Page 23 of I Just Want to be Yours

“Think this is him?” Marty asks with a nod, and I hold my breath as my eyes track the black sedan pulling into the parking lot.

Dave takes a few steps forward as the car pulls up, and we all watch in anticipation. The car rolls to a stop, and it feels like it’s happening in slow motion.

The rear door of the Uber opens, and I set my guitar aside with bated breath. I get to my feet, but my hands don’t know what to do now that I’m not playing, so I shove them in my pockets.

Finally, the door opens enough for me to get a glimpse of this guy, and I feel like I can breathe again. He’s wearing black slacks, a white button down, and a black tie. The guy wore a fuckingtie.He grins as he steps out of the car, his hair a few shades lighter than mine, but a hell of a lot shorter. Everything about this guy is clean.

Maybe I didn’t fuck up, because this guy screams professionalism.

He looks like he could take us to where we need to go.

He looks like a manager.

“Ah, good!” he says as he takes in the scene, holding a duffel bag by his side. “I’m glad to see the RV worked out.”

Dave greets him with a firm handshake. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for saving our asses.”

Brian gives a sharp nod with his single shake. “Thanks for giving me the opportunity.”

Turning to the rest of us, Dave says, “Brian, you remember most of these guys, but you didn’t meet Jackson at the festival.” I wave, and I’m relieved to see Dave’s in a better mood about all of this, but even with the smile plastered on his face, there’s a hint of apprehension in his eyes when he adds, “We can take care of the paperwork inside and go from there.”

We’ve been hanging out in Brian’s hotel room for a few hours now. He talked to the front desk about letting us leave the RV parked out front for a while, and we’ve had our fair share of drinks. Dave agreed the contract Brian brought was pretty straightforward, and we’ve been celebrating ever since we signed our names on the dotted line.

Over the past few hours, Brian’s tie has gotten steadily looser, and it’s starting to feel like he’s one of us. He’s treated us to room service, boosted our egos, and now he wants to take us all out for the night. Scrolling on his phone, he says, “You guys know of any clubs around here?”

Dave sits on the floor, with his head leaning against the bed. “Nah, but Jackson is underage.”

Brian lies sprawled out on his bed with an arm over hishead, but that doesn’t stop him from lifting his head to look at me. “No shit?”

“No shit,” I confirm. My age is what separates me from the band the most, and I can’t wait for the day I can get into places with them. No one in the band treats me like I’m younger—except for Marty. But it doesn’t matter how they see me, it matters how the law sees me, and to the law, I’m too young to get drunk with my band on a Thursday night after hiring our first manager.

He sits up on the bed. “Don’t you have a fake?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. I’ll get one.” Up until now, I never felt like I needed one. I always hung out with my friends after our shows in Tampa, so I didn’t care if the guys went out without me. When we were on tour earlier this year, the schedule was too tight for any of us to go out anyway. This is the first time I’ve wished I had a magic plastic card with a grainy photo and a fake name.

Brian rubs a hand over his jaw, mulling it over. “I mean, I can be persuasive, but I can’t guarantee they’ll let you in. The band isn’t big enough for you to get in on clout alone.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I get to my feet. “You guys go out.” Snatching a half-finished bottle of bourbon off the windowsill, I add, “But I’m taking this with me.”

They’re all watching me, and I know they’re trying to find a workaround. The only way around this is going somewhere that will let me in underage, and I doubt that’s the type of place they want to spend their night.

“You’re sure?” Dave eventually asks, and I hate that he feels sorry for me.

“Yup.” I take a sip from the bottle. “It’s been a while since I’ve bugged Margot, anyway. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

Brady lets out a laugh. “Maybe you should leave the bottle here before you do.”

My mouth quirks, but I shake my head. “See you assholes later.”

I leave the room before anyone has a chance to call me back. I’m buzzed but coherent enough to tuck the small bottle into the back of my waistband before walking out of the hotel.

The RV feels bigger now that it’s just me in it. It’s old, but clean enough. There’s a small couch with a fold-out table, a tiny kitchen area, a bathroom the size of a closet, and in the very back are two sets of bunk beds. Beyond that is one more sliding door to a fifth bed. Theprimary suiteso to speak. I’m assuming Brian will spend his nights there and the band will take the bunks.

Bottle in hand, I collapse onto my new bed. There’s nothing to it. The thin mattress makes the memory of my dorm bed feel like a luxurious dream, and if I roll over, I’ll end up on the fucking floor.

But it’s a space—myspace.

It’s at least ten steps above sleeping on a piece of plywood in a sleeping bag, sandwiched between two other guys, so I’ll take it.

---