The cities blur and roll in on each other. The shows all have the mind-numbing feel of sameness. Each is indistinguishable from the one before and the one that comes next. For being in the midst of a dream come true, the fairy tale feels more like the old-school-nightmare version as opposed to the glossy, shiny telling of kids’ movies.

So, instead of seeing the similarities between the Bavarian castle we visit and Disney’s version of it, I spend my time thinking long and hard about the gory original telling of the story by Charles Perrault where the wicked stepsisters cut off their toes in an effort to try to make Cinderella’s shoe fit. All that pretty much sums up my mood for the bulk of the tour. The rest of the time, I spend having serious drunken debates over whether I should respond to the barrage of messages from Gracyn.

Thankfully, the bottle usually wins, leaving me to pass out, safe for another day.

Unless Kane is around. Then, the bulk of my time is devoted to distracting him from his mission to get me laid. Again. It’s like a goddamn repeat of Destin when he was focused so clearly on getting me under anyone and everyone to help me get over Sarah. I got over her … and stuck on Gracyn. And that whole thing has worked out just splendidly, hasn’t it?

“What happened to the days when we shared, Gav? Remember when we first started this, and we shared everything?” And there he is. Kane Newton at his best. “You used to share all of it with me—hotel rooms, PB and Js …”

I’m so not up for dealing with him. Or this. Or anything really. But definitely not Kane.

“Chicks. God, remember that?” he continues. “We need to hit that again. It’d totally make you feel better.”

Kane eyes me from his perch across the small room. I take a pull from the bottle of vodka I’ve been carrying around today, not feeling at all like responding. The sheer volume of alcohol I have put down is astounding. Only a few inches are gone from this particular bottle, and as I lower the thing from my mouth, Kane’s gaze is heavily focused on my lips.

He’s not usually so serious in these conversations. Because, yeah, this is not a first for us. For a while, I thought it was a joke or something after Sasha and he had their falling-out or whatever. Thought the lingering looks and the comments were a way for him to throw his laissez-faire attitude around. But, today, his eyes are heavy with desire and just a touch of uncertainty. He definitely tends toward lust while all I want is love—just not with him.

“No. You make it sound like we were tagging that chick.” I shudder, just thinking about it, because, that night, I was so not myself. And I had no idea the girl sucking my dick was trying to make her way through the entire band in one night.

Pulling his lip between his teeth, Kane leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “We could though, or—”

“Stop. Whatever you’re thinking, just stop. You know I don’t give a shit about what you do or who. You’ve gotta do right by you, be who you’ve gotta be, but I don’t have the patience for your shit, man. You know this.” I knock another inch off the bottle, savoring the burn. I stopped getting the good stuff a couple of cities ago, opting for quantity over quality.

“I do.” He nods, lips pulling up on one side into an almost grin. “But I’ve got you talking for a change. Dude, you need to snap out of this hole you’re in. Deal with it or get past it, but this dance you’re doing isn’t just dragging you down. You’ve been fucked the entire tour. Moody and stuck in your head. Talk to her. At least read a text. Hell, let me read them. I don’t give a shit, but something’s got to give.” He stands from the chair and heads for the door out of my room.

I hold my breath, waiting for my best friend to drop it and vacate my space.

“We’re here for you, Gavin, but you need to pull your shit together, or—”

“Or what?”

“Not my call, but the label’s pissed. You’re bad press, and we all know, that’s supposed to be my job.” With a wink and a not-so-subtle rake of his gaze taking me in from top to bottom, Kane finally leaves.

As if the timing couldn’t be any better, my phone buzzes with the day’s incoming text bomb from Gracyn. The frequency of these has been all over the place. Some days, she hits me four or five times. Sometimes, it’s just one. Today has been a slow day.

I trace the cracks in my screen as I think for a hot minute about responding. I consider the pros and cons to the best of my alcohol-addled brain’s ability. The guys all assume I haven’t read any of her messages. I don’t read all of them, not really many at all. But, sometimes, one comes through like this, and I can’t stop myself.

They say there is pain in art, and with the fissures in the glass slashing through her plea to explain, I feel the crevasse in my heart shift and pull the pieces further apart. Explanation shouldn’t even be a thing here. What explanation is there for suddenly having a dickbag like that in your life? What had to change in her world for that to ever be okay? And here I am, looking for some reasoning. I just don’t need to go there.

Tomorrow. I’ll start playing nice tomorrow with the band, the label, the promo. Today, I have a bottle of vodka with my name all over it.