Page 29 of When the Stars Rise
I throw another pillow at his head, then grab my phone and boomerang it across the room. He ducks out of the way, and my phone hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor.
I scan the room for something else to throw and grab my hairbrush, brandishing it like a weapon.
“Jesus. I’m going. I’m going.” He scowls at me and holds up his hand to ward me off. “Stop throwing shit.”
When the door closes behind him, I cross the room to retrieve my phone.
Great. Now the screen is cracked.
Look what you made me do,asshole.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hayley
The following day,after signing autographs and posing for photos, I get on the bus and weave my way to the kitchen where Dean is making coffee and talking on the phone.
Whoever gets on the bus first chooses the playlist. Today, it’s the blues, and I’m shaking my hips to the beat of Muddy Waters’ “Trouble No More” as I reach into the back of the cupboard for my secret stash.
Dean glances at me with a smile that turns into a scowl when he sees the box of cinnamon Pop-Tarts in my hand.
“Hang on, Zoe.” Dean shoots me a look. “Are you trying to end up in the hospital again? Do you need a reminder of what happened in London?”
I scoff. “I didn’t even eat any Pop-Tarts in London.”
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for patience, then barks into the phone, “No, she can’t.” He takes a sip of black coffee and curses under his breath. I shake my head. He never lets it cool down enough.
“She’s doingGood Morning Americatomorrow.”
“I already told you not to—”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a few deep breaths. He has his earbuds in, so I can’t hear what Zoe is saying, but the scowl on his face says it all.
“Fucking hell, Zoe. She’s not a machine. She needs time to rest.”
Sometimes, he’s too overprotective. I put my hand on his arm. “It’s fine, Dean.”
“No, it’s not. She has you doing back-to-back interviews and a photo shoot.” He gives me his back and paces the kitchen as I fill my travel mug with ice, cold brew, and vanilla-flavored creamer.
“Where’s she gonna fit that in? She has a launch party and two shows this weekend. You want her to collapse from exhaustion?”
It’s a four-hour drive to New York City and I want to work on some new music, so I grab my coffee and the box of Pop-Tarts and retreat to the lounge, leaving Dean to deal with Zoe.
“What happened in London?”
I freeze in my tracks. Noah is sitting on the sofa with a book in his lap and his video camera on the cushion beside him. Zoe hired him to capture footage from the tour, which he’s going to edit and release as a video—further incentive for him to join me.
Noah hates being idle, and I knew he wouldn’t agree to six weeks on the road if he weren’t doing something worthwhile, so the video was my idea.
“What are you doing here? You’re not riding your motorcycle?” Stupid question. He’s sitting right in front of me.
“Stop deflecting.” He sets the book aside and stands, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened in London?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and breeze past him to the cushioned lounge chairs in the back. Dropping into the window seat, I toss my bag onto the seat next to me and take outmy leather-bound notebook, studiously ignoring Noah, who is watching me with narrowed eyes.
I open to a blank page and take a bite of my Pop-Tart, thinking about what I want to say.
Dean told me that songwriting is just like storytelling. “Everyone has a story to tell. But make sure it’s honest. Music is sacred.”
