Page 28 of Darcy
“Breakfast?” I echo. “I… Slate, don’t you think this is a little bit… fast?”
His easy grin never slips. “Don’t you believe in soul mates, Darcy?”
What the actual fuck?I’m so stunned by the ludicrous question that I can’t do more than blink at him.
Prophet grabs him by his collar and physically lifts the bassist from his spot, dragging him towards the open door he emerged from. “Slate. Aword.”
“Enjoy your coffee,” Slate calls as he allows the drummer to bully him from the room.
A second after the door slams, the yelling begins. It’s too muffled for me to make out any specifics, but it’s easy to tell that Prophet is pissed.
Great, so Slate is trying to manipulate me, and Prophet doesn’t even want to look at me.
“He could at least pretend he’s happy to meet me,” I grumble into my already half-empty coffee.
“He is.” My head snaps up, and I crane my neck uncomfortably to find Arlo standing in a doorway behind me, arms folded over his chest. He’s already dressed, and even wearing his damned sunglasses indoors. “It’s just Slate has been…”
For a second, Prophet’s voice booms loud enough for me to make out a few words.“You impatient, two-faced, defiant—”
“Slate can be a lot. Especially when he wants something,” Arlo finishes, moving closer hesitantly, like he’s afraid to scare me off. “If you haven’t guessed, I’m—”
“Fr0gg0,” I finish for him, offering him a smile. “I’m sorry I crashed in like this. Honestly, the receptionist just told me my room was cancelled, and suddenly Slate was dragging me up here.”
The lead guitarist groans and presses the palm of his hand into his forehead. “Jesus, Slate.”
“What’s he done now—?” Dodger asks, emerging from a different door on my right, his hair wet and dishevelled and a towel hanging loosely on his hips. My cheeks heat as the horny part of my brain begins to utter a prayer to the gods of gravity, and a small disbelieving sound escapes my throat before I can stop it.
He freezes, staring at me with wide eyes, before cursing and retreating back into his room, slamming the door after him.
My stomach drops. Of all of them, Dodge and I have the most intimate relationship. I was hoping for a hug or a hello, heck, even a nod.
Not a slammed door.
“I need coffee for this,” Arlo mumbles, heading towards their high-tech machine. “Trust Slate to get his own way.”
“Does stuff like this happen a lot?” I ask.
He turns, holding his mug to his lips simply to breathe in the steam. “Bringing old friends into the middle of our hotel suite during a tour? No, that’s a new one. Pissing the entire band off by doing things ‘for our own good?’ That’s pretty normal.”
I raise my own mug, only to frown when I realise it’s empty.
“Another?” Arlo asks.
“Please,” I mumble, holding the mug out to him. “He wasn’t… serious, was he? About moving in with you guys?”
My mug falls from Arlo’s hand, smashing against the tiled floor with a loud crack.
“He said that?”
I wonder if Arlo heard the smooth line about soul mates but decide not to mention it. “Have you guys got a broom?” I ask instead. “We should clean that up.”
Arlo startles, already midway through grabbing a new mug from a cupboard. “Right… yeah. Erm…”
He wheels around, looking lost.
“You have no idea where the cleaning stuff is, do you?” I accuse, grinning.
“It’s not like that!” he rushes to explain, abandoning his coffee. “Typically, they expect the rich and famous to trash the places we stay at, so they don’t bother leaving the cleaning stuff around. Usually, they lock it away somewhere we can’t even get to, but I can ask housekeeping…”
