Page 58 of Darcy
For the trial period to end.
None of them speak, and it takes me a second to realise that they’re still waiting for my answer. Even Prophet is staring at me.
I check the paperwork, making certain for myself that their claims are true. One thing stands out to me.
“The date on Dodger’s is more recent,” I mumble.
“I figured you’d never believe I didn’t fuck that groupie,” Dodger mutters, placing my refilled mug in front of me and taking his seat . “So I got retested the next day.”
“Bold.”
“Just living in hope, baby girl. And it wasn’t entirely unwarranted, now, was it?” He shoots me a cheeky wink, and I can’t help but smile.
I sigh, but I can’t lie, having experienced both before, I enjoy the spontaneity that comes without worrying over protection.
Pushing the pages back across the table, I keep my best poker face on as I consider it one final time. “I’m clean too.” I got tested before the mission as a precaution because it wouldn’t be the first time an ex screwed around before calling things off. “Yes.”
Slate grins. “Thank fuck.”
“If that’s the case,” Dodger murmurs, leaning in close. “Wear a skirt today, baby girl.”
I look up at him. “I thought your turn was over?”
“The bowl is only for who you share a room with,” Slate corrects. “Quickies don’t count.”
My brows creep up. “What counts as a quickie?”
Dodger runs his lips lightly up the column of my throat. “Anything under one hour and ten minutes.”
“Specific.”
Arlo snorts. “It’s the flight time between Vancouver and Seattle. Don’t you think you should ask her if she’s okay with—”
Dodger pins him with a glare. “Darcy knows she can stop me whenever she wants to.” He pauses, a wicked grin taking over his expression. “You should be thanking me; you’re going to enjoy what I have planned. Bring your sketchbook.”
Twenty
Darcy
Touring, I’m beginning to realise, is incredibly tiring. We’re only on the fourth gig of fifteen, and yet, I feel like I’ve travelled the world as we board the private jet again. Sure, the luxury softens the blow, but it’s the fifth flight in under a week.
I did as Dodger asked and wore my favourite shirt dress, following his commands, but not to the letter. Currently, it’s flapping around my legs in the wind as I climb the steps onto the private jet. Thankfully, I had the foresight to overnight myself some new contacts before the concert yesterday, so at least I don’t have to worry about the infuriating mix that is glasses, wind, and long hair.
It’s small, for a private plane, but still comfortable. On one side of the aisle are two comfy armchairs, and on the other, a small conference table with two seats on each side. There’s a more relaxed sofa and television area farther down the plane, but the band has chosen to ignore it.
Prophet has claimed the first armchair. His headphones are on, and he’s tapping out a rhythm on the cover of a notebook with his pen. Slate is mirroring him in the second chair, playing on his phone, but he looks up as I pass him.
Dodger and Arlo have claimed the conference table. The former has his laptop out with spreadsheets open, while the latter is reclining in the seat opposite with a square sketchbook closed in front of him.
“Next to me, baby girl,” Dodger calls. “Strap in for takeoff and give me your panties.”
Here? In front of everyone?
I freeze, looking from him to the others. Prophet is ignoring us, but the rhythmic tapping of his pen skips a beat. Slate’s eyes are dark, anticipatory, as he waits to see what I’ll do, and Arlo is biting his lip.
Against my better judgement, I head for the seat Dodger is patting, my heartbeat picking up. I hesitate again before sitting, wondering if I should take my panties off now or later.
The flight attendant takes the decision out of my hands as she strolls in with a professional smile. My ass hits the cushion before I can think about it, and I reach blindly for the seat belt.
