First thing I do in my hotel room is dive onto the bed and stretch my limbs out like a starfish. I sigh with relief—it’s so fucking nice to lie on a bed that’s actually made for my size. I’m six-two and those bunks on the tour bus leave a hell of a lot to be desired.

After a few minutes getting acquainted with sheer luxury again, I drag up the TV remote from a side table and flick on the TV: CNN, Fox, a sports channel showing highlights from a golf tournament, cheap porn on demand . . . I scan through the hotel’s repertoire of mind numbing TV for a few minutes before lazily sliding off the bed and pushing to my feet. Seven hours before we’re due to head to the venue for sound checks.

After sticking on some coffee, I hit the shower.

When adequately refreshed, I decide to check up on Krissy and Monica to see how they’re finding the plush five-star hotel. We have five rooms booked out on the top floor: a master suite (for me), some smaller, but still nice rooms for the band, and a double room for Monica and Krissy to share.

My hand hovers over the girl’s door: room 609, fourth down from mine.

Before I get the chance to knock, Monica opens up. “Hi,” she says cheerily. She doesn’t seem surprised to find me creeping around outside their room. Guess she saw me through the spy-hole. She has a small leather bag slung over her shoulder, and her shades rest on top of her head. “I’m just heading downtown to meet up with Greg. Wanna come?”

I look past her. “Krissy going?”

“Nah, she’s taking a shower and then resting up for a bit. I think life on the road is starting to take its toll on her, poor lamb. She’ll be good in a few hours.” Her lips curve into a slight smile. “Why don’t you wait inside? I’m sure she’d like to see you.”

“I’ll swing by later.”

Just as I begin to walk away Monica grabs me by the arm. “Don’t be silly. I bet Krissy would love to see you. She won’t be long. We’ve a few sandwiches from room service . . . help yourself while you wait.”

She pushes past me and motions me inside the room.

“How long will you be?”

She smirks. “Why?”

“Nothing. Just wondering.”

“I’m staying out. I’ll meet you guys at the venue. Greg’s coming.”

My brows meet. “Isn’t it his day off?”

“Yeah, but you know what he’s like . . . always wants to make sure things run smoothly.”

I smile. “True.”

“Anyway, I better run. See ya.”

“Yeah . . . see ya.”

Carefully, being as quiet as possible, I close the door as Monica treads away toward the elevators. The self-lock makes a sharp, clicking sound.

Scanning their room, I double take. It’s a mess. Clothes and towels are strewn everywhere. Various cosmetics, beauty accessories, and empty coffee cups with lipstick stains litter the mahogany dressing table like a slumber party gone wild. The bomb site makes the inside of the band’s tour bus look like something out of a ‘Queen of Clean’ documentary show.

A rock promo plays on the TV’s music channel—our first single.

Taking a seat on the edge of one of the double beds, I wait patiently.

It’s not too long before I hear the shower come to a stop. From within the bathroom I can hear Krissy hum, pretty badly, one of my songs. I hold in laughter. As cute as it is I’m not sure she has a place as a backing singer for the band—unless I decide start a death metal side project.

Steam billows out when the bathroom door finally opens. I brace myself.

First I see her toes—rose-red nail varnish—then the sleek shape of bare leg, and then—

“Greg!” she shouts.

I bolt upright. “Krissy.”

She clings tight to her bath towel, retreating back behind the bathroom door. Her face was a real picture of shock when she first saw me.

“What are you doing here?” she cries out. “Where’s Monica?”

I scratch the back of my head, more embarrassed for her than myself. “She let me in. She’s just gone to meet up with Greg.”

Slowly, she steps out of the bathroom again. Her hair is damp and held up in a messy bun, and her cheeks are almost as red as the cute nail polish on her toes.

“Monica invited me in and told me to wait,” I confirm.

She looks down briefly, probably considering what form of murder she’ll inflict on her best friend later, before glancing at me. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure.”

I sit back down on the bed as she finishes up.

One towel is all that separates her naked body from me. As I look around the room, trying to keep myself as occupied as I can, my cock stirs. Imagining myself charging into the bathroom, lifting her up over my shoulder, and throwing her down to the bed before I fuck her brains out—with that straight after the shower smell on her body—has me restless.

It’s been so long since I last indulged in good, hard sex. Jesus, holding out until the right one is probably—no—is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I must be close to fucking saint-dom by now.

The door inches open a few moments later and out comes Krissy, now dressed in a fuzzy peach bathrobe. She still has pink cheeks but at least she isn’t as vulnerable as she was when she was pressing a soggy, wet towel to her body.

I rise to my feet, well aware I could’ve just been sitting on her bed. I don’t want to torment the poor girl any further.

She glares at me. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A few minutes.”

“I didn’t hear Monica leave.”

I shrug. “Maybe she was in a rush.”

“Maybe.” She paces over to the dressing table and snatches up some hair dryer thing. Gazing at her reflection in the table mirror, she begins to scrutinize her angelic face. “What do you want anyway?”

“Is that any way to talk to the guy who put you up in this place?”

Pausing, she looks at me through mirror. “Sorry.”

I snort. “I’m just messing with you. Anyway, I came over to ask if you wanted to hear a new song.”

She turns to face me, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “What, at the sound check tonight?”

“I was thinking somewhere more private.”

Her brows pinch.

“I have a guitar in my room,” I continue. “I’ve been working on a new tune. Fancy an advanced preview?”

“What . . . no one’s heard it?”

“Not a soul. Haven’t even shown the band.”

Her eyes round. “And you want me to hear it first?”

I nod.

“But . . . why?”

“My way of saying sorry.”

She clicks her tongue. “You’ve said that already. You don’t have to apologize again and again, Jay.”

“Then I am asking you . . . will you come over to my room? See if this song’s any good?”

She looks over at a pile of clothes heaped on the bed. “Okay. But I’ll need to get ready first.”

“No problem. Come over when you’re free.” I start toward the door. Just before I let myself out, I glance back over my shoulder. “Room 615.”

She nods, blushing again. I leave her to it and head back to my room.

I’ve no idea what I’m going play for her, no new song exists, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that’ll make her drop her knickers in awe. I’m too damn horny to give a fuck about the past right now. Anyway, Krissy seems like a good girl, and seeing as I have a major case of blue balls, and she’s hot as hell, then I may as well have a little fun on this tour.