Page 11 of Four More The Merrier

Lyle Interjects, twirling a pen around like a drumstick. "At least she called."

"He's got a point," Austen says, as he lifts his head up from the table.

"Don't start with me." I jab a finger his way. "This whole thing is because you couldn't keep it in your pants."

"Hey, DNA proved that kid wasn't mine."

"After TMZ ran with it for weeks!" The sound of my own voice makes my temples throb. "And now we're stuck babysitting some amateur because management thinks we need to clean up our image."

Monica stands, her voice sharp. "You want to talk image? How about you getting caught pissing in the bushes at one of LA's most distinguished restaurants?"

"I was celebrating our platinum record!"

"By making headlines for all the wrong reasons." She crosses her arms. "This tour needs to go smoothly. Everyone needs the good press, especially you two, and helping an up-and-coming artist is exactly the kind of story that'll win back the soccer moms."

"Soccer moms?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "We're not some Disney boy band."

"No, you're supposed to be professionals." Monica's eyes narrow. "So act like it."

"Whatever." I snatch my jacket off the chair.

Monica's perfectly plucked eyebrows draw together. "Come on, It's the holiday season, Jarron. Where's your Christmas spirit?"

"I left it at the bar with my dignity." I lean against the wall, the cool surface soothing against my pounding head. "Look, this tour is worth millions. We can't afford-"

"Can't afford what?" Monica's heels click as she approaches me. "To help someone? To show a little compassion? Because last time I checked, you weren't exactly born with a platinum record in your hand."

Beau snorts from his place at the table. "Remember when we used to play at that dive bar in Memphis? What was it called?"

"Shut up, Beau."

"Double D Debbie's, such a classy establishment" Monica answers for me. "Where you all would play for beer and tips. And now you're too good to give someone else a chance?"

"That's different." The words sound weak even to my own ears. "We weren't some last-minute replacement."

"No, you were just four kids with a dream and yard sale instruments." her voice softens. "Just like she is now."

"Jesus Christ." I push off the wall, pacing again. "Fine. But when this turns into a disaster-"

"Then it's on me." Monica taps her tablet. "Now, can we discuss the actual schedule, or do you need more time to complain?"

I slump back into my chair, my hangover intensifying with every tick of the clock on the wall. "Fine. But when this small-town sweetheart crashes and burns, I'm saying I told you so."

"There he is." Lyle grins. "Our ray of sunshine."

6

QUINN

The GPS announces another recalculation as I push my car past the speed limit. My knuckles whiten against the steering wheel while I mutter calculations under my breath.

"Three hours to showtime. I can make it. I can make it."

Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror.

"No, no, NO!" My stomach drops as I ease onto the shoulder. "Dear God, if you're listening, I could really use a break right about now." The cruiser pulls up behind me. "Hey Santa? I know it's early, but I've been really good this year. Well, mostly good."

I fumble through my glove compartment for the registration as the officer approaches, his boots crunching on the gravel.

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