Open Road Summer(13)

“Ugh,” Dee groans, beating her palms against the coffee table. “She knows I wanted Matt to open for me anyway but he was dealing with some family stuff, so I didn’t want to ask. It would be so fun to have him along, but not like this—not with the pretend-boyfriend strings attached.”

I stare down at the criss-crossed leather straps of my favorite wedge sandals. We were supposed to have so much fun. Well, maybe not fun fun, but we were at least supposed to stay together the way the two weeping willows in her parents’ backyard do—standing their ground side by side, even if they’re both drooping.

“Lissa made it sound like a done deal,” Peach says, her voice quiet. “I haven’t seen your tour contract, so maybe it’s not within their rights. . . .”

“No.” Dee waves her off. “Look, I hate that Lissa did all this without even consulting me, but I don’t think it’s worth fighting them. I just need to go call Matt and talk it out between the two of us.” After Dee shuts the door to our room, I glance over at Peach. She has her elbows propped on her knees, her silky hair dangling in her face as she stares straight down at the carpet.

“Do you think Lissa leaked the picture?” I whisper.

“No!” Peach sounds indignant, but her insistence gives way to a helpless sigh. “I mean . . . I guess I don’t know.”

“I don’t trust her.”

Her eyes bear into mine with the same intensity Dee sometimes gets when she’s talking about something that really matters to her. “Reagan, the last thing Dee needs is a conspiracy theory. . . .”

She’s right, of course. I want someone to blame, and Lissa is an obvious choice. “I know, but if Lissa . . .”

“She didn’t.” She stands up, smoothing her jeans. “I have to finish packing.”

Peach disappears into her room, and I pace the perimeter of the hotel room until Dee emerges from our room. “How’d it go?”

“Good.” Dee nods, still clutching her personal phone in her hand. There’s more energy in that single nod than I’ve seen since last night. All morning, her body language has been heavy—belabored movements and slogging feet. However reluctant she was at first, the prospect of Matt Finch joining us has perked her up a little. “Matt made me feel like it isn’t weird at all, said he’s more than happy to come on tour—that he wants to. I think it’s going to be a good thing. But don’t tell Lissa I said so.”

“As if I would talk to Lissa.”

She almost smiles but is interrupted by a knock at the door. I open it to Mack, Dee’s primary bodyguard. Mack is as wide as he is tall, with a jovial smile that undermines his intimidating features. But this morning, there’s no smile to be found.

“Dee, honey,” he says. “You ready?”

“I guess,” she says, throwing her purse over her shoulder. Mack worked the Blue Sky Day tour, and she begged him to stay on for this one, too. Mack graduated from law school in May and had planned to spend the summer studying for the bar exam and pursuing a career in entertainment law. But he couldn’t say no to her, and they both knew it.

“Baby girl, I’m gonna shoot you straight,” Mack’s low voice rumbles. “We got some people outside.”

Dee pinches her lips together. “Photogs?”

He sidesteps the question. “Usual routine, okay? Eyes ahead, no reactions.”


She nods. Mack turns to Peach, who has reemerged with her suitcase. “Can you go down now and board the band’s bus? The paparazzi will assume that Dee’s riding in whatever bus you get on. Maybe we’ll throw a few off.”

Peach squeezes Dee’s arm. “I’ll see you in Richmond, okay?”

Dee nods again, mouth still pressed shut. We make our way downstairs in silence, and she slides a pair of big sunglasses on her face. When I link my pinkie with hers, she squeezes so hard that I worry my bones will snap. The elevator dings open, and Mack hurries us across the lobby. The doors to the outside span before us, wide glass panels that make the bright sunlight feel garish.

As soon as we’re through the doors, Mack puts his arm over Dee. Her hand slides out of mine and then it’s surreal, like slow motion. The reporters and photographers are on either side of the path to the bus. Their yells blend together as they stick microphones and cameras in Dee’s path. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hotel concierge stretching his arms to keep them back. I glance at Dee, who keeps her head ducked down, eyes focused on the path in front of her.

“Back up!” Mack bellows. “Give her space.”

I feel a push at my arm, and I shove back. I’m not the celebrity, and I have no obligation to be on my best behavior. Besides, my arm’s already in a cast, and the hard plaster would give me the edge in hand-to-hand combat.

“Lilah!” someone screams near my ear. “Lilah, what do you have to say about the nude photo?”

Dee’s face stays emotionless, like she’s doing an impression of Lissa.

“Lilah!” yells a huskier voice. “Did you lose your virginity to Jimmy Collier?”

Mack keeps moving Dee forward, and I lose sight of her face. Blood rushes through my veins, too fast and too hot. This is a particular talent of mine—going from zero to livid in less than a second.

I watch in horror as a hand approaches Dee’s arm, a man with a camera trying to block her from getting on the bus. Before I can even react, Mack holds his arm out, Heisman-style. The reporter stumbles to the ground, and his camera lands beside him with an awful, plastic crack.