We get lost in conversation and I sit there, sorting through clothes, before the adjoining door between my room and the next opens. Apparently, my side wasn’t locked. Dean sticks his head around the corner. “Cool. Our rooms are connected.”

“Is that Dean?” Latson asks.

“Yep. Do you want to talk to him?”

“No. I’ll catch up with him later.”

Dean continues to stand there and I feel awkward. “Hey,” I say. “You can’t just come in here whenever you want. What if I was changing?”

He looks surprised. “It didn’t even cross my mind. Sorry.”

“What’s your ass sorry for now?” Drew appears behind him. “Are we ready to go or what?”

“Who is that?” Latson asks.

“Drew,” I say. “We’re supposed to go downstairs for a drink. I was just –”

“Jennnnnn!”

This must be Paul. He strides around both Dean and Drew and over to me. “Would you hurry it up?  I’m fucking thirsty.”

He jumps on to the bed with both feet and hops up and down, throwing me off balance. “Stop!” I laugh.

“Are they all in in your room?” Latson sounds annoyed on the other end of the line.

“Yes, and they’re uninvited.” I move the phone away from my mouth. “Go. I’ll catch up.” I wave them away.

“Okay, okay,” they mumble and walk back into Dean’s room. “We’ll save you a seat.”

Once they leave I lock the adjoining door. It’s like living with my brothers again. “They’re gone,” I say. “Where were we?”

“I think you were going out.”

Latson sounds disappointed and my stomach sinks. “I’m not going out. I’m going to eat. There’s a difference.”

“I know.” Silent seconds pass before his tone changes. “Don’t let me keep you. Go. Meet the band. I have to get Oliver to bed anyway.”

He’s not fooling me. I know the guys bug him, but there’s nothing I can do. “Tell O I said goodnight.” I reach for my carry-on bag and find his drawing. I need a place for it. “I’ll call you after rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Latson says.

When we hang up, I prop Oliver’s drawing on the bedside table, so I can see it all the time. I take a picture of it, then send it to Latson. Maybe it will make him feel better.

So you can tuck me in too, I type.

I wish, he sends back.

Chapter Nineteen

“Stop!  Stop!  Stop!”

Dean waves his arms like he’s directing air traffic. My hands still and my guitar goes silent.

“Jen!  Move!”

I look up just in time to see a huge inflatable heart falling toward my head. Paul’s big hand wraps around the top of my arm and yanks me out of the way.

“Sorry!”  I hear someone from backstage shout. “The rigging on that one is a bitch!”

I watch as the heart hits the ground and bounces back up. I was almost attacked by one of Ariel’s stage props. I look above me again to see a sea of hanging hearts in various sizes, colored red, pink, and purple. She’s certainly going all lovey-dovey for one of her numbers.

“We should move,” Paul says. “It’s not like we don’t know our fucking places. We’re not jumping around like fucking River Dance.”

Ah, Paul. If I’ve learned anything about him in the last ten days, it’s that he doesn’t hold back.

“Sure,” Drew huffs from behind us. “Move farther away and leave me lost in the goddamn glitter.” He brushes his head and sparkles go flying. “Tell me why we’re here again?”

“We’re here,” Dean’s voice echoes through the speakers, “because we need to be. They said we could rehearse, so we’re rehearsing.”

I take a step away from Paul and stare out into the empty abyss of the Staples Center. The tour begins tomorrow night, and Roxanne secured us some stage time while the crew runs through Ariel’s set changes. What sounded like a great idea at first has turned into a comedy of errors. In addition to the falling heart, we’ve been blinded by stage lighting and bombed with glittery chunks of confetti. The pyrotechnics that exploded a half hour ago almost made us piss our pants. As I look around, I start to wonder if we should cut our losses and call it quits.

“Now what?”

Drew’s groaning question makes me turn around. The hearts above us start to ascend and large tie-dyed panels are wheeled into place around the stage. They surround Drew, and he tosses his drumsticks over his shoulder, defeated and annoyed.

“I feel like I’ve stepped into some trippy dream,” I say to Paul. “Hearts and tie dye. Is Ariel sixteen or twenty-five?” I’ve yet to meet her or any of her people, but I am familiar with her music. To me, she seems like a mix of Britney Spears and Katy Perry. Sexy and sweet with a little raunchy thrown in.

Just then, the lights go out and black lights illuminate the stage. Everything glows, including us.

“Your dream just got a fuck-ton trippier,” Paul jokes and starts to pluck a familiar bass line. It’s “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix. I laugh and try to join in, but I’m terrible.

“Guys. Let’s focus,” Dean says. “Let’s take it from the top of “Out of the Blu.”

“I need out of the black,” Drew says. “I can’t find my sticks.”

Dean lets out a frustrated sigh. “Take five.”

I walk back to my side of the stage to wait out the latest special effect. Standing in place I rock back on my heels, thinking about the last week and a half. It’s been a blur and my fingers are blistered, but I wouldn’t trade this crazy experience for anything. I never thought I’d be standing on stage in an arena that can hold 18,000 people, yet here I am. Playing tomorrow both excites and terrifies me. It’s a heady feeling. I’m still nervous, but not as much as I was when I left Chicago.

When the lights come back on, movement off stage catches my attention. Roxanne is headed our way with her arms full of paper.

“How’s your rehearsal?  I hope you’re putting in quality time.”

I want to tell her if she’s worried she should stay, but I don’t. Even after a week and a half I still can’t read her very well. Is she our friend?  Our boss?  I’m still not clear on whether she works for the record label or Dean.

Roxanne shifts what looks like posters in her arms. “I brought the final product of your last photo shoot.” She stops walking and stands near the front of the stage. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

We all walk toward her, and she hands us each a copy. The glossy posters are longer than they are wide with a sepia-toned background. Each of us is pictured in black and white, and we’re standing side by side but looking off in different directions. We never posed this way, so I know the photographer took our individual shots and Photoshopped us. Dean is first in line and he stands casually. He’s holding the neck of his guitar with one hand and looking down at the ground with a smile. Drew is next, and he wears a more serious expression. He has his arms crossed and most of his back to the camera, so you can see his drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. Paul wears his usual cocky smirk as he holds his bass over one shoulder, and then there’s me.

I’m last in line, but I wear the biggest grin. My eyes are closed as I hold my acoustic in front of me like I’m playing. My hair whips around my face, but it doesn’t obscure it. I think I remember this shot. At one point during the session, the photographer’s assistant turned on a big fan and it felt like I was stuck in a hurricane. I started laughing because I thought it was silly; a stylist spent an hour meticulously curling my hair only to have it ruined in an instant. Plus, I’m not a model. The fan reminded me of a fashion shoot.

Paul reads aloud from the top of the poster and embellishes the band name just a little. “Dean McCarthy and the motherfuckin’ Union.”

A small smile plays over Dean’s lips as he looks over the design. “Joining Ariel Allyn on the Renegade Tour,” he adds.

“Here.” Roxanne starts to hand out equal stacks of posters. “Every one of you needs to sign all of these.”