That was every bit of the nightmare I thought it would be. So bad in fact that my lovely arresting officer came by a couple of times to check in on me and shoot the shit. I mean, he was a good guy. No hard feelings … none of that. He was just doing his job.

With the word from the judge … magistrate … Santa fucking Claus setting me loose, I get a whole lot of hurry up and wait. I know—I know—I’m not a priority, but I gots to go. I’m working on the assumption that Seth Mulligan, my lawyer, has kept Rand looped into what’s going down with me, but my knee is bouncing, fingers tapping, and I have a serious case of need to get outta here.

The out-processing is pretty anticlimactic, considering just how badly I’m itching to get on my way. I run through my mental to-do list that I have created, scrapped, and refined enough times to have it down to a science. If only I’d had my phone or a piece of paper to make notes. Something tells me that, the minute I’m free, my brain is going to explode, taking my list with it for the ride.

“Keller.” The officer’s voice booms down the hall. “Time’s up, man. Let’s go grab your personal items.”

Thank God.

I stand and wait for the officer to wave his magic wand and grant me my freedom. No way do I want to jump the gun, act in any way other than calm, polite, and thankful to get out. Using all the please and thank-yous my parents instilled in me, I sign the necessary forms and pocket my wallet, palm my keys, and say a small prayer for a half percent of battery life in my phone. But, again, the fates are not on my side. Not in the least.

“Thank you very much, sir. I’m free? I can go now?” I ask, wanting to make absolutely certain that I’m good to leave.

“Yep. You need to call a cab?” the guy asks.

I mean, in my nonexistent experience with being arrested, this has actually been a four-and-a-half-star visit.

“Nah, my car’s in the lot,” I reply. “Shit. Y’all don’t tow, do you? I mean, I assume it’s out there …”

“Yeah, you should be good.”

I haul ass out of the building and thank every god I can think of that my rental is where I left it and hasn’t gotten any busted windows. Perks of parking at the police station.

As soon as I’ve got the engine cranked, I plug my phone in and wait for enough battery to make a call to Rand. Unable to sit still, doing nothing, I pull out of the lot and head toward Gracyn’s office, but my phone lights up like a Christmas tree—texts, missed calls, voice mail alerts. Fucking emails out my ass. Filtering through on the fly, I check Rand’s most recent VM.

“Gav, I got the heads-up from Mulligan and booked you on the next flight out, so you need to haul ass to JFK, but for fuck’s sake, don’t get arrested for reckless driving. I’ll pick you up in Dubai, man. Boarding shit is in your email.”

At the next red light, I pull up the flight confirmation and check the time. Fuck. I have done nothing but sit on my ass for three fucking days, waiting to see Gracyn before I go, and now? Now, I have to pull a U-ey and bust ass to the airport while dialing.

“Rand, it’s gonna be tight, man. I’m not sure I’m going to make that flight.”

“Christ, Gavin. You don’t have a fucking choice. Get your ass to the airport now. You’re in enough shit with the label as it is.” Not sure what time it is for him, but the man sounds cranky. “And that’s the only flight I could get you on today, so don’t fuck this up.”

“I need another day. I can’t—”

“You can. It’s bad enough that you missed the opening show for a piece of ass.”

“Hey now. Don’t talk about her that way—”

“That fight happen before or after the picture, huh?” The more he talks, the more pissed off he gets.

I’m the one who spent days sitting in a jail cell, for fuck’s sake.

“What picture, Rand? What’re you talking about?”

“Check your chick’s Instagram. Looks like her engagement photo. I don’t give a shit, man. Don’t blame you in the least for decking the guy. He looks like a prick, but you fucked over your band. Get your ass to the airport and land, ready to kiss ass.”

After all the shit I’ve been through this weekend, I’m trying to be super observant of traffic laws. I grab a peek at Gracyn’s Insta at a red light, and she’s tagged in a shit-tacular photo of her and Brooks looking cozy, laughing and wrapped up in each other. And, gauging by familial resemblances, they’re surrounded by both sets of parents. Artful filter and all the hashtags, like he’s a teenage girl, tagging her first crush.

#forgingnewrelationships #thatsayes #familybusiness #LangstonGeorge #thefuturestartsnow

“You have got to be fucking kidding me with this,” I yell over whatever Rand is still going on about.

All that’s missing is a shiny sparkler on her hand, but then again, it’s the right one resting delicately on his chest while her face is nothing but sunshine and grins, so who knows what’s going on with the left? It’s like the Sarah shit all over again, but Gracyn didn’t even wait for me to leave. Without even bothering to end the call, I chuck my phone at the passenger seat and white-knuckle the steering wheel. Gas pedal to the floorboard.

There’s a reason, there is some kind of excuse for this, but now is not the time. I can’t begin to process this shit.

I’m not a diva, not by any means, but what’s the point in being a fucking rock star if I don’t pull the shit on occasion? After a nerve-racking drive from hell, I slam the car into park in front of the terminal’s valet and grab my shit from the back. I chuck a couple of Benjamins at the valet and ask him to return the rental for me.

Suitcase in one hand, guitar in the other, I run through the terminal, slap my passport down, and get pushed through to security. It’s a mad dash to the gate, but I make it, sweaty and panting just before the doors to the jetway click shut. I didn’t even look at my ticket, never had a chance as I was running like hell, so when the flight attendant takes my guitar case straight from my hand and directs me to the very back of the fucking cabin to a seat squished in the middle of the middle, I remind myself that I am a fortunate bastard to be here.

“Excuse me,” I say along with a handful of, “I’m sorry,” as I squeeze myself into a space that is way too small for my frame. I try to get comfortable for the next twelve and a half hours.

I’m starving, I need a shower in the worst possible way, and it’s probably too fucking early for a goddamn drink. I shimmy and wiggle my way out of my leather jacket, doing my best not to inadvertently smack anyone in the face. More than anything, I need to chill, so I pull my earbuds from the inside pocket of my jacket, the one my phone abso-fucking-lutely should be in.

Where the fuck is my goddamn phone?

I pat down my jacket and then check my seat and the floor around me. For all the care I took mere moments ago, getting out of my jacket, I elbow the guy next to me as I frantically hit, pat, and search every pocket of my jeans.

No … nope. No. Not cool, not fucking cool.

It’s gone.

Not here.

Not with me.

It’s gone.

Fucking shit. I replay everything—from squeezing my ass into this seat to the thousand-yard dash through the terminal to checking in. Nope. Handed the chick my passport and got it back with a boarding pass.

Then, it hits me like a sledgehammer. I chucked that bitch across my rental car. Left the car at the curb. Left my fucking phone in the car.