I don’t know if I dozed off or just zoned out in a post-mind-blowing-sex haze, but when I strain to look at the clock on the hotel room’s bedside table, it’s a half hour later than the last time I checked. Kay’s lying on her side facing away from me, both of us still naked and warm enough we haven’t reached for the sheets.

I trail a finger along her spine, partly to see if she’s awake, and partly because I can’t seem to stop myself from touching her.

“Don’t tell me you’re the cuddling type.”

Her voice is groggy and muffled against the pillow. I can’t help but laugh.

“You don’t have to pretend to be so tough around me, Kay. I know you’re a secret softie.” I grip the inked design on her hip. “You have a flower tattoo, for god’s sake.”

There’s really nothing soft about it, though. A black line drawing of three roses covers part of her side, her hip bone, and the top of her thigh. The edge of one petal ends just a few inches shy of the tiny triangle of dark hair between her legs. It’s kind of the sexiest, most badass thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re one to talk. You have a Luigi tattoo on your bicep. It’s not even Mario. You got Luigi.”

I glance at where I do indeed have a little pixilated Luigi worked into my sleeve design.

“I got it for my brother,” I tell her.

I feel her stiffen in surprise and rush to explain myself.

“He’s fine. It’s not like, a tribute to some deathly illness or anything. He’s just always thought my tattoos are really cool, and I told him I’d let him pick one out, since it’ll be so long before he can get his own. He’s ten years younger than me.”

“How old are you?” Kay asks, before laughing to herself. “God, is it weird that I don’t even know that?”

“What, Wikipedia didn’t tell you?”

“It only has Ace’s age listed.”

I grimace. “Figures. I’m twenty-four. You?”

“Same, actually.”

My hand is still resting on her hip. I follow the lines of a petal with my thumb.

“So why the roses? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She sighs, rocking into my touch as I keep tracing over the thin black lines.

“They’re for my grandma,” she says in a quiet voice. “She was from England. She grew roses here, but she said they never did as well as back home. She was really...really cool. She used to give me sex tips. They were pretty terrible and used very cringey euphemisms, but still, she was that kind of grandma. We were close, a lot closer than I am with my parents or sisters. A lot closer than I am with most people, actually.”

“When did she pass away?”

“When I was twenty. She got pneumonia and she was just too old to fight it.”

“I’m sorry.”

Kay shrugs. “She lived a good life. I don’t think she had many regrets. I just miss her sometimes.”

I slide my hand up to her stomach. “Can you tell me one of her sex tips?”

She clears her throat and starts speaking in a British accent that has us both cracking up before she even finishes her sentence.

“Kay, darling, when you’re in bed with a man, you must remember—remem—”

“What?” I urge, hardly able to talk myself. “Remember what, Kay, darling?”

“Remember that...that...Oh god, I can’t say it.”

I flip her over so she’s facing me. “Tell me. I have to know.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth and shakes her head.

“You can’t leave me in the dark like this,” I beg.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “You must remember that his...his pickle...his pickle is very sensitive, much more sensitive than it—it looks. You have to be firm but g—gentle with it.”

We’re both shaking with repressed laughs.

“I’m sorry, what did you say? His...pickle?”

“She literally called it a pickle!” Kay shrieks, before burying her face in the pillow.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, “that is amazing. I want a book of her sex tips.”

It takes us several minutes to calm down. Eventually Kay rests her head on her chin and nods towards my arm next to her.

“Okay, your turn. Tell me another one of yours.”

I scan the scattered designs that cover me from both my shoulders to both my wrists.

“This one’s easy.” I point to the circle with a downward facing arrow inside it, drawn on my bicep. “I bet you could figure it out yourself.”

“It’s the Montreal Metro symbol, right? Sherbrooke Station.”

I nod. “The guys all have some version of it on them somewhere.”

“That’s cute,” Kay teases. “It’s like you guys have friendship bracelets.”

“Kind of,” I admit with a laugh. “We all have our own tattoos about music and what it means to us, but these are about the band, about what we mean to each other.”

“Which is a lot, right?”

“They’re my brothers,” I say firmly. “Doing this thing—being in a band, touring, getting up on stage together every night—it creates this tie between you, one that doesn’t break.”

“Even if they’re being total shitheads to you?”

I glance at her, caught off guard.

“They are being shitheads,” she insists. “I’ve seen it.”

