Page 57 of Darcy
The wrap is the same, crammed full of my favourite foods, but without a mushroom or tomato in sight. I swear it’s almost stalkerish how these guys know exactly how I drink my coffee and my least favourite foods, but I’m not going to complain.
“Hungry?” Slate asks, grinning at the enthusiasm with which I’m attacking my breakfast.
I groan. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do last night because someone tripped and stubbed their toe on my explosives cages?”
There’s a special place in hell reserved for the inventor of injury forms. You’d think I shoved a rocket up Charlie’s ass and set it off given the amount of paperwork that came with him tripping over the corner and faceplanting.
“Are you sure you like your job?” Dodger asks. “I’m sure there’s something better paid…”
I shake my head. “I like blowing shit up.” Understatement of the century. “Besides, I’m fine for money. Honestly.”
I don’t understand why he’s so caught up about this. It’s the third time he’s brought it up, and it feels more awkward every time. I’m halfway to showing him my investment portfolio just to get him to drop the subject.
“When we land in Seattle, I think we should all go on a date,” Slate announces, changing the subject.
“Ooh, yes!” I whoop, tiredness forgotten in the wake of my excitement. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Pacific Science Center! They have a tide pool and a butterfly house and—” I cut off, cheeks going red as I take in the band’s expressions. “Sorry… we can do something else if you want.”
I guess a nerdy day out probably isn’t what they were thinking. Shit. I should’ve just said the movies or dinner or something… I guess it’s not really the sort of place I’d expect rock stars to want to go. Well, really, I suppose it’s a bit immature for a thirty-something year old woman to want to go, but they know who I am. I’ve never pretended to be polished and sophisticated.
I’m a nerd, and I love butterflies, damn it.
“We can go,” Slate replies, slowly.
Arlo looks more enthusiastic. “Should be fun. Do you think they’ll have anemones?”
Prophet says nothing, but his eyes glint slightly—is that as close as I’ll get to approval from him?
Dodger looks faintly amused by the whole idea. “More coffee?” he asks.
I offer him my cup in answer, and he sweeps it away to the kitchen with a soft parting kiss to the top of my head.
The rustle of paper draws my attention back to the table. Slate shoves four pieces of paper across the surface towards me.
“What are these?” I ask, confused.
“The other order of business,” Slate answers. “Our latest health insurance checkups. None of us have been with anyone since the tour began. We’re all clean.”
I blink at him.What is he getting at?
“If you’re comfortable, I’d prefer not to wear condoms,” he finishes.
My brows shoot up. “Don’t you want to know if I’m on birth control first?”
Slate just shrugs. “You’re endgame for us. Whenever kids happen, they happen.”
Something low in my belly flutters, and I have to swallow back the ball of emotion that jumps to my throat. My logical brain is working overtime to remind me that Slate’s words are irresponsible, not cute.
“And your cavalier attitude wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that it’s harder for the band to split up with a kid in the mix?” Prophet leans back, folding his arms behind his head in a relaxed pose that belies the rigid tension threaded through his muscles.
“We did agree to sort our shit out first,” Arlo mutters but is ignored.
“You always have to push, don’t you?” Prophet continues. “She doesn’t even know what she’s getting into, but you’d lock her into hell with us anyway.”
Internally, I grimace, because I know exactly what I’m getting into, but I also happen to have a one hundred percent success rate. I’m more invested in freeing these men than I have been in anything else; so despite Prophet’s misgivings, Miguel won’t be an issue for them much longer.
“I’m giving her the choice,” Slate retorts, eerily calm. “Even if we all went our separate ways, we’d all still love the hell out of her baby.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. “I’m clean, and I’ve got the implant. There’s…” I do the math in my head. “Still four months left on it. Long enough to finish this tour.”
