Page 45 of I Just Want to be Yours

“Yup,” she says with a sharp nod. “I told him to give me three shows. If I couldn’t make a profit in three shows, I’d catch a ride back home.”

My eyes fall to where she secured the cashbox. “Well, you’ve certainly done that.”

“Even with your lousy inventory help.” She gives me a playful sideways glance.

“I just find this . . .”—I gesture toward the room around us—“a little hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it.” She gets to her feet and greets a fan who wants to buy one of our shirts, so I smile at the girl. I’m still not sure if anyone would recognize my face or if they just know the band name. Sometimes I think people assume I’m Mya’s lazy assistant. When the girl quickly smiles but then gives her full attention back to Mya, I pull out my phone to let Mya work her magic. I swear half the reason we run out of inventory all the time is because she ends up selling people more things than they came for. I don’t think anyone can say no to her.

As soon as my phone screen lights up, I check for Margot’s name, but there’s nothing. I think she tries to give me space onthe nights she knows we have a show. It’s like she thinks she’ll take away from my experience, but she wouldn’t. Having a text from her, telling me about her day or some random remark made by someone at the paper would only make this better. Maybe I should tell her when I see her. Maybe she needs to hear it.

I contemplate sending her a text on the off chance she’s still awake, but my thumbs hover over the keys. What would I tell her? That I can’t wait to see her? That I wish she were here? That Brian has been interviewing drivers for the RV, but Mya doesn’t think he’ll ever hire anyone because he’s such a picky bastard?

Redundant.

Redundant.

And . . . not important.

“Um, excuse me?”

I look up to find the girl Mya was just helping, now holding a T-shirt, hat, and band photo we all scrambled to take last week when Mya insisted we needed one for the table. She’s staring at me with wide, brown eyes, her shoulder-length hair swaying from side to side as she shifts on her feet.

“Sorry,” she says as soon as my eyes meet hers. “Um, you’re Jackson Phillips, right?”

I blink. She’s acting . . .nervous.And it’s because of me? Planting my feet firmly on the ground, I lean forward in the chair and give her my full attention. “Uh, yeah. What’s up?”

She smiles, relief flooding through her features like she was afraid I might be an asshole. “Sorry to bother you, but can you sign this?” She holds out the band photo.

I look down at the photo and then back at her. “You want me to sign it?”

“Of course, she does,” Mya says with a laugh as she jams a Sharpie into my hand. “She was just telling me how much shelovesAmerican Thieves.”

My eyes jump from Mya to the girl, only snapping out of my shock when Mya widens her eyes at me. People have asked for my autograph before, but they were all local. That was at home. Here, we’re just the warm-up band. We’re the ones killing time until they can see who they really bought tickets for.

“Right,” I say, doing my best to hide my shock. “I’d be happy to.” Taking the photo from her, I set it down in front of me. It’s a black and white image Mya took on her phone, but it looks good. It might even be able to pass for a professional photo with the way she edited it. I scrawl my name in the sky near where I’m standing and hand it back to the girl. “Here you go.”

“Thank you!” She does a quick hop on her toes before clutching the photo to her chest with the rest of her items. Turning on her heels she disappears back into the crowd.

“Look who’s gettingfamous.” Mya playfully pushes my shoulder, and I swat her hand away with a laugh.

Famous.

The thought is ridiculous. I’m in this to play music in front of an audience of people like we did earlier tonight. The thought of celebrity sends a spike of anxiety through me.

“Looks like you’re not the only one getting attention tonight.” Mya sits in her chair, and I realize I’ve been zoning out with my fist pressed against my lips.

Lifting my head, I follow her gaze. At first, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then, I see it. Marty has some blonde pressed up against the back wall of the club.

“Jesus,” I mutter with a shake of my head. Fucking Marty. He’s going to gloat about this for weeks, I can already feel it. I figured Dave would be the one we’d have to worry about on tour with him being newly single, but as far as I know, he’s been focused on the music and nothing else.

“You know, I’m kind of impressed.” Mya tilts her head, hereyes never leaving Marty and his latest conquest. “I didn’t think Marty had game, but she looks close.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Close? From making out?”

Mya gives me a sideways glance, amusement glittering in her green eyes. “Um, open your eyes, Lover Boy. He’s hand-fucking her.” She shakes her head before standing to help another customer, but I don’t look to see who walks up to the table this time.

This time, my eyes are fixed on Marty.

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