With a four-week tour coming up, we’re in daily rehearsal making sure our setlist flows well and practicing our shit to the point where we could play the whole show on autopilot.

We’re about halfway through rehearsal at a warehouse space downtown that Christian scrounged up for us. We finish Her Name in Stars, and move on to Come Closer.

It’s a dream of mine to write a song, but I’m not much with words. I operate on instinct.

What feels right.

Like right now. This feels right. Me behind the drum kit, Dylan at the mic, Shawn on bass and Jack tearing up lead guitar. Nikki perched on the couch, hanging around band practice.

And today, Cora’s next to her, wearing a soft sundress, her hair in a braid over her shoulder. I look over and wink at her. She blushes. It makes me smile.

I want to write something for her.

I like imagining her sitting in her car or at work or just alone in her room, hearing a song on the radio and knowing that it’s about her. That I was thinking about her. I want to play a giant stadium show full of people, but have my words go out directly to her.

* * *

Christian calls the band into the other room for a meeting. For a manager, he’s incredibly good at his job. But, as a person, he’s pretty sleazy.

“Right now, guys, it’s about image,” he says. “Your stars are on the rise, no pun intended.” The video for Her Name in Stars debuted two days ago and it’s playing everywhere.

We nod. We get it. Cute.

“And we need to get a little more attention on you, the guys, not just your music. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“So you want us to trash a few hotel rooms or sleep with some models or some shit?” Jack asks. “Models are fine and all, but my mom used to clean hotel rooms, so I’m not trashing them.”

“Actually, I was thinking about the video girl. What’s her name? Corey?”

“Cora,” I volunteer.

“She’s perfect. Hot, but not crazy. Exotic, but approachable.”

I feel my fists clench under the table. “Don’t talk about her that way,” I say, as cooly as I can. I know she hates the term “exotic.”

“What?” Christian asks condescendingly, “It’s not like I called her Sugar Tits.”

Sometimes Christian says that kind of shit just because he can.

Dylan decides to diffuse the tension and changes the subject. “What about her?”

“Well, you guys test well with the alternative crowd, but with the new album and the bigger tour next summer, I want to see you reach a broader audience,” Christian says.

“You mean go pop?” Jack asks.

“No,” Christian says. “I mean garner more… mass appeal.”

“So, go pop,” Jack says again with a big eye-roll.

“What does this have to do with Cora?” I ask.

“Well, a sweet model with a perky ass might be the perfect way to balance out the image of a bad boy musician,” Christian explains. “Soften his edges. People go crazy for a good love story. And Cora is someone we can sell.”

“You want her to play my girlfriend?” I ask. Strange, but not unheard of in this industry. Sure it’s not official, but Cora and I have undeniable chemistry. Plus, I’d do anything to get more time with her. Even something this ridiculous.

“No. Actually I was thinking she’d play Dylan’s girlfriend,” Christian goes on, “They had great chemistry in the video together.”

“Why can’t she play my girlfriend?” I ask. I mean, we wouldn’t be acting all that much.

“Yeah,” Shawn chimes in, “They’re good together.”

“Dylan’s the face of the band. People don’t pay too much attention to who the drummer is dating,” Christian explains, “Seeing the philandering rock star all nice and settled with a good-girl type would do his image a hell of a lot of good. Especially after that stunt with those reality show girls last month.”

“Not totally my fault,” Dylan protests without apologizing.

I think it over.

“I don’t like it,” I tell Christian. “Stringing her along and asking her to lie just seems wrong.” Plus, jealousy is practically pouring out my ears.

“Let me sell it to you this way,” Christian says, “She couldn’t pay for publicity like this. She’d make all public appearances with Dylan. When the camera’s on, she’s glued to his side.”

Christian must notice the concern on my face.

“The calls will come pouring in. It’ll be no time before teenage boys are stealing Victoria’s Secret catalogues and jacking off to her,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me or piss me off.

“She’s an actress, though,” I remind him, “Like Shakespeare and that hard shit.”

Christian’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Yeah, okay,” he scoffs.

I’m about ready to clock him.

“Well, it’s certainly not going to get all to be or not to be, but she can make some actual money and act the role of Dylan’s girlfriend,” Christian says. “Tell her it’s method.”

God, it’s like he has no idea how not to be an asshole.

“When would all this start?” Dylan asks.

“Immediately,” Christian answers, “She’s going on tour with you.”

Four weeks trapped on a bus with my bandmates is usually about fifty percent awesome and fifty percent hell.

Four weeks on tour with Cora in my bed sounds amazing, though. Even if we have to pretend we’re not together in public.

Dylan looks over at me. “You okay with this, man?” he asks.

I don’t know what to say.

“I mean,” I swallow, “I want what’s best for the band.”