Page 42 of Darcy
“No touching my shit. No treating me differently to the other roadies when I’m working.”
Prophet scoffs and folds his arms. “You think we’d let our woman ride economy?”
Don’t swoon at the sexist comment. Donotswoon at the sexist comment. “No, because I already decided next time I’m upgrading my seat. I’m a creature of comfort.”
I noticed some of the other roadies doing the same on our flight here—including Emma—so why shouldn’t I?
“We won’t touch your stuff,” Slate agrees. “But if we’re dating, I want to take you out to nice places. Buy you pretty shit.”
“Well, isn’t this cosy,” Dodger snaps. “Nice to know I was missed.”
As one, the four of us turn to face the elevator. Dodger is a mess. His nose is busted, dripping blood down to his mouth. He’s tried to staunch the bleeding with his sleeve, and now the fabric is stained red.
“Tell me you didn’t go out and start a fight,” Arlo begins, but Dodger waves him off.
“No. This was Jackson making sure I learned my ‘lesson’ for skipping the interview.”
“The first part of your lesson, anyway,” Slate growls. “The other half was left in Darcy’s room, which is why we’re discussing her terms for moving in with us.”
“On a trial basis,” I interject.
Dodger collapses on the sofa and grabs a tissue from the box on the table, pinching his bleeding nose and tilting his head forward.
“Fuck.” His brown eyes meet mine, glazed with pain. “I’m sorry, Darcy. I wouldn’t have run off if I’d known they’d come after you.”
His surprisingly sincere apology takes the wind out of my sails.
“I understand,” I mumble. “I’m sorry, too. What I said wasn’t fair.”
“You were just being honest,” he grunts, waving it off. “Terms, huh? Let me guess, rule one is no sex?”
Chewing at my lip, I shake my head. “I would like to have a conversation about expectations and boundaries before that.”
His eyes fly wide, protests flying to his lips. “I told you I didn’t fuck that groupie!”
“Wait, hold up. Sex is on the table?” Slate’s grin is widening, but we both ignore him.
I shake my head. “I’m not accusing you of having sex with her. I’m a red-blooded woman, of course I’m up for sex. I also get that people are going to want to hug you and touch you just because of who you are. I’m just not comfortable with the level of touching I saw in that room.”
“We can’t stop fans touching us,” Arlo replies, despondently. “But there’s no need to touch them back, either. If we’re always wearing shirts, it’s not such a big deal, right?”
I grimace at the casual way he accepts the inability to enforce consent regarding his own body, but I get it. People are excited to see them.
“I’m not going to insist you wear shirts everywhere,” I promise. “I’m not even saying no hugs or cheek kisses or whatever. Just… no kissing other people on the mouth, or having them on your lap… or licking you.”
“Done,” Dodger says, without hesitation.
“I’m possessive,” I warn, sighing in defeat. “And I get bored easily. This whole idea is only going to end in tears.”
No one has even addressed my other concern—that I want something permanent and long lasting. Something real.
“You got bored because you were dating limp-dicked business clerks,” Slate corrects. “Dating four rock stars? Idareyou to get bored of us.”
Waving away his cocky confidence with a yawn, I stand and put my empty coffee cup in the sink. “So, where am I sleeping?”
That freezes all four of them.
“Where do you want to sleep?” Arlo asks, carefully. “There are four rooms. Two of us could bunk…”
