Page 33 of Darcy
Snorting, I shake my head. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“No reason.” It’s painfully obvious how badly he’s trying to play it cool, but his hands have frozen mid-way through cutting his food, the waffle forgotten. “Just… most of the people who do don’t wear pastel rainbow hoodies…”
“I must’ve left my studded choker at home,” I deadpan, refusing to feel self-conscious about the softest, snuggliest item of clothing I own. “First Sully and now you. Honestly, the stereotyping is insane.”
If I’d known wearing all black was such an important part of the job, maybe I would’ve blended better, and we wouldn’t be in this position.
“What’s your favourite song?” he presses, ignoring me. “Come on, you’ve got to tell me.”
“What’s yours?” I counter.
“That’s like asking me to pick a favourite child.”
I hum quietly, refusing to answer.
“I bet it’s something from the old albums,” he mutters. “‘Snap’?”
I take a mouthful of syrupy waffle before answering. “A classic, but not my favourite.”
“‘Scuse me, man. Are you… You’re not Arlo Estes? Right?”
Arlo turns an obliging smile in the direction of the kid who’s approached him. “Hey.”
A few seconds later, having had both his shirt signed and a photo taken, the kid returns to his own table, and I’m back at the mercy of Arlo’s inscrutable gaze.
“‘Fucking Fate’?” he guesses, naming one of the band’s newer songs.
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ sound at the end, enjoying this new game. “You won’t guess.”
“I just want to know which one of us wrote it,” he says. “It’s probably Prophet, but it might be one of mine.”
He looks so hopeful that I resolve to never, ever tell him my favourite song, just in case I disappoint him.
“Don’t you ever write any together?” I ask, changing the subject.
He shrugs. “Used to… at the beginning. Not so much in the last few years.”
Another guy, this time in his late fifties, approaches our table. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing…”
One photo and signed wallet later, Arlo pauses. “Hey, man, mind taking one of me and my girl?”
“What?” My head whips around.
But the older dude is already nodding happily. “No problem! My missus used to come to concerts with me all the time. Nothing bonds two souls like rock and roll!”
I grimace at the terrible joke, but Arlo takes it in his stride, handing over his phone to a stranger—who does that?!—and tugging me under his arm.
“Smile, Dark,” he encourages.
I try my best, but my mind is already rushing through the hundreds of ways that fan could be funnelling Arlo’s data away.
Just thirty seconds, and in his place, I could’ve connected his phone to my own device and installed a virtual backdoor.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I grumble, as soon as the photo is taken and Arlo’s phone is back in his possession. “He could’ve done anything with your phone.”
“If he ran off with it, I’d just buy a new one,” Arlo shrugs.
Shaking my head, because he doesn’t get it, I let him show me the photo. It’s cute—and he’s gorgeous, as I knew he would be—except I can see the tiny suspicious frown lines in my brow, and ugh, I didn’t do the jawline trick, so I have a double chin…
