What I didn’t resent was the Mercedes S-Class with a tuxedo-clad driver to take us to the airport, where we parked right on the tarmac next to a sleek, low-slung black jet—like I was a movie star or some shit. This was out of a fucking movie. No one really did this. Yet here I was, my chunky, calf-high combat boots clomping up the movable staircase, wind whipping my hair around and tugging at the open front of my button-down.
Up, into the interior of Myles’s private jet, which he’d literally just purchased. For this trip. For me. An eight-million-dollar jet.
My head spun.
If it was spinning already, when my eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the jet, it damn well popped right off my neck when I took a look around. Whereas the exterior was glossy black with tinted windows, the interior was all soft gray and muted ivory shades, with a pop of crimson in certain bits of trim. A deep leather couch ran the entire length of one side, and a row of deep leather captain’s chairs, in pairs, that faced the built-in tables. The rear wall was entirely dominated by a massive flat screen TV, and I saw evidence throughout the cabin of surround sound speakers. A bar occupied the front wall near the entrance to the cockpit, and it featured bottles of top-shelf alcohol, mostly expensive scotches and whiskeys. Underneath the front of the bar was a cooler with sliding glass doors, revealing rows of beer arranged by brand—clearly preselected based on band member preferences. Behind the bar, rocks glasses for whiskey and pint glasses for beer, a select assortment of wines along with appropriate wineglasses. There were cabinets along the wall perpendicular to the bar that probably contained various snacks and other supplies.
The carpet underfoot was deep and plush, vacuumed in neat lines—I felt an urge to take off my boots and socks and dig my toes into the carpet. Each pair of chairs with their attendant table framed a window. The whole interior was elegant, yet comfortable and understated…just like Myles.
I boggled. “And I thought your tour bus was luxurious. This is insane, Myles.”
He moved in beside me, whistled as he took in the interior. “Damn, no kidding.” He went to the nearest chair and sat down, leaned back—the chair went all the way back, a footrest extended so the chair turned into a small cot. The table folded down and out of the way as needed. “Not quite the same as my suite on the bus, but I guess the idea is the time we save driving gets us to the next city sooner, and we just stay in a real hotel.”
I plopped down on the couch and took off my boots and socks, dug my toes in, and it felt every bit as good as I’d imagined. “Worth eight million dollars?”
“For what will be my home away from home? No stops for gas, no nosy fans peeking in the windows at stoplights? Yeah, I’d say so.”
“No private suite where you can take groupies after the show.” I eyed him, watching his reaction.
“I’m done with that phase of my life,” he said, smiling at me. “Got other plans for after shows than random groupies with backstage passes whose names I’ll never know.”
I didn’t touch that inference. “What do you think the guys will think?”
He mused. “Hmmm. I suppose I should probably let them know what’s going on, huh?”
“I mean, you guys are a band, so I think it would be a good idea to fill them in. I’ll bet money they won’t complain.”
He shrugged. Yanked out his phone. Brought up a FaceTime group call with the other members of his band—Jupiter, the drummer; Brand, the bassist, and Zan, the other lead guitarist.
They all picked up, and Myles kept the phone tilted down and close so all they could see was him. “What’s up, guys?”
“Calling to cancel the tour?” Jupiter said, a note of laughter in his voice.
Myles snorted. “Fuck no. We have twenty-two shows lined up, each one sold out, several of those back-to-back shows in the same city. We’ve got three dates sold out in London, two in Dublin, two in Paris. And Mick is saying he’s getting requests from venues in Rio, Johannesburg, and Sydney to see if we can add dates because they’re getting so many calls asking about more tickets.”
“So what’s up?” Jupiter pressed. “You never call all of us at once like this, not on breaks, unless it’s big news.”
“It is big news.” He grinned. “I leased the bus out.”
They didn’t pick up on the inference right away. There was a long beat of stunned silence.
“You…leased the bus?” Zan said, sounding stoned out of his mind. “So we’re sharing the bus with another band?”
Myles laughed. “Lay off the pot for ten seconds, bud. No, we’re not sharing.”
Jupiter caught on, partway. “You got a new bus?”
“Nope.”
Brand went in for the win. “No fucking way, dude. No way.” He laughed. “You did fucking not.”
“Did what?” Zan asked. “Man, why’d you have to call right after I took a massive toke? I’m not following.”
“A jet?” Jupiter offered. “You bought a jet?”
Myles stood up and touched the button to rotate the screen. “Get your first look at our new ride, gentlemen.” He panned around to take in the exit, showed them the stairs, the bar, then around to the couch; he paused on me. “No, she doesn’t come with the bus, so don’t get any ideas.”
There was a chorus of voices: “Hey, Lex.”
“Hi, guys.” I smirked. “I don’t come with the bus, but I do come with Myles.”
“We know,” Jupiter drawled, his voice droll. “We’ve heard. Multiple times.”
I gave a cutesy little shrug. “Oops.”
Myles winked at me, and kept moving down the
