Page 24 of Filthy Rock Stars

Me: Drop me a pin. I’ll pick you up

Prince: Really?

Me: You texted me because you want to celebrate, right?

Me: Let’s celebrate

I look around the loft. I don’t even need an excuse. When the band argues, one of us usually peaces out for the rest of the day. It’s an important part of the process, followed by showing up the next morning and never mentioning it again.

Five minutes later, I’m on my bike, speeding to Prince. It’s a sunny day, but the wind is cool on my skin, even with my scarf around my neck.

He thought of me. Immediately after his big thing, he thought about me. I don’t know who else he has in his life, but it heats me from the inside to know that he texted me.

When I spot him on the sidewalk, off on a quiet block near downtown, I know exactly what we need to do today. I roll up slowly, then pop my helmet off.

“Hey, sexy.”

He laughs. His puffy red jacket is unzipped, and he’s wearing a button-up white shirt, neatly tucked into some casual charcoal slacks. I realize it’s his standard look.

“Hey, sexy,” he says back.

I hop off the bike, and since there’s no one in immediate sight, I risk taking him in a quick kiss.

“I hear your cake won the reality show.”

Prince laughs again. His voice is light, but with a depth to it that I love.

“It’s true. My poodle is going to Westminster.”

I grin. “Hell yeah. Congratulations, man. Does this mean your whole life is going to change?”

“I didn’t say my poodle won best in show,” he corrects me, then shoves his hands in his pockets. “But I tried something I never thought I’d do, and I far exceeded my expectations.”

“Very cool.”

He glances around. “Do you want to go somewhere? Maybe that bar again?”

I point up the block behind him. “That way.”

He arches an eyebrow, quizzical, then shrugs. “Okay.”

We start up the block, side by side. I fix my scarf and my sunglasses. With my long hair gone, that should be enough to keep anyone from immediately recognizing me, so long as I don’t let them get more than a glance.

Prince bounces as he walks, clearly hyped.

“Tell me more. I’m curious.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “It’s tricky.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know anything about you. If I start telling you all about my life, it will be unequal.”

That catches me off guard. “Is staying anonymous a problem?”

“No. And it’s actually part of what’s so hot.”

I bump his shoulder. “Please, go on,” I say, rolling my voice.

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