“Things are just changing for us,” I tell her, feeling the sudden urge to defend the guys. “We’re changing. We’re all just sorting it out.”

“Yeah, and Ace is doing a really great job at that.”

“He’s struggling,” I admit. “I see that, and I want to help him. I know it probably makes me look weak, putting up with all his shit, but we’ve been through a lot together. I trust that he’ll pull through in the end.” I chuckle. “I guess you could say I’m kind of a trusting guy. I let people depend on me, and I believe they’ll do the same in return.”

The air is heavy with honesty. I try to ease out from under its weight and point to her sword and shield.

“That one. What’s that one for?”

“Almost the opposite of yours,” she answers ruefully. “I’m pretty...independent. I like to do things on my own, to only be responsible to myself.”

“So the sword and shield means...?”

She pulls a lock of hair in front of her eyes to inspect it, speaking to the dark strands instead of me. “It’s about protecting yourself…and defending yourself. Something like that.”

“You’re so fucking emo.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you are,” I insist. “I bet you were a major emo kid in middle school.”

She just fumes and I know I’m right.

“Any other artistic representations of your personality traits I should know about?” I ask.

“I think it’s your turn to share.”

“Right. My turn. This one,” I say, tapping the shape of a sound-wave the runs along the outside of one of my forearms, “is from ‘Everlong’ by the Foo Fighters. You know that whispery part where no one actually knows what he’s saying? It’s that.”

Her eyes go wide, watching me with an expression I can’t read. “You’re kidding me.”

“Yeah, I know it’s not very original,” I concede. “It’s, what, one of the most famous songs ever? I guess I just like that there’s so much mystery about that one part, how no one totally understands this thing that’s touched so many people.”

She’s still staring at me like she can’t quite process the words I’m saying.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

Instead of answering, she sits up and lifts one arm over her head so I can see the words inked on the side of her rib cage, just below side boob territory. I noticed the tattoo earlier, but didn’t stop to read it. I was a little more concerned with front boob territory at the time.

“Well, shit,” I murmur, once I make out the words. The coincidence leaves me breathless.

It’s two lines from the chorus of ‘Everlong.’

“First concert I ever went to,” she says slowly, “was the Foo Fighters, in Toronto. I got this done the day I turned eighteen. That song, it...it reminds me why I do this, this whole music journalism thing.”

I prop myself up on my elbows. “I guess it’s official, then.”

“What is?”

“We’re made for each other.”

She reaches over and tries to shove me off the bed.

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Pearson.”

“Careful!” I shout, holding a hand up to defend myself. “Watch the pickle! It’s very sensitive, much more sensitive than it looks.”

“Oh, I’ll show you what ‘sensitive’ means,” she grumbles.

“Was that a threat or a come-on?”

She grins. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what part of me you want to come on.”

* * *

It’s almost four in the morning by the time we’re finished with round two. I head into the bathroom to clean up a bit, even though I’d happily keep the smell of her on my skin forever if I could. The smell, the sound, the fucking taste of her—it’s still on my lips, every breath reminding me of her hands in my hair as she pulled my tongue deeper between her legs, screaming out my name for the whole hotel to hear.

I wish there were more hours between midnight and dawn.

When I leave the bathroom, I find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing an oversized Chili Peppers tour t-shirt and a different pair of underwear.

“Is this my cue to leave?” I ask.

Her downcast eyes and silent shrug tell me the answer is yes.

I didn’t expect to be sleeping over; she may have given into the inevitable tonight, but she’s still Kay Fischer. If there’s a way to keep wedging distance between us, I know she’ll find it. I hope she knows I’ll keep trying to push that same distance away.

“I want to see you again,” I tell her.

I’ve already got my boxers on, and I reach for my shirt on the floor.

“I’ll be at the Kingston show.”

“Before then. In Montreal. Kingston isn’t for another three weeks, and besides, I want to see you somewhere that isn’t a hotel room.”

“Matt...” she begins.

“Kay,” I interrupt, “we’re past the point where you can use professionalism as an excuse.” I gesture down at my lack of pants. “Long past it. All I’m asking is that you give this a try. It’s not a contract. You can walk away.”

She breathes in, gaze fixed on the awful paisley comforter.

“The thing is, Matt, if I could walk away from this I already would have done it.” She gestures to her also pants-less state. “Clearly this is more complicated than that.”

