picturesque. Dylan really does look dapper tonight, and Stella is a vision in ruffles and ribbons that only she could pull off. The look on her face is so blissful that I figure she already feels like a Very Important Person, and it hits me like a ton of bricks that they do like each other. It’s so obvious. Stella and Dylan are more than friends, even if they don’t realize it yet.
I close the door and catch up to my team, back to the grind, trying with all my might to ignore the terrible ache of envy that is settling in my chest. To be looked at like that, and outside of a spotlight, is something I’d kill for.
“Have you been to Vegas before, Ms. Barrett?” a private concierge asks me now.
“Oh, um, yeah, but somehow I keep missing all the sights,” I say.
“Well, if there’s anything I can arrange to make your stay more enjoyable—a spa visit, a VIP booth at Tao, dinner reservations—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” I say on autopilot. But when she mentions the nightclub, I remember my run-in with Colton Holley and how he mentioned his new club on the Strip. “You know, I have been wanting to check out COLT,” I say. “Do you think it’s too short notice to get in tonight? It’s my birthday.”
She pulls out her cell phone with a big smile and opens the door to a very posh greenroom. “You get to work, Ms. Barrett, and I will, too. How many?”
“Three,” I say, walking into the suite with a satisfied smile. “Thanks so much.”
“Okay, that’s it,” the producer calls from off set. “Thanks, Bird. You were great.”
“No problem,” I say as an assistant takes my mic pack.
I make a little small talk with the Hicks from Thirty-Six, then allow my handler to lead me back to the greenroom, where I can grab my two most important accessories: my purse and my bodyguard. Once I’ve checked my hair and reapplied lip gloss, I grab my phone to text Dylan and Stella. But before I can send a message, I hear a knock at the door and am frozen in place when I look up to see none other than Colton Holley standing in the doorway.
“Ms. Barrett, I hope I’m not intruding,” he says with a confident smile.
“Colton, hi,” I manage.
He strides into the room, full of poise—and full of himself—and grabs my shoulders. He leans in for what I now think of as the Hollywood Hello: an air kiss beside both cheeks. Then he steps back and puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks, smiling at me as if he’s won the lottery. “I heard you’re stopping by COLT tonight?”
“The concierge arranged it for me, but I didn’t expect you to track me down.”
He grins devilishly. “Ah, you underestimate me.”
That accent.
“Are you in town long?” he asks.
“Nope, just a show here tomorrow and we’re moving on,” I say, flashing him a smile that I hope will exude even half the self-assuredness of his own. “But I remembered your invitation at our Conan run-in and thought I’d check it out.”
He cringes. “Yes, the Conan run-in. That was uncomfortable to say the very least.”
“‘Uncomfortable,’” I repeat as I head toward the door. “That’s one way to put it.”
He touches my bare upper arm and I shiver. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say as we walk through the dim hallway and across the set, where a few crew members are still cleaning up. “You were charming and sweet. Kayelee just knows how to push my buttons.”
He grins. “Join the club.”
I stop at the back door. “She’s not in town, is she? I do not want to spend my birthday with your girlfriend, no offense.”
“No worries,” he says. “She’s not in town and she’s not my girlfriend. No matter what you’ve read in the rags, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised by the delight I feel at this news.
“So it’s your birthday, is it?”
“It is. I’m celebrating tonight with my brother and my best friend.”
“A Vegas birthday celebration,” he says with a roguish grin. I feel myself weaken a little at the knees when he looks at me as if I were a present for his birthday. “It would be an honor to play tour guide for you. We can walk around, have dinner, hit up the casino
s. Anything you want.”
I just stare at him, at his amber-flecked Robert Pattinson eyes and his Tom Brady jawline, and feel utterly flattered. I swore off dating after Kai, but it’s been nearly eight months and I’m tired of protecting my heart. Plus, I’ve been working like a dog all summer to get this tour ready. Everybody else gets a break every now and then. Why not me?
I bite my bottom lip and consider my options: (a) Find Dylan and Stella and be the third wheel on a possibly romantic gondola ride through the Venetian resort before having dinner with them, or (b) Ask super-sexy male celebutante Colton Holley to join us and spend the rest of the day as his arm candy.
“You know what, Colton?” I say with a grin. “I think I’ll take you up on that.” He offers his elbow, and I loop my arm through his. “But only if you let me get you backstage passes to tomorrow’s show.”
“Confession,” he says, leaning his head close to mine once more. “I already have tickets. Front row.”
I look at him in shock. “Really?”
“It’s the hottest show in town,” he says. “And that’s high praise in a city with as much going on as Vegas.”
“Then I’ll make sure not to disappoint,” I say, flirting.
“Oh, Miss Barrett,” he says, his voice low, his eyes twinkling. “I doubt you could ever do that.”
“That was delicious,” Stella says, staring down at the rest of her banana cream pie mournfully. “I wish I had room for every last bite.”
“Yeah, for the first time in my life, I can’t even do cleanup,” Dylan says, pushing away from the table.
Dinner was everything we had hoped. Colton, our Vegas pro, ordered for the table. To start, a seafood tower with everything from oysters to lobster tail. That was followed by the juiciest filet mignon I have ever eaten and buttered asparagus that would make my momma cry. We assured Colton that we were all too full for dessert, but he insisted that we try Emeril’s famous banana cream pie and strawberry shortcake. And now, I could die and go to heaven.
The Way Back Home Page 2
