Page 6 of Composed
I slam my notebook closed and drag in a deep breath.
Saint darts past me and tears through the exit. If anyone doesn’t do well caged in a metal box, it’s him. You’d think after all our years flying around the world, he’d be used to long-hauls, but he’s just as restless as he was that first flight we took.
Axel isn’t far behind, tossing me my holdall from the overhead before he hooks his arm around the flight-attendant, whispers in her ear, and steers her off the private plane.
Standing, I stretch the kinks from my back and re-case my acoustic Taylor guitar. Not even sure why I keep lugging it around. It never gets put to work.
Carter’s steady gaze lingers on me as I secure it over my shoulder. He pushes jumper cotton sleeves up to his elbows, showing sun-kissed white skin marked with tattoos. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired.” I tap my knuckles against the polished wooden tabletop.
It’s not a lie.
Eight months straight on the road in another country isn’t a cakewalk.
Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love what I do. Traveling the world, playing music every night with the guys I call family is everything I’ve ever wanted. But that doesn’t make it any less exhausting.
He pushes dark, shaggy hair out of green eyes and grunts. “Feel that. The only thing I’m doing for the next three days is sleeping.”
“You not picking the girls up tomorrow?”
“Nah. Noah has taken them to visit her ‘rents before she hits the road next week. I’m grabbing them Monday.”
“Can’t fucking wait to see them.” I grin.
A rare half smile tilts his lips.
At six-six, all muscle and tattoos, Carter’s exterior screamsdon’t fuck with me. It doesn’t help he has a poker face that never shifts and his idea of fun is hours in the gym with only his weights for company.
Pretty sure he could bench press Saint, Axel, and me at the same time without breaking a sweat.
A single mention of his twin daughters, though? The hard-arse melts quicker than a Mr Whippy on a hot summer’s day.
He stuffs his sticks inside his back pocket before stalking to the exit. “You planning on letting us take a break for once or should we expect a late-night call next week telling us to get our arses in the studio?”
I hesitate a second, fingers tightening around the strap of my guitar case. I probably should key them in on the fact I’ve got nothing but speaking it aloud feels like admitting defeat.
I swallow the lead in my throat, and force my feet to move after him. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
A sleek, idling black SUV waits on the tarmac when I step off the plane, headlights spearing through the darkened night.
I slide inside. Axel sits upfront, chattering away to our driver, Paul. Saint and Carter are both busy with their phones.
I pop my headphones on and roll my head against the heated leather seat, watching as Farnborough’s runway shrinks into the distance.
Two hours later, we pull up to the old, converted warehouse we call home.
After we went platinum with our first album, Saint dropped the listing into our group chat with a compelling argument for why we should buy the place. Ten flats, a basement we could turn into a studio, and the ease of getting together at a moment’s notice when the music calls. It was a no brainer.
And living with your friends is pretty fucking cool most of the time.
I grab my bags from the open boot, and fish my keys from my battered backpack before making my way inside.
Saint’s already on the couch when I push my door open. Uncapped beers on the table, long fair tattooed legs propped against the wood, as he spins his wedding band around his finger.
I drop my bags and scrub a hand over my face. “Seriously? We just got back, dude. Couldn’t even last five minutes without me, huh?”
He grunts. “Teddy’s busy.”