“I don’t think it is. You like me and I like you. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

“It isn’t that simple. You’re my source. My job—”

“Is your job, Kay. It’s not the only part of who you are. It doesn’t determine your entire life.”

“It does, though!” She jumps up off the bed. “I know all the guys in the band call me ‘the snake,’ and you know what, Matt? They’re fucking right. I’m a journalist. You’re a musician. You shouldn’t trust me like this.”

“Well I do, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”

She lets out a groan of frustration and looks like she’s about to hit me or kiss me.

“Look,” I continue, hoping for the latter, “I get it, Kay. It’s your job to push people. It’s your job to read between the lines and get people to say what they don’t want to say. I’m trying to tell you that with me, you don’t have to. We’ve both got a lot hanging on your article, so if you want details, if you want all the answers, you’ve got them. Photographic evidence that Cole used to have an afro? It’s yours.”

She cracks a smile at that one.

“I’m serious. It was so big it didn’t even fit in his grad photo.”

“You really are, aren’t you?” she asks. “Serious? About trying this?”

She gestures between us.

“Yeah. I am.”

“You know we can’t actually like, date right now, right? With my article—”

“Like I said, Kay, not a contract. I just want to spend time with you. We can be as low-key and secretive about it as you like.”

She snorts. “Right. Secretive. Judging by the way your band mates act around me, you haven’t been so secretive with them.”

I shrug. “There was no shutting them down after the sock on the door thing.”

“I still can’t believe you put a sock,” she complains. “We didn’t even have sex.”

“Maybe not.” My voice gets lower. “But I did think about it a lot that night.”

I watch as she bites her lip.

“Yeah,” she admits, “me too.”

“So is this a yes? Am I seeing you in Montreal?”

She throws her hands up in defeat and I catch them by the wrists to place them on my shoulders.

“Okay, fine.” She pretends to pout.

“Well don’t sound too happy about it.”

I capture her mouth in a kiss she cuts off before we end up back in bed again.

“I have to be on a bus in four hours,” she reminds me.

I offer her a spot in our van instead. She glares at me.

“What?” I demand.

“You’re really bad at this secretive, low-key thing aren’t you?”

I pretend to be offended. “Was it not obvious I meant I was going to stow you away in the trunk?”

“Get out of here, Pearson.” Her hands drop from my shoulders, but she’s smiling.

“Right, okay, secretive,” I mutter, as I gather up the rest of my clothes. “I’ll disappear like a thief in the night, leaving no trace. When morning comes, you’ll wonder if I was ever here at all...”

She smacks my shoulder as I’m pulling my jacket on. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” I smirk, “an idiot who just got laid.”

That prompts her to open the door and usher me out with a grimace, but I refuse to leave until she gives me one final kiss.

* * *

Kay wasn’t the only one with an early morning; we’re all piled into the Chick Magnet and halfway to Montreal by nine. Cole is at the wheel, an empty Red Bull can sitting in his cup holder as he steers us up the highway at speeds that should have me fearing for my life. He drives just like he does everything else, though: with intensity and a terrifying precision. If anyone was actually fit for operating a vehicle after a night of partying, it would be him.

I thought I’d be dodging questions about my evening the whole ride home, especially since I can’t keep the self-satisfied, ‘I just had mind-altering sex’ grin off my face. As it stands, though, whatever happened to the rest of us last night is overshadowed by the fact that JP got himself laid too. When JP gets laid, we hear a lot about it.

A lot.

“Et puis, we get to her room, et elle était comme basically naked already. Puis moi, je me prends—”

Ace cuts the multi-lingual play by play off.

“Dude, you’ve been telling this story for forty-five minutes and you’re just getting to her room now.”

“I’m setting the scene, man!” He waves his hands at Ace, not daunted at all, and continues with the story. “Alors, we go into her room...”

By the time we get to Montreal, I’m all too aware of what happened in said room and more than ready to spend the rest of the morning catching up on my sleep, but we’re due at Atlas headquarters for another meeting. We all wince at the searing glint of fluorescence on chrome in the lobby.

“Why do they keep making our meetings the morning after our shows?” Cole groans, as we cross to the elevators and wait for the doors to open.

“They’re clearly sadistic,” I answer.

We walk into a meeting room where two women in business casual are waiting for us on a group of grey couches. I’ve met one of them before: Nadine Beaudoin, head of some department or other here. I haven’t seen her since we finished working out the contract. She dips her head in greeting as we pile onto one of the couches.

