“Killian and Libby have the bedroom,” Brenna tells me. “You get this top back bunk. It’s with the guys.” Her sherry-colored eyes narrow with worry. “You’re okay with this? Because if you’re not, it’s fine. I can move you to one of the roadie coaches.”
“They all have bunks too, don’t they?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m afraid we get cozy during tour travel. Except for Scottie, who has an entire bus to himself.”
“I’m not surprised in the least.”
“And a word of warning; don’t try to visit him there. He snarls if he finds anyone near his private spaces.”
He left me alone in his house today. Then keeps me at arm’s length in the next breath. I’m beginning to think the man simply doesn’t know how to let people into his life. “I’ll be fine rooming with the guys.”
“You will,” Brenna assures me. “They might be pigs now and then. But they’re good guys. The best. They’ll make you feel comfortable, I promise.”
“Who’s promising what?” Rye says as he hauls his muscled bulk onto the bus.
“That you’ll be nice to Sophie,” Brenna says with a stern look.
The big guy has one of those open faces that easily shows his emotions. He reminds me of a puppy, cute and exuberant. “Of course.” His smile is wide and framed by dimples. “Welcome aboard, lovely Sophie.”
Whip steps up behind him, his blue eyes flashing with impish humor. “Did you tell her about the initiation rites?”
“If it involves anything sexual,” I say blandly, “I offer free nuttings with a hundred-percent guarantee to leave a man incapacitated for an hour at minimum.”
Whip laughs. “I bet. Naw, you just have to drink a lot and make a fool of yourself at least once.” He runs his hand through coal back hair that reaches his collar. Effortlessly cool rocker. “But I promise to take the lead.”
Jax crams in behind him and gives him a nudge to move on. “Out of the way, pretty boy.”
Killian and Libby follow, and soon we’re all crowded in.
Brenna leaves us as the bus gets ready to go. But she’s right; they all make me feel comfortable and welcome. If I’m going to be stuffed in a bus with minimal privacy and space, bunking with these guys isn’t a bad option at all.
I remind myself of this and refuse to think of Gabriel Scott on his own bus, or how much space he must have to rattle around.
After settling in, I join the guys and Libby in the living area. Libby is putting out a tray of biscuits, but stops to offer me one before I sit.
“Get one now,” she tells me in her soft Southern drawl, “because these jackals will devour them in a second.”
I take a napkin and a flaky, hot biscuit. “You baked?”
She smiles wryly, and her grey eyes light up. “Made the dough before and froze it. Not much room for anything else.”
Killian’s hand reaches down between us, and he snatches two. “Best baker ever.” He gives Libby a quick kiss on her cheek. “Love you, Elly May.”
She rolls her eyes and sets the tray down for the guys. “I’m thinking you’re more loving my biscuits right now, lawn bum.”
“Never.”
They grin at each other, and I take a picture before sitting down. Killian is right; Libby is an excellent baker. And Libby is right; the food is devoured in a blink. I find a seat and simply watch the guys interact. There’s something comforting about witnessing old friends enjoy each other’s company.
But they don’t leave me out. Whip turns his attention to me soon enough. “So, Bren threw you right into the lion’s den, eh?”
“You guys seem pretty tame.”
He laughs, and I’m struck by the fact that he looks very much like Killian, only blue-eyed instead of dark. “Sadly, we are now.”
“You miss being wild?” I ask, taking a picture because he’s just too pretty lounging in a black leather armchair, his toned body doing nice things for the vintage Def Leppard concert tee he’s wearing.
“Naw,” he says. “I’m kind of liking this tamer phase. More productive, at the very least.”
“He’s just getting old,” Rye says, opening a small fridge and pulling out a few bottles of beer.
“You’re six months older than I am,” Whip points out.
“I age better.”
“Like moldy cheese,” Whip says.
Rye plops down next to me on the small banquet. “I’m surprised Scottie was cool with you sleeping on this bus.”
Killian passes me a beer. “Why wouldn’t he be? It’s her job to record us.”
“It’s cute that you described my job with finger quotes,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.
He grins with teeth, so fake, and I snap a pic before he can stop. At this he scowls, but it lacks any heat.
“Brat. I’m not saying I like my every move being chronicled—and post that goof one at your peril—but I’m admitting it’s a needed aspect of the tour, all right?”