Page 71 of Darcy
“I still have to eat.”
“I’ll make you some toast,” Dodger promises.
When the door to the suite opens, Dodger is feeding me my toast as Prophet uses me as a human barbell. I grin at Slate, waving from my current position suspended above the drummer’s head.
“What on earth is going on here?” the bassist asks, incredulous.
He’s the closest to polished I’ve ever seen him. If wearing a pressed white shirt with the sleeves turned up and the top button undone over a pair of jeans can count as polished. I suppose, for a rock star, it is.
“I’m being used as a weight,” I deadpan. “I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted, really.”
“Flattered,” Arlo answers. “Prophet is a total weakling. He couldn’t do any of this stuff if you were the slightest bit heavy.”
I grin at his blatant lie. Prophet, finally finished, lets me drop back onto my own two feet at last. I swipe the last of my buttery toast from Dodger and skip forward to hug Slate.
“Morning,cariño,” he mumbles against my hair. “Ready to go see your tide pools and butterflies?”
“Yes.” I can’t help my grin as I dart away from the lot of them, heading for Slate’s room and my clothes. “Let me just throw on some clothes.”
The band may have its problems, but I’m determined that we’re all going to have fun on this trip.
Twenty-Four
Prophet
Darcy is glowing. She flits between the plants of the butterfly house like a hummingbird, cooing over every single insect as if it’s the most precious thing. Talking to them like they’re old friends. She even reads every. Single. Sign.
Who does that?
Even Slate, the wordy genius among us, doesn’t bother with much more than a passing glance to learn the names. Arlo ignores them entirely. He and Dodger are too busy staring at the blonde bombshell as she dances between exhibits.
She’s such a science geek. I mean, I knew she was a nerd, but this is like seeing an entirely different side of her.
I’m well aware that I’m quickly becoming as entranced as the rest of them, but I’m also powerless to stop it. It doesn’t help that every single time I do something to distance myself, I feel like shit afterwards.
I don’t even know why I chucked my keys in that damn bowl—why Ikeepdoing it. My common sense is screaming at me that Darcy—and everything she represents—is dangerous. She’s the bait Slate has selected to trap me in the band for the rest of my life. If this relationship with her breaks down, it will ruin our friendship for all time.
I know this.
Yet somehow, I’m still hopeless when it comes to her.
Maybe it’s because she’s already under my defences. Ten years of hanging out, of hearing about her day, about her loser exes, her ups and downs, her arguments with her sisters. A decade of teasing and taunts.
I have a plan: get out of this band, save my family before they’re killed because Arlo convinced me to sign that fucking deal, and get back on track to a normal life. I’m closer to forty than thirty, for fuck’s sake. I should have my shit figured out by now.
Instead, I’m hitched to the Hazardous crazy train, like I’ve always been.
“Prophet, grab a picture, quick!” Dodger’s voice cuts me out of my bitter thoughts, and I glance up to find a huge orange butterfly has made itself at home on top of Darcy’s head.
She’s trying her best not to move, but her eyes are almost crossed as she tries her best to catch sight of her hitchhiker.
“She must like my shampoo,” Darcy whispers, awestruck.
My phone is in my hand before I can think better of it, snapping the shot. Not a moment too soon, because the insect flutters away in the next second.
Then she’s there, in my space, tiny hands gripping my wrist as she turns my phone to examine the picture.
The corner of her lips turns down a fraction, but it’s gone before I can point it out, replaced with awe. “Oh wow! That’s huge!”