“Shayla didn’t tell us she was running late,” I say to the room at large.

“Shayla won’t be joining us today,” Nadine answers. “We wanted to give you a chance to meet Amy.”

She gestures to the second woman, who leans forward to start shaking all our hands. Her thin, platinum blonde bob falls into her eyes as she does. She tucks it behind a pair of glasses that I can’t stop from reminding me of Kay, even though the two of them look nothing alike.

“Nice to meet you all. I’m Amy Kilroy.” Her tone is clipped and firm, like she’s used to rushing around and getting straight to the point.

“Amy has worked as a manager for a few of our groups here at Atlas.”

I tense up right away, and I can tell the other guys do the same.

“We have a manager,” I say, my jaw feeling tight.

“You do,” agrees Nadine, “and she’s a very good one. This isn’t about replacing her.”

Somehow, hearing her say that just makes me think that’s exactly what this is about.

“We wanted to go over Shayla’s strategy with you, to check in on how things are going,” Nadine continues. “We thought it might be helpful for you to talk to someone who’s had experience managing musicians with the earning potential we’re trying to get you up to.”

“Shayla’s done well so far. The fact that you’re signed to this label is proof of that,” Amy tells us, “but I can help you make sure she’s ready to take you to the next level.”

“We’re not ditching Shayla,” I assert. “She’s more than capable of doing her job.”

“I’m sure she has been. However, when a band becomes a hit, like Atlas is setting you up to be, things happen she might not be able to foresee, things she’s never had to deal with before.”

“She never had to deal with negotiating a record contract with a major label before, and she did a pretty good job of that.”

Amy’s eyebrows rise up above her glasses. “Are you sure about that?”

I can’t tell if she’s bluffing, but I don’t really care.

“Yes I’m sure.”

Her eyes drop briefly to my clenched fists. “I think we’re getting off to a bad start. Why don’t I give you all some more information about me?”

She gives us a synopsis of her career, and even though she doesn’t directly mention Shayla, it feels like she’s purposefully drawing attention to the differences between them. I know Shayla only did a year of college after high school; Amy’s got an MBA. Shayla’s only ever worked in Montreal; Amy just got back from two years in London. The list goes on and on.

“So all of that to say,” Amy concludes, “I’ve worked with groups in your position before. I know what it took to get where you are, and more importantly, I know what it takes to get you even farther.” She pulls out a tablet. “I’ve looked into your career and come up with a strategy I’d use if I were managing your band. You can check it against what Shayla’s doing for you now, to see if she’s on track.”

She starts firing off her game plan, and I tune most of it out. I’m realizing that I don’t even know what our contract says about management. I do know that we’re the ones who signed it, not Shayla, and it strikes me that all these ‘suggestions’ may just be a bit of preamble. We may not even have a choice when it comes to letting Shayla go. If we lose her, we’ll be ripping out half the threads in the fabric that holds this band together.

To my relief, Amy and Nadine wrap things up and tell us we can use the room for as long as we want to ‘discuss amongst ourselves.’

“I don’t want to get rid of Shayla,” I announce, jumping up from the couch to start pacing the room, fingertips drumming against my thighs.

The guys all nod, but for some reason they look uncomfortable.

“None of us want to get rid of Shayla,” Ace begins.

There’s a heavily implied ‘but’ at the end of his sentence. I stare hard at him until he sighs and continues.

“Parts of what they said made sense.”

“What parts?” I demand. “The parts about firing the person who’s the entire reason we’re here? The person we know we can trust and rely on? The person who busts her ass for us every single day?”

“They never asked us to fire her.”

“Can you even hear yourself?” I don’t realize how loud my voice has gotten until it starts reverberating off the walls. “They’re manipulating us. These people play mind games. That’s their job.”

JP gets off the couch too and stands to face me. “Can you hear yourself? You sound like a crazy person.”

“No one’s firing Shayla, man,” Cole adds, “but they’re right; she’s never done this before. Maybe she could talk with this Amy chick, see if she’s ready for everything.”

“You think that’s what they want? For them to talk?” I drag a hand through my hair. “They want Shayla out of the picture so they can have someone in their pocket managing us.”

Ace stretches out in the empty space on the couch.

“You’re turning into a conspiracy theorist,” he says languidly.

“And you’re turning into a drunk.”

I march over to the door before he can say anything in answer.

“I need some air,” I announce, and then I leave them without another word.