Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“It’s been six weeks, not six months,” I grumbled.
“They had someone camped out at the airport.” Quinn turned her phone so we could see the photo on a popular gossip site. It was of our hug on the tarmac just after I’d come off the private jet.
The driver rolled the partition down. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take us through the garage.” Smiling for the camera wasn’t on my agenda for today.
We bypassed the horde of fans and took the private entrance down into the garage. There was a reason I paid so much money to live in this building. Not that I minded fans. I loved fans. Especially the female ones—even if they were off the menu for the foreseeable future. But there was something to be said for drawing a line between my public life and my private one.
Once we were parked, I hauled my duffel bag out of the trunk and slung it over my shoulder. We all filed into the elevator, and I punched in my code for the penthouse. The buttons lit up as we passed the other floors, the silence filled by a piano acoustic of “My Heart Will Go On.”
“You know, I wouldn’t have stopped at the bar on my way home or anything,” I said.
“What?”
“We didn’t think that.”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
They all spoke at the same time.
“Right. Bunch of babysitters.” I laughed and shook my head.
“We’re not babysitting you,” Quinn snapped, then narrowed her eyes at me. “We’re loving you. Deal with it.”
“And honestly, we both feel like shit since we’re the ones who’ve up and moved on you in the last year.” Jonas pulled his hair back into a low ponytail with enough frustration to snap that little hair tie of his.
“I don’t feel like crap,” Ethan mumbled. “I still live here.”
The elevator dinged our arrival, and the doors opened to the opulent marble floor of my entry. Sin number three: I made ungodly amounts of money and spent it on ridiculous things because I liked nice shit.
“Look, I fully supported you moving to Boston to be with Kira,” I said to Jonas as I pulled my key from my front pocket, then turned to Quinn. “And the last time I checked, I’m the one who told you to move back to Bozeman for Graham. You both deserve to be happy.” They did, and now that they’d both fallen in love and into ready-made families, I wasn’t going to be the one waving the “it’s not fair” flag, like some whiny prick.
“What about you?” Quinn asked as I turned the key and opened my front door.
“Oh, you know me. I’m delirious.” I flashed her a quick smile and walked into my apartment.
It was definitely cleaner than how I’d left it. The blinds were open, and light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Seattle skyline and Puget Sound, illuminating every polished surface from the entry, through the massive kitchen, and into the living room, where I dropped my bag. Smelled nice too. Like lemons and cleaning supplies instead of pot and general funk.
It was also quiet for a change. I’d bypassed more than a few passed-out people when I walked out six weeks ago.
“I can’t remember the last time your place was this clean.” Quinn flopped onto the couch and kicked off her Vans.
“The day he bought it,” Jonas answered, sinking into the massive armchair.
“It’s not like I don’t have housekeepers,” I retorted.
“Oh, those women are saints.” Quinn laughed. “You just never give them a party-free week so they can do their jobs. I would have run screaming by now, if I were them.”
“I heard Ben paid them double.” Ethan gestured to the apartment and took the spot next to Quinn.
“Ben.” We all groaned collectively. Our business manager did exactly what he was paid to do: brokered our contracts, handled our schedule and promotion, and shoved staff in our general direction when we needed them. He was a hardass, but he’d been one of the major reasons we’d skyrocketed. He’d also been the reason we were all on the verge of burnout from constant writing and touring.
Jonas and Quinn had both agreed to slow it down after this next album…the album I was holding up because my lame-ass brain couldn’t write anything decent, which only fed into excuse number three billion and two to reach for a bottle: I’d never written a song sober, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could.
Add that to my inability to sleep and I was two for two.
“I’m going to take a shower. How long are you guys planning to supervise me?” I questioned.
“We’re not supervising you.” Quinn folded her arms across her chest. “And we’ll be here as long as you want us to be.”
Hell. No.
“Great, so you guys have flights scheduled for tonight?” I lifted my eyebrows and picked up my bag.