Page 27 of Filthy Rock Stars

“Next week? Sure.” He swallows. “Right. Just exploratory. I understand.” He slaps his palm to his forehead. “I think I can make that work. Of course. Thank you so much!”

I grin. “Good news?”

Prince throws his arms around my shoulders. His scent floods me, and I can feel the heat of our sex radiating off his skin.

“I can’t believe it. They didn’t even need the whole day to decide!”

“NASA?”

He laughs. “Yeah. They’re thinking of sending me to the moon.”

CHAPTEREIGHT

NICO

“Damn, Nico,”Damian says with a laugh. We’re standing in my kitchen, and he turns slowly on his heel, looking around. “I wondered how you were processing everything.”

I set the bags of Indian takeout on the counter. “What do you mean?”

He points to my fridge. “Is that your daily schedule?”

“Oh. Right.” The schedule is meticulously detailed, from the fifteen minutes I spend running exercises on the keyboard before breakfast to my twenty-five minutes of relaxation with old novels before my nighttime routine kicks in. From the once weekly phone calls with my parents (Dad Saturday afternoon, Mom Sunday morning) to bathroom scrubbing, my life is nearly all accounted for in tidy boxes.

“I start with Kissing Dirt tomorrow,” I explain. “I need to prepare, but I still have a full-time job. It’s a necessity to have a set schedule if I’m going to fit everything in. For instance, I know almost nothing about rock music. Hence, there is album listening scheduled with house chores and my morning bathroom time.” I sigh and wave my hand at the schedule. “Anyway. You know. It helps.”

“You find the order comforting,” Damian says with a nod. “I get it.” He twirls a fork in his hand like it’s a baton. He’s wearing a white sweater, and I’m giving it fifty-fifty odds that he spills baingan bharta down the front.

I eye the napkins, considering an intervention.

“How long does this trial period last?” he asks.

“It’s not a trial period. That implies they’ve offered me a spot in the band.” I hand him a napkin. “Here. Tuck this in.”

My friend rolls his eyes, but he does tuck the napkin into his sweater before he collects his food. “Can you be a part-time rock star?”

“I’m not quitting my job,” I say. “That would be ridiculous.”

“I imagine a lot of people would quit their job, their school, anything, if it meant the chance to be in a major rock band. I mean, for the money alone. Damn.”

“As you know, I’m not a lot of people.”

We walk to the little table in the corner. Across from us is the living room, where I keep my library. I’ve been collecting novels since I was a teenager, despite the horrible inconvenience of hauling so many books around. The walls are lined with bookshelves, but I keep the dining nook minimal, just a clean table to eat on and a couple of wooden chairs.

“Promise me you won’t go overboard with the life-scheduling. I don’t want to find you’ve only budgeted forty-five minutes for me next time we hang out. I need at least long enough for a good chat and a game of Scrabble.”

“I promise.”

I dig into my palak paneer, which is especially creamy and delicious. I’m always impressed by how easily Damian says stuff like that, valuing our friendship and telling me I’m important to him. I wish I were better at doing the same.

“How is your guy, by the way?” he asks. “I didn’t see an hour of naked time written on your fridge schedule.”

“He’s good. I told him I can’t see him this week on account of my work schedule.” I tear up some bread. “And who said I only need an hour?”

“Ohhh,” Damian hums, pleased. “Any chance you’re advancing to the great meeting of the friends soon?”

“About that. I don’t think it’s in the cards for us ever to reach that stage.”

“Oh? That doesn’t sound good.”

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