Page 13 of How to Date a Rockstar

“You heard the man.” I nod toward the equipment. “Let’s make some music.”

“I thought we were on a break,” Fender grumps.

“You can be on a break once you finish this album,” Stan announces.

“Fender’s not wrong,” Dylan says. “We finished our last tour two days ago. We were promised a break after the tour was extended.”

Jett twirls his sticks in the air. “I don’t need a break.”

“Have you slept?”

“Who needs sleep?” He winks.

I groan. Sex is a drug to Jett. He’ll be on a high for a few hours before he crashes. Hard. And we’ll pay the price.

Gibson opens his guitar case and screams. “Who did this? Where is my guitar? I’m going to kill you, Jett.”

He raises a miniature pink guitar in the air and pounces toward Jett who jumps from his stool and flees the studio.

“You can’t catch me. I’m the gingerbread man,” Jett sings as Gibson chases him around the studio.

I groan and collapse on the sofa.

“At least, our label rented out the entire studio for us,” Dylan says as he sits down next to me.

“Break time,” Fender declares as he opens a container. The smell of pancakes and sausage wafts out and my stomach grumbles.

“Smells good.”

Good? I’m practically drooling. It smells great. When we’re on tour, I try to eat healthy. Putting on a two-hour show every night is a workout. It requires stamina. Unfortunately, eating junk food messes with my stamina.

Fender cradles the container to his chest. “Mine.”

I don’t care. I’m starving. And ready to break my diet for some real food.

When we got in last night, the small town was already asleep despite it being early. The bar was open, but it doesn’t serve food. I tried to order food online but none of the usual apps deliver to Winter Falls.

I raided the kitchen at Indigo’s grandma’s house but the only food in there was milk and goat’s cheese. Since goat’s cheese is nearly as disgusting as goat’s milk, I went to bed hungry. I debated stealing some of Indigo’s food this morning but I got distracted by five old ladies and a demon cat.

I snatch the container from Fender.

“Typical,” he growls at me before reaching down and picking up an identical container.

I dig into the pancakes. Dylan snags a sausage link and I snap my teeth at him.

“Don’t hurt the fingers.”

“Don’t steal my food,” I say with my mouth full of pancake and syrup.

“You stole it from Fender.”

“But he knew I would, so it doesn’t count.”

“If I find your guitar, will you stop chasing Jett?” Rob, the studio engineer, asks.

I don’t hear Gibson’s response but I do hear Rob yelp. “Hey! It was just a question.”

Stan enters the studio. “If I have to handle those two, I won’t be nice.”

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