He gives a swift shake of his head. “What’s to hate? The entitled brat I work for? The women who fuck me with the sole purpose of an introduction to the grand prize? The sleepless nights? Lack of stability?”
I laugh.
“It works while I’m young-ish,” he adds as an afterthought.
“I couldn’t do it again. A year and a half is time enough.”
Jack nods. “Been nice having you around.” He taps his glass against mine, and I lift it in salute.
“I got a fuckload of good shots of your boy. You can’t even tell he’s a twat.”
He stifles a laugh. “Careful, I don’t trust the prick not to have the bus bugged.”
I glance around. “I’ve finished my gig, and I’ve been paid. Let the little shit do his worst.”
“What’s home?”
I purse my lips. “Nothing.”
A small smirk pulls at his lips. “The girl?”
I frown. “What girl?”
“The girl you’re always staring at photos of.”
“Henley.” I clear my throat. “She’s not home. She’ll never go back there. I don’t know where she is.”
“She was your girl?”
I sip my beer. “I thought so.”
“She didn’t?”
My eyes close. “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck she thinks. I don’t think she really knows.”
“Ah.” He sighs. “We all have the ones who get away from us. We can dwell, or you can pick one of the many eager groupies about to board the bus and fuck your sorrows away.”
I force a smile. “I’m out, dude. This is my last hurrah on this ship.” I lift my beer. “I’m heading to the airport in about ten minutes.”
“More for me.” He claps, standing on a smirk. “I’ve gotta make a few calls about our next stop. Best of luck, mate.”
I lift my chin in acknowledgment as he makes his way off the bus, leaving me to my thoughts.
“Sounds like you need a refresher on what love actually is, photographer-man.”
The soft lull of the English accent I’ve come to despise drifts from a lone bunk.
I turn in my seat, seeking Britain’s highest-paid pop star out.
“Yes, I heard you call me a twat, but I’m choosing to ignore that snipe to bestow some much-needed advice to you.”
“Advice?” I chuckle. “I hadn’t realized you’d matured past puberty.”
The soft strum of his guitar echoes my insult. “I write love songs for a living. I have enough money to buy you and force you to follow me around and listen to me for the remainder of your life, which tells me I do it well.”
I scowl, grimacing at the taste of acid on my tongue at his truth.
“Have you not read the New Testament? Love does not demand its own way,” he recites.
My eyebrows raise. “That’s where you’re getting your inspiration from? The Bible?”
An irritated sigh hits my ears before he gives a hearty groan as he sits up. “You’re rather daft for an almost geezer.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
His eyes widen in exasperation as he jumps from the bunk. “Love doesn’t exist for the sole basis of romantic relationships. It’s family. It’s friendship. I may not have had my heart broken too many times in my life yet, but I know what love is.”
I watch him expectantly. He epitomizes the bad-boy charm his marketing executives have forced upon him. The fall of dark hair brushing his forehead, hiding the tinted lashes that drive teenage girls to madness. The grayscale tattoos haphazardly inked into his skin like an obscure art show. Fingers adorned with metal bands of all different sizes and shades. He’s the UK’s crowning jewel. A seventeen-year-old boy who likely still cracks no-reason boners but could—like he threatened—buy me a dozen times over.
“Love is about compromise. It's the sacrifice of considering others first. You can’t tell someone you love them, but then ask them to wait for you in the same breath.”
My gaze chooses to watch his fingers pluck at the strings of his acoustic.
“You’re going down a one-way path in the wrong direction,” he tells his guitar. “How do you ever expect to meet your girl at a point that it’ll ever work?”
I scratch my head.
“Love takes two people, mate. Otherwise, it’s just an ill-directed obsession.” He finally looks up, his whiskey-colored eyes fixed on me. “If you love your girl, you’ll wait for her. From what I’ve heard you moan about, she ain’t ready, brother. Or maybe you’ve got an obsession that’s gonna leave you chasing for an eternity.”
I pinch my bottom lip.
She ain’t ready.
“How will I know if she’s ready?”
I want to kick myself for asking this asswipe for advice, but he’s making more fucking sense than I can muster in the clusterfuck that is my feelings for Henley Wright.
Dropping his face into his palm, he shakes his head. “Is she here?”
I frown. “Clearly not,” I bite out.
He stares at me for a brief second, waiting for his point to hit. “When she’s with you, and she’s willing to stay with you, she’s ready to compromise a little more to make it work. Until you’re both willing to put your fears aside, you’re bound to fail. Stop fucking demanding her to love you the way you want her to.”
He gives me his back, moving back to the hidden bunk. He pauses as he reaches it, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re right. Someone in my empire has paid you, and your work here is finished. So get the fuck off my tour bus, photographer-man. I pay people to pretend to like me, but you obviously suck at the job.”
I bark out a laugh, standing to retrieve my bags. “There’s hope for you yet,” I mumble.
“If you need me to serenade your Henley with my soulful voice and mesmerizing eyes, let me know. Can’t promise she won’t fall in love with me, though.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a twat?” I raise my voice as I begin to descend the stairs.
26
HENLEY
AGE 26
I taste the concoction I’ve spent the last hour perfecting. A personal twist on sours that needs a pinch more lime juice.
“Love to take you out for a drink.”
I look up, a slice of lime held loosely in my hand.
