Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

I grind the back of my teeth together. Not because Hollister is wrong, but because he’s absolutely right. Fucking the promoter’s woman is a huge no-no. Sometimes fucking their ex is just as bad. I learned this lesson the hard way.

When I was twenty-one, I had a band made up of guys from college. We did a small regional tour with bars no bigger than the one we played the night Landry walked in. On an extended Chicago stay, I hooked up with a Mrs. Robinson-type—a thirty-something yoga instructor who could fold her body in half like Gumby.

The next afternoon, I showed up for the gig and was told to go home. We were booted off the rest of the tour because Mrs. Robinson was the promoter’s longtime girlfriend, and he’d planned on asking her to marry him. Worse, he told all his buddies, and I ended up blacklisted from the Chicago music scene for years.

Turns out that my old man had dicked over a friend of this guy, and the two of them decided to repay a decade-old grievance by freezing me out. Since I didn’t have the same star power as my dad, I couldn’t flex any muscle. The band folded soon after.

I’m fairly certain that is part of what’s driving Davis’s fear for his sister. Sex can ruin a good thing fast.

“Yeah, I know. Look, I’m not new to this. We’re not going to tote around drugs on the bus, and we’re not going to screw any ladies who the promoters have their eyes on.” I tear off the bottom corner of the itinerary. “Got a pen?” I ask.

He produces one from his shirt pocket.

“Speaking of off-limits ladies, put this on your list.” I scribble Landry’s name on the list. I know I can’t fuck her right now, but that doesn’t mean anyone else should be either. For Davis’s sake.

Hollister takes my slip of paper. “Landry Olsen? Who the hell is she?”

“Davis’s sister.” I return to the bus. My phone’s here, and I want to see where the hell the Olsens are.

Hollister’s hot on my heels. “You’re bringing your front man’s sister on tour with you?” He begins shaking his head. “No. No. No. No.”

“You sound like Rudd.” I duck inside and check my messages. There’re two from Davis.

We’re running late.

And then fifteen minutes later.

JFC she’s trying to bring the entire house.

Hollister’s not done. He follows me, complaints still spilling out. “Jesus. I can’t believe I’m agreeing with Rudd of all people. You know what the rules are. No one who’s not part of the band goes on tour with you.”

“My band. My bus. My rules.”

He snatches the paper back from me. “Five bands. Five bands—twenty-some horny guys—and one chick? This is a recipe for disaster. Please tell me she’s ugly.”

I run my tongue across my teeth thinking about the perfection of her tight body and how likely it is that I’m going to plant my fist in someone’s face for looking at her wrong. The probability is high.

“Guys will have to learn a little self-control. It builds character.”

Hollister’s not amused. “It only takes two of you wrestling over her like a bone for this whole thing to go into the shitter.”

“You disinviting us?”

He glances over at Ian and Rudd, who are playing with Ian’s three-month-old kid, then back to me. We both know he’s not doing that. Part of the reason we’re being invited, despite only being together for a few months, is because I’m Sydney Rees’s son. The name still carries weight with promoters. I’d bet my left nut that we wouldn’t have gotten some of these venues if the Rees name weren’t on the press kit.

Right as Hollister opens his mouth, Davis’s Passat rolls down the long driveway. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch Davis and his sister exit the car. Okay, to be fair, we only care about Landry. Everyone here knows Davis. Landry’s the mystery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hollister’s jaw drop open. He sighs in defeat, slapping the crumpled tour list against my chest. “She’s your problem. Don’t screw up.”

Rudd races over, beaming. “I’m in love. Seriously, madly, deeply in love. I take back everything I said about Davis’s sister not being welcome on the bus. She’s so welcome, I’m going to let her sleep in my bunk.”

“And where are you sleeping?” Ian mocks.

“In the same bunk, of course. Hollister, man, you’re welcome to crash in the extra space,” Rudd says generously. “Just don’t open my curtain. We

’ll be busy inside.”

The promoter glares at him, but Rudd’s already moving off, down to introduce himself to Landry.