The Lost Souls (The Holy Trinity #2.5)(56)

I swallowed hard but managed to say, entirely defensively I might add, “I’m a rock star. It’s the 1970s. Wake up, Jacob, and get with the times.”

He smiled quickly. “You’re a rock star. But this is not you. Now call the girl.”

I raised my brows, ignoring the pounding in my head. “The girl?”

“You know the girl, you trollop.” He rolled his eyes. “Dawn. Call her. You know her number. Call her and invite her on tour with us. You’re going to need her, and she’s going to need you.”

At the mention of her name, my heart started beating faster. Dawn. Rusty. My muse. I rubbed my lips together, eyes blinking fast, trying to think with great effort. “She needs me? I gave her everything.”

He eyed me matter-of-factly. “You didn’t.”

Didn’t I? She was a small-town music journalist from the sticks of Washington State, thrust into the spotlight after covering the demise of Hybrid. She went on tour with us during our dying days because that was part of the bargain I made—that we go down in history. But ever since we parted ways, even though she was constantly on my mind in some abstract, dreamy way, even though I’d jerked off plenty of times to the memory of me slamming her on the faded tour bus, I hadn’t seen her. We hadn’t really talked. She was a part of me and a shadow of my past at the same time.

“Oh, she’s doing well,” Jacob went on. “But she still needs you, even though she may not know it yet.”

I frowned. “Are you being purposely vague or do you know something?”

He shrugged, suddenly blasé. “I don’t know what I know. Call it a residual hunch. Even if I knew something, I’m not her manager. I’m not a guard or a guide. I just know she might need help. Somewhere deep in this dead old chest of mine, I feel like her story is just getting started.”

I could tell there was something else he wanted to say.

“And?” I pressed. I wanted him to leave the room more than anything so I could dig out the rest of the coke and get a little morning lifter going on, but Dawn was front and center.

He straightened up. “Call her. When you’ve got your brains together. Invite her on the tour. If you want, I can make sure she covers it for Creem, or you can just bring her along for kicks. Tell Rusty I’m the one who misses her if you have to. But just call her. Talk to her. And if you save her, maybe she can save you. And this time, maybe you’ll let it stick.”

With that, Jacob left the room, leaving me alone in the darkness brought on by black-out drapes and a raging hole in my heart.

I waited a few moments, then before I got too scared, I picked up the hotel room phone and asked to be connected to her number. Though I rarely used it, I knew it by heart.

“Hello?”

Her voice came through the crackling line with clarity. It did something to my head, shaking out the cobwebs better than a line.

“Dawn?” I asked, just to make sure.

“Sage?” was her response. Unsure, brimming with nerves. So adorable. My whole body immediately melted into the bed. My heart surged with guilt.

“Hey, angel,” I said, trying to hide the fear. “How are you?” I glanced at the clock on the table, trying to figure out her time on the West Coast and failing. “I hope I’m not waking you.”

“It’s ten-thirty in the morning. I’m no longer a lazy college student.”

What f*cking month was it? April already?

“I figured that,” I said smoothly. “Congratulations. Welcome to the real world. How does it feel?”

Dude, I was sounding like a complete f*cking moron.

“Eh, it’s okay,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I think I might look sexier in this so-called real world, though.”

All I heard was “look sexier.” Suddenly my mind flashed with an image of us tangled in the sheets at my father’s house in Redding, one of the last times I saw her. She was firm and soft all at once, big dark eyes, hair thick and shiny as chili oil. A smile that could power a thousand cities.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said, hoping she could feel the lust in my voice. Hoping I still interested her the way I used to. “Listen, what are you doing next month? Is May busy for a retired rodeo queen?”

I had to ask. She was a barrel racer before she became a full-fledged music journalist. The thought of her in rodeo queen gear was a harbored fantasy of mine, and barrel racing, her dismounting a horse all sticky and sweaty and then mounting my horse, was just icing on the cake.

“No, not yet,” she responded. Keeping me on my toes, I see. “There’s supposed to be a bunch of good albums released that I’ll have to review right away, but that’s about it.”

I gulped down the next question then dug for the strength to ask it. Bite the bullet. Be the rock star.

“How do you feel about flying to Paris and meeting me there? I’m about to go on tour, and I’d love a sexy, talented music journalist to cover it.”

And, once again, I sounded like a moron. A desperate, cheesy moron. I should have heeded Jacob’s advice and waited until my hangover was gone.

But to my surprise, she enthusiastically replied, “Are you kidding me?” like she’d just won a trip to Disneyland. I guess, in a way, she had. The Disneyland of rock ‘n’ roll. All rides included.