Page 4 of Heartbeat Highway

Or maybe that’s my stomach falling through the floor.

“Hi, K.” Lily wraps an arm around his thin waist, and my heart sinks even lower. “I met some new friends.”

Ouch. That feels like a gunshot straight to the gut. Fourteen times.

“Hi.” Kevin—I refuse to call him K because I hate him even more now than when we met at last week’s audition-slash-jam session—holds out a hand to me. “Did you get up to sing, babe? I told you. You’re a little pitchy, but we can work on it.”

I drain the rest of my beer in one gulp. This guy is such a douche. I let a thin ray of hope shine through me. I don’t know how long Lily has known Kevin. Maybe she met him through law school, or her apartment complex, or at the fricking Hollywood Bowl. Anything could be possible. Anything.

But what I do know is that this dickhead will let her down. One day. She and I can still be friends. It won’t be forever. I just have to bide my time.

“K.” Lily giggles as Kevin licks at her neck, completely ignoring me. Fine. Two can play that game.

She steps out of Kevin’s grasp. “Bo, this is my boyfriend. K.”

He finally looks up to see me but absolutely no recognition dawns there.

Yup. I’ll just have to bide my time.

It can’t be that long before he fucks this up.

CHAPTER 1

Bo–present day

A lot can changein two years. Preparations in Los Angeles for the 2028 Olympics, my favorite flavor of Takis, that little restaurant on the corner that’s been three other shops and now waits for its next failed enterprise with soaped-over windows.

The one thing that hasn’t changed? Lily and K—because he’s now officially changed his name, the douche nozzle—are still dating.

Trust me, no one is more surprised than I am that they’re still together.

K stands in front of the tour bus, his hands so weighted down with thick metal rings it’s a miracle he can hold them up against gravity. He’s signing some girl’s wrist with a permanent marker. Howl has become more of a mainstream name than I ever expected, which drives me fucking bananas because it means my father never stops texting me, trying to get me to cross-promote.

Crooked may have fallen apart years ago, but if you listen to my dad, they’re always one step away from a reunion tour.

If you listen to K— which I almost never do for the preservation of my eardrums and sanity—Howl’s success is because of him. He talked us—well, Dan—into playing covers. Mostly because his vocal range can’t handle Maxim’s pieces, but still. Now we’re a fucking glorified cover band. The only salvation is that everyone backs me up when I refuse to add Crooked songs to our playlist.

Not that K hasn’t kept trying. I caught him texting Runner last week and I nearly threw his phone into an unhoused person’s loaded shopping cart. I would have loved to see him try to get it back.

“Bo.” Our keyboardist and manager, Dan, claps me on the shoulder. “Is your equipment on the bus?” With one hand, he scrolls down through a checklist on his tablet. “We’re scheduled to leave in ten minutes, if K can stop signing people’s tits.” On cue, a gentleman in a vintage Britney Spears tee approaches our lead singer. He lifts up his shirt and K does indeed sign right over the guy’s left tit.

“At least Queen Britney is covering up that travesty.” I tap my drumsticks together. “Yeah, Dan. No worries. I’m all packed.”

“Good. I’m going to check on Maxim.” Dan takes his tablet checklist to Maxim. The three of us are dressed like normal people, in jeans and tee shirts. It’s Los Angeles in summer, so it goes from hot to broil in zero-point-two seconds.

But K? He’s grown his long, stringy ash blond hair and beard out, and he’s wearing an unbuttoned denim shirt over the black leather pants that he bragged about paying full price for. While we are around the same five-ten, he wears heeled boots to try to make himself taller. He looks like an evil orange scarecrow.

I glance around the parking lot. Surely Lily’s coming to see us off. She’s been so excited about it. Far more excited than finishing her second year of law school. She’s supposed to starther internship this summer at a local LA family law firm, so she can’t tour with us.

My cock swells at the thought of her. It’s probably better that she can’t tour with us. It’s been difficult enough, with her living in the little studio in my backyard. Thank fuck when she goes out with K, he insists they stay at his place. I’m a strong guy, but even I can’t handle the reality of close quarters with them on a tour bus for two weeks.

“Fourteen in Fourteen!” K shouts, arms above his head and hands forked into rock and roll signs. This is Howl’s first big tour. We’ve done local gigs, played in Arizona a few times, and at state fairs. But Fourteen in Fourteen is a two-week slog of a music fest, each night a different venue along Route 14, a new crowd. When Dan originally pitched it, it sounded fun.

I’m not going to make it through fourteen gigs in fourteen days, not if I have to deal with K’s shit. I should have quit the band a year ago. I had an opportunity, too, to play drums with the Vendetta while their drummer, the great Lorraine de la Vega, took time off with her new baby.

But no. I stayed for Lily.

I’m a fucking chump.

---