Page 83 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

After they leave, I pull up the tour schedule on my phone. They’re right—we have a three-day gap in Seattle. Seventy-two hours. I frown thinking about that city, and my gut tightens, but then I smile as I glance at Lacey’s contact photo—the one I snapped that morning in her bedroom, her hair messy, wearing my shirt, her smile soft and private.

I scroll through my texts, stopping at our last communication from yesterday.

Lacey: 12:50 AM PST’Long day. Filming ran late.’

Me: 12:51 AM PST’How was it?’

There was a long pause before her response.

Lacey: 12:57 AM PST’Exhausting. But at least I didn’t forget my lines this time.’

I frowned.

Me: 12:58 AM PST ‘You’re pushing too hard.’

Lacey: 1:00 AM PST’No choice. The schedule is packed. Rachel says I need to keep up.’

I gritted my teeth. Fuck Rachel.

Me: 1:02 AM PST’What about what you need?’

There was another pause, this one even longer.

Finally, she sent back—

Lacey: 1:10 AM PST’I need you.’

My chest had tightened. I hated the distance. Hated that I couldn’t pull her into my arms. Hated that we exist in only stolen moments, late-night messages, and whispered promises.

I had closed my eyes, gripping the phone tighter.

Me: 1:12 AM PST’Say the word, Lace, and I’ll be on the next flight.’

I hadn’t expected her to say yes.

And she didn’t.

Instead, she just responded back with—

Lacey: 1:14 AM PST’Soon.’

I blink, staring at the word she had typed for a long time, my jaw clenching.

Knowing she’s probably busy, knowing she might not see this until later, I type out a message. Letting her know about my free seventy-two hours. I continue to stare at the phone, but she doesn’t reply back.

It’s the next week already, and the last of our performances before our break between shows, but Lacey isn’t in Hollywood. She sent me a message stating that Rachel had her booked for out-of-state talk shows promoting the new film.

I’m so mad I could spit nails, but it doesn’t do any good. I’m currently stuck in Nevada, our last stop before heading to Seattle, Washington.

I slam my water bottle down harder than necessary, making Sam jump.

“Easy there, killer,” he says, eyeing me warily.

I ignore him, pacing the empty dressing room. My phone sits silent in my pocket, mocking me with its lack of messages. Seventy-two hours. We have seventy-two fucking hours once we reach Seattle, and Rachel—

A knock at the door interrupts my brooding.

“Five minutes to soundcheck,” a stagehand calls.

---