Page 33 of Rescue

Chapter Seven

Haylee

“Hay, that was your cue.”

“Damn it,” I mutter, then I drop my pick, kicking my frustration up another level. Rehearsal is not going well. And so far that’s pretty much entirely my fault. “Shit.”

Dylan gives me a sympathetic grimace. “No biggie. Let’s just start again.”

I sigh, running my hands through my hair. Starting again isn’t going to help me much.

“How about we take five,” James says, once again demonstrating his uncanny ability to read my thoughts. Usually I find it pretty annoying, but today I’m merely grateful for the break. I follow my bandmates to the minuscule sitting area to the side of our rehearsal space, accepting the beer Layla hands me with thanks.

“So,” she says, sitting in a folding chair across from me. “What has your panties in a twist?”

I scowl at her. “You know I hate that expression.”

“Deal with it.” She takes a long sip of her beer before pushing her red hair out of her face. “You’ve been in a pissy mood ever since Newcastle. What’s up?”

“Youhavebeen kind of pissy, Hay,” Dylan says from the floor in front of me, where he’s stretched out, hands behind his head. “You need to get laid?”

“You offering?”

He makes a big deal of shuddering. “You’re way too tough and intimidating for me.”

I grin down at him. “That’s right. Don’t forget it.”

“You’re still not talking,” Layla points out.

“Maybe I just forgot how annoying it was to be on tour with you assholes.” I take another sip of my beer, blowing Lance a kiss when he flips me off.

“Yeah, this tour has been so annoying,” Dylan says. “Packed crowds in the biggest venues we’ve ever played, flying across Europe, staying in five-star hotels, all our meals comped. God. It’s the worst.”

Lance laughs, pointing at our guitarist. “Kid has a point.”

Layla crosses her arms, glaring at me. “You’re sorely mistaken if you think you can distract me.”

“Yeah, Hay,” Dylan says, kicking my shin. “She’s got her scary face on. Better just tell her what’s bothering you.”

“It’s the weather. Who knew the U.K. would be so rainy?” It’s not even a lie. The tour opened in Stockholm, and I’d been too jet lagged and stressed about doing well to really get my bearings. After a stop in Copenhagen we’d flown over to England, making our way through the north of the country, stopping in Manchester, Liverpool, and Leeds before heading to Glasgow. The cities were cool—we had a lot of fun being Beatles tourists in Liverpool—but it had rained steadily since our plane touched down in Manchester. I’m looking forward to the following week when we’ll move on to Spain. The weather has to turn at some point.

Layla clearly doesn’t believe me, but she drops it when James brings up the show tonight. “What do you think about switching the set list?” he asks the group. “I think we’d get more impact on “Cry Heart” if we put it after the first break.”

I tune out as James and Lance debate the set list order. The two of them could argue song placement for hours. I never really saw the point. Just tell me what song to sing, and I’ll do my best to nail it. But James and Lance both believe, very strongly, that song order is an art form. Unfortunately, they rarely agree on the shape that art form should take.

“I need a ciggy break,” Layla says, standing.

“I’ll come with,” Dylan says, but Layla places the tip of her boot on his leg, holding him in place on the floor.

“No you won’t.” She points at me. “Youcan keep me company.”

I don’t bother to stifle my groan. I should have known she would hassle me until I gave in.

“Fine,” Dylan says as Layla and I head out. “Smoking is a filthy habit anyhow!” he calls after us.

“He has a point,” Layla says, opening the door for me. It’s drizzling and gray—a vast improvement from the steady rain of the morning, and we huddle under the building’s minuscule awning. “You really should quit.”

“I barely smoke. I don’t even carry cigarettes.”