“If there’s any damage, put it on my bill.”
They’d made it to the second dressing room, and as Gray pushed open the door, Marco walked off to take care of the support band, muttering something about calling for a car. Unlike the first room, this one was almost empty, save for one of Gray’s session guitarists drinking a glass of orange juice.
“You not partying with the others?” Gray asked the older man as he grabbed himself another bottle of water.
“Nope. I’m heading back to the hotel shortly. My bed is calling me.” Paul’s eyes crinkled. “How about you? I didn’t expect to see you back here.”
Touring created strange allies. The only thing Gray had in common with this fifty-something, grizzled Australian was the fact they both played guitar. And yet, for the past two weeks they had hit it off, talking quietly at the back of buses and airplanes while the rest of the entourage shouted and laughed at the front.
“I’m too old to party.”
Paul chuckled. “You’re thirty-one. Just a baby.”
“Tell my muscles that. And my bones.” Gray rotated his head to iron out the kinks in his neck. “Anyway, I’ve got a flight to catch tomorrow. I don’t want to miss it.”
“You’re heading to see your family, right?”
“Yeah.” Gray sat back on the leather sofa and crossed his feet on the coffee table in front of him. “That’s right.”
“Funny place. Hartson’s something…” Paul grinned. “Not many people I know have a whole town named after them.”
“Hartson’s Creek. And it’s not named after me. Probably my great-great-great grandpa or something.” Gray’s brows scrunched together thinking about the small town in Virginia where he’d grown up. The same place he hadn’t been back to since he left more than a decade earlier.
“What is it they used to call you and your brothers?” Paul asked, a grin pulling at his lips. “The Heartbreak Brothers?” He’d overheard one of Gray’s interviews while on the bus and hadn’t let him live his past down since.
“Don’t remind me.” Gray shook his head. He couldn’t remember who’d invented the damn name, but it had stuck to them like superglue. He and his three brothers – Logan, Cam, and Tanner, had rolled their eyes every time they’d heard it while they were growing up. Yeah, they were four strong, attractive teenage boys growing up in a small town, but that stupid nickname always drove them crazy.
Not as crazy as it drove their little sister, Becca, though. She hated hearing her female friends describing her brothers as ‘hot’.
Something was digging into Gray’s thigh. He frowned and pushed his hand into his pocket, finding what the woman had slid in there earlier. Pulling it out, he could see it was a clear plastic baggie, with white powder inside. She’d written her name and number in blue pen on the outside.
“That what I think it is?”
“Yup.” Gray threw it in the trash can and leaned his head back against the wall. There was a time when he would have been partying like crazy after a gig. As his stardom rose up, he’d been like a kid in a candy store for a while, feeding on the fruits of his fame like there was a famine right around the corner.
But after the rise had come the crash. Waking in one strange bed too many, his head thumping with pain, his body filled with so many chemicals he could have set up his own lab. All followed by a three-day hangover that cost the record company thousands of dollars in unused studio time, and a missed performance on Jimmy Kimmel that had made him feel like a piece of shit.
It hadn’t taken much to clean up his act. He was an idiot, not an addict. Marco had arranged for him to rent a studio in a secluded spot in Colorado, and he’d put his head down until he’d finished his second album. The record that raised him up from being a little famous to being a star.
God, he was tired. It wasn’t just the tour – though that was draining on its own. It was everything. Trying to work on songs for the next album, talking with Marco about what kind of tour he wanted to promote it, and dealing with the calls from his sister about his dad being in the hospital with pneumonia.
It felt like all the energy had been sucked out of him. He wanted to sleep for months.
“Your car is here,” Marco said, pushing the dressing room door open. “You just need to say goodbye to a few people first.” He frowned at Gray, slumped on the bench. “Hey, you okay? You haven’t showered.”
“I’ll do it back at the hotel.” Gray stood and rolled his shoulders.
Paul walked over to shake his hand. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
“And with you. Take it easy. Enjoy that family of yours.” Gray had seen all the photographs of Paul’s wife, three children, and six grandchildren.
“I intend to. I hope your father’s feeling better soon.”
“That reminds me,” Marco said, steering Gray out of the room. “I spoke to your sister earlier. Your father was discharged and is recuperating at home. She wanted your flight details so they know when to expect you.”
“She could have called me.”
Marco laughed. “Do you know when your flight gets into Dulles?”