Page 106 of Forbidden Lyrics

Not usually.

But you make me”

“Make me,” I echo.

“Want you,” he follows.

“Just you,” we sing together.

We finish the rest of the song, and the only sounds are our voices, the guitar, and the occasional rev of the RV’s engine as it eats up the distance to our destination. When the last chord is played, I open my eyes and find Gibson staring at me, his expression not quite as somber as before. Like maybe there’s hope for us after all.

Leaning over his guitar, he kisses me. Softly. Slowly. And with that same reverence that’s remarkable.

Clapping and whistling ensue around us, the guys hooting and hollering as Fender pipes up and says, “All right, all right. That’s enough, you two.”

I lick my lips and untuck my hair from behind my ear to hide my blush as Phoenix licks his Cheeto fingers before tapping them against his cell.

“You okay if I post this, Sonny?” he asks.

“Did you record us?”

“Yeah. That okay? Figured it could create some buzz for the tour. Maybe help sell a few more tickets at the venues.”

Gibson turns to me. “You okay if he posts the video?”

Indecision wars in my lower gut before I shove it aside. “I mean, they’re going to hear me at one point anyway, right? But are you okay with it?” I ask Gibbs. “If Broken Vows fans see you on the video, it’ll be hard to stay out of the limelight. SeaBird’s little show was one thing, but this…” My voice trails off as I motion to Phoenix’s phone.

Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, Gibbs pulls me into his side before his chest rumbles, “I think you were right, Dove. I might as well embrace it.”

“And you’re sure?” I murmur, peeking up at him.

With a nod, he drops a kiss to the crown of my head.

“Okay,” I announce. “I say we post it. Might as well get some buzz for the tour, right?”

Satisfied, Gibson says, “Well, you heard the girl. Post away, I guess.”

“Yes!” Phoenix shouts before he types on his screen for a few more seconds and slips his phone back into his pocket before pulling out his drumsticks from the back of his jeans, twirling them in his fingers as he announces, “It’s done. Let’s get some food.”

“But you just”––I motion to the empty bag of Cheetos in front of him, shaking my head––“Food, it is.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dove

The drive is long, and my back aches from sitting so much. But the time goes by relatively quickly, thanks to the band members. This isn’t their first rodeo, and they’re pretty hilarious together. Between telling stories of past adventures and dreaming about the potential doors this tour may open, we’re all pretty high on life despite the hours on the road.

And I love it.

The camaraderie. The trust. The excitement. It’s a heady concoction, and I haven’t even stepped foot on a stage.

Fender and Gibson take turns playing their songs acoustically while I chime in every once in a while with new ideas that can potentially take the song to the next level. And when Gibson remembers the one he’d been working on when we first met was meant to be sung from two perspectives, he reminds me of a little kid on Christmas.

I fall asleep in Gibson’s arms, crammed into a tiny twin-sized bunk bed as Stoker and Phoenix play poker beneath us, and Fender takes another turn behind the wheel.

It’s memorable. And surreal. And kind of perfect, too.

I think I could get used to this.

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