Mopping the sweat from my face after Montreal’s concert I head to my dressing room with people patting me on the back along the way. “Great show, man!”

“Thanks,” I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket and checking it again. Ben hasn’t called me back after five calls and seven days. He and Ethan are tight but I’m not going to embarrass myself by asking for Ethan’s help or any inside intel. Especially with Charlie due to pop any minute. I saw how she was when she interrupted our pool game nonstop – she’s gotta be ten times worse now.

And after how I told my sister off I can’t really give her a shout. Yo, what’s up with Ben and the girl I fucked over?

Nevertheless she’s all I can think about. Every night I’m dreaming of Paige. In Vancouver and Toronto I searched the audience for her secretly hoping she’d been nuts enough to stalk me and show up unannounced. How insane is that? I saw a girl in Montreal’s airport when we arrived yesterday morning who from the back with a hint of profile showing could have been Paige. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I ran over.

It wasn’t her.

The photo that girl asked me to take with her showed my disappointment.

These dreams are killing me. I can smell her in them. I can hear her begging me to fuck her. Feel the sting of the slap when I called her a bitch. And sometimes my salt-of-the-earth cousin is holding her in a passionate embrace, his eyes warning me that she’s his. I’ve woken up in a damn sweat over both kinds.

Four of the dancers burst into my room a few minutes after the show, minus Olivia.

Jamilla is always their spokesman. “Gabriel, we aren’t takin’ no for an answer again! There is no way we are letting one more Canadian city slip by, with us on the dance floor and you in your fuckin’ hotel room. Uh UH!”

“Ladies, I’m not in the mood.”

“Is this because of Olivia? Because she wouldn’t come when I told everyone I have had it with you moping around!”

I pop a top off a bottle of beer and mutter, “Nah, she and I are cool.”

“Bullshit,” Andrea says under her breath, brushing her long black hair with impatient fingers.

I flop onto the couch and throw a boot up as I motion to the door. “Go get her.”

The dancers look at each other and Andrea bounds out of the room, producing Olivia a couple seconds later. She’s not happy about it.

“You want something?”

“We good?”

She glances to the floor and crosses her arms. “Yeah.”

“Hey, are we good or no?”

Meeting my eyes she stares at me. I hold her look with a small smile. Her pretty little lips start turning up. Then she relaxes and gives me a full-blown smile, releasing all the resentment in one decision to let it go. “Yeah, Gabriel, we’re good.”

I take a swig and slam it on the table. “Then let’s dance.”

Applause and dancing explodes from the girl and they’re so practiced as a team that it looks choreographed. Proud of herself, Jamilla bounces over with some badass moves and throws an arm around my waist as I toss my mine around her shoulders.

“I knew you wanted to get the fuck out of here. It’s unhealthy, man!”

“Am I the poster boy for sane?”

We pass the roadies who are breaking down the stage. They give me head nods and guy-waves – the subtle kind that show respect. These men travel with us, putting sets together, making sure our gear runs, loading it into trucks and the shit is heavy. They get paid okay but their motive isn’t money. It’s the music they care about. They get off being behind the scenes where it all goes down, building and breaking down the foundation for this entire glamorous creation. Just because they can’t sing or don’t play instruments, doesn’t matter. Without them the show doesn’t happen and they know that. But they don’t socialize with us. The groups don’t mix as an unspoken rule. It’s like we’re on two different planes.

But not tonight.

Louie and I lock eyes and I stop walking, my arm still casually around Jamilla. “Hey Louie, you and the guys come out with us.”

He glances to the other roadies who are waiting for a verdict. One nods. All are surprised but men don’t show it like women do, not when it comes to status and acting cool in front of other men.

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” Louie shrugs. “Soon as we’re done here.”

Jamilla says, “We’re going to The Garage. Here’s my number.” She steps away from me and recites it as he thumbs it into his cell. He’s a stocky Italian with dirt under his fingernails and she’s a dark-skinned diva who loves her hoop earrings and manicures, but the look he gives her says something could spark between them tonight. And what a tornado of heat that’s gonna be.

“I’ve gotta get showered,” one of the roadies says behind us as Jamilla and I join the waiting dancers.

“How long does it take you to fuckin’ shower? Shut up!” Louie grumbles.

Olivia holds my eyes, silently asking if I’m going to do anything else differently so she can prepare herself. The others break into a really bad rendition of one of my songs. As I check my phone one more fucking time, she gives up on me and walks with them.

How can none of these text messages be from Ben?

Pulling up Paige’s number I stop walking and stare at it, thumb hovering over the call button.

Fuck it.

Just hit dial.

Press the damn button.

Jamilla calls out, “Gabriel, you coming? We want to get drunk!”

Shoving it in my pocket my footsteps pick up again. “Coming.”