Page 58 of Living on the Edge

I glance up with concern. “What’s going on?”

“She has some kind of sinus thing happening and it’s kicking her ass. I think she has a low-grade fever but she doesn’t have a thermometer.”

I make a mental note to send Bobby to get her one, but there won’t be time until after the show.

I’d go myself but without a car, it would take too long, and we have to get to the venue for soundcheck.

“Has she gone to an urgent care or walk-in clinic?” Tate asks as we walk out toward the bus.

“No.” Kirsten shakes her head. “I’m not sure why, but she’s been reluctant.”

“A lot of people don’t like doctors,” I say. “I’m one of them.”

“I don’t like them either,” Sam says, “but I’d go if I’d been too sick to leave my room for three days on tour.”

“I’ll talk to her tonight,” Kirsten promises. “And if she won’t listen to me, I’ll sic Sydney on her.”

We all chuckle.

Sydney has become the unofficial mother hen of the tour, making sure all of us in both bands stay hydrated, eat something green every so often, and get enough sleep. I haven’t had someone fuss over me in a long time, so it’s kind of sweet, even though I’m perfectly capable of managing my own life.

We get on the bus, and Jonny’s on his phone, completely ignoring us.

I guess he just needs time.

It’s frustrating but since it’s my own fault, I have to suck it up.

“Tonight, we’re going drinking,” Tate says to me as we pull away from the hotel. “Maybe find a couple of ladies to distract us from our problems.”

“Okay.” I don’t dare say no even though I haven’t had so much as a glimmer of interest in anyone since the night with Ryleigh.

When I fuck up, I fuck up good.

My band, my grandfather, and even the woman I can’t stop thinking about are all mad at me.

It would be nice if just one faction of my life wasn’t jacked up.

“You could sound a little more excited,” Tate says, nudging me.

“I’ve got a lot going on,” I mutter, glancing in Jonny’s direction.

Tate gives a curt nod. “He’ll come around. He’s hurt. He’s got to work through all the feelings. You know how us guys are—we struggle with that kind of thing.”

“You think he’d be down for throwing a few punches and getting it out of his system?”

“And risk messing up that pretty face?” Tate snorts. “He’s a lover not a fighter.”

“He definitely doesn’t love me.”

“It’ll be okay. I’m working on him.” He slaps my arm and leans back in his seat.

I hope so.

It’s going to be a really long couple of months otherwise.

“I have an announcement from Sasha,” Jonny calls out. “We’ve officially hit two hundred thousand copies of the album sold.”

A chorus of cheers goes up.

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