Side Trip(52)

“Mom!” His face flamed hot.

“Three Bs, baby. You obey them or you’ll never set foot on a tour bus again.”

“Fine.” He sighed, defeated.

She smiled. “You sound just like your father. So handsome, too.” She pulled him in for a tight hug. “I love you.”

“Love you back.”

She kissed his cheek. “Take care of Chase. Watch each other’s backs. I’ll see you in four weeks.”

“Billie?” Jack asked when she walked past him without a word or glance.

“Don’t screw up, Jack,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You do and I’ll make sure I get full custody and Dylan never goes on tour with you again.” She slammed the cab door and Dylan jolted. This was it. This was the end of his family. He blinked hard to fend off the tears and watched the driver speed off in a cloud of dust.

A hand dropped on Dylan’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Uncle Cal snickered. “Your face looks like a Picasso on a heroin trip.”

Dylan gasped, sprinting to the family bus.

Several hours later, Dylan hunkered backstage, restringing and tuning Jack’s guitars. He still couldn’t believe his mom had left. After years of threatening Jack, she finally did it. Dylan was bummed that she wouldn’t be around, but he understood. Anyone could see that Billie and Jack’s divorce was inevitable. They always argued. Billie hated touring and Jack hated being stuck at home, just like Dylan.

A metal folding chair scraped along the floor and Dylan looked up. Uncle Cal flipped the chair around, straddled the seat, and rested his arms on the back. He dropped his smoldering cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot.

“How ya holding up, kid?”

“Fine, why?”

Cal shrugged. “Don’t know. Guess I’d be bent if my mom split midtour.”

Dylan grimaced. Had his funk been that obvious?

“Is that why you never married Chase’s mom? Figured you’d end up divorcing, too?”

Dylan had never met his aunt. She was a groupie and Cal had knocked her up at the beginning of their tour that year. By the end of the season she’d given birth, only to ditch Cal and the baby. Uncle Cal hadn’t minded. He was head over heels with his son. He always said Chase was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Uncle Cal scratched his chin. “Let me tell you something, Dyl. Love doesn’t belong on the road. Hell, it doesn’t belong in the music industry. Long-term relationships don’t work for guys like us. We’re away from home too long, and there’s too much wanderlust coursing through our veins. Women just want to settle and nest and shit, and we just end up cheatin’ on them and hurtin’ them.”

Dylan looked up from the D string he was tweaking. For once, Uncle Cal’s advice seemed spot-on.

“One more thing before I leave you to your work,” Cal said, standing up. “I know about your mom’s three Bs. She’s right. But if you find yourself in a certain, er . . . predicament, and you can’t keep your dick in your pants, put a sock on it.” He dropped a small paper bag on Dylan’s lap. He turned to walk away only to turn back, snapping his fingers. “Hey, I could use your help. Chase feels like shit. Dude drank too much and I grounded his ass. Think you can tune my axes?”

Dylan looked over at Cal’s collection of Strats and Taylors. The work would keep him busy and his mind off his parents. “Sure. No prob.”

“Thanks, kid.” Cal gave him a knuckle bump, then walked off, lighting another cigarette.

Curious, Dylan opened the bag on his lap only to quickly close it and glance around, wondering if anyone had seen. Heat flashed across his face and chest.

Uncle Cal had gifted him his first box of condoms.



Finally!

Joy graced him with her presence.

She walked toward Dylan carrying her bathroom stuff and wet bathing suit, and she looked at him like he’d sprouted a biker beard. He pushed away from the car, and shamelessly stared at her.

“You all right?” she asked when she walked past him on the way to the Bug’s trunk. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Forget the ghost. He was seeing her for the first time ever.

She wore flip-flops, cutoff jean shorts, and a fitted tee with the Rolling Stone logo splayed across her breasts. She’d bundled her hair into a knotted mess up top and damp tendrils clung to the back of her lean neck.

He was done for.

This was Joy.

Cali girl. Surfer babe. Little rocker chick.

She was a knockout, inside and out. And he was falling for her, hard.

This was bad. So, so bad. Absolutely not part of his plans.

He scrubbed his face, shook his head. Shook off the feelings building inside the best he could.

Joy dumped her stuff in the trunk and the keys in his hands. “Mind driving? I want to search for a hotel for tonight.”

“Don’t.” His voice croaked.

She frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Look for a hotel. I have an idea.” She’d helped him. He wanted to do something in return.

Her gaze narrowed. “About?”

“Where we’re sleeping tonight.”

“We?” She choked on the word. “Dylan . . .”