Page 75 of Rock Bottom

“Does your boss give you vacation days?” he asked, pulling his knees up and wrapping his long arms around them.

I paused with a wadded tissue in my hand. “I think so. I don’t really use mine, though.”

“So you must have accumulated quite a lot over the years.”

“Maybe.” I tossed the tissues in a big ball across the room and most of them made it into the bin.

Dante raised his eyebrows, and I finally realized what he was really getting at. He wanted me to use my vacation days to spend time with him.

“Dante…” I took his hand. “As nice as that sounds, don’t you have a big world tour kicking off in just a few weeks? One that’ll last almost an entire year?”

He sighed and looked away. “Ninety-one shows in nine months from Vancouver to Osaka and back.”

“And what, you expect me to just follow you around the world? And just because I can listen to Bowie’s music right now doesn’t mean I’ll ever be able to stand in a packed arena to hear you play. You deserve someone who can be there to support you.”

“I want you,” he said sliding his hand away. “There has to be a way. Don’t say there isn’t. Other people make it work.”

“Maybe I’m not like other people, Dante.”

Dante deflated slightly, and I immediately felt guilty for saying it.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Bowie shouted up the stairs. “We’d better get this show on the road before someone calls to ask what’s taking so damn long.”

Without a word, Dante swung his bare feet down and began to pull on his clothes.

“Dante. Hey, come on. I didn’t mean it like that.” I stood and grabbed his arm gently, holding onto it until he looked at me, his eyes all watery. “I want this,” I assured him again, resting my forehead against his. “If there’s a way, we’ll find it, okay? But you’re going to have to be patient with me.”

“I’ll do my best, Christian, but…” He frowned and cut himself off, pulling away.

“But what?”

Dante finished pulling on his pants and shook his head before grabbing his smart watch from the bedside table. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

That was the worst thing he could’ve said. By asking me not to worry, that just made me worry more, but I didn’t press the issue. We still had the whole drive back to talk this out.

I helped him pack everything and carried some of his bags down to the living room, where Bowie was waiting with folded arms.

“Jesus, Church,” he muttered and shook his head. “You look like you were outside when the twister hit.”

I frowned. Sometimes talking to Bowie was like speaking a foreign language. “Huh?”

Dante cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper, “He means you have sex hair, kitten.”

“Oh.” I frantically ran my fingers through my hair trying to fix it.

“Here. Let me.” Dante put the guitar case he was holding down and started running his fingers through my hair in a way that made me want to drag him right back upstairs.

“Well, ain’t that sweeter than stolen honey.” Bowie smacked my arm. “Come on, lover boy. Let’s get this show on the road.” He picked up two suitcases and headed for the front door.

I followed him with one of Dante’s guitars in hand and stopped on the porch next to him. “I should thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a problem.” He gestured forward toward the vehicles.

I frowned, not following his logic at first. Then I saw the tires.

Someone had slashed every last one.

Bowie lowered his cell from his ear and shook his head. I wrung my hands and nervously glanced at the sky where the sun was quickly sinking toward the horizon.

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