Page 57 of Layla

A flare of panic rises in me. “You’re not telling him, Lance. You’re not telling any of them.”

He narrows his eyes. “Now you’re asking me to lie to my family. And that’s not just some cheesy BS, Layla. We’refamily. We’re supposed to help each other with the hard shit.” He shakes his head. “Like we helped Haylee. Like you guys helped me when I found out about Simon last year.”

And just like that, I’m pissed. I’m actually shaking with anger, and I don’t even know exactly why. He isn’t saying anything to me that I haven’t heard before—hell, that I haven’t said myself. We might not be the most affectionate group of people—we all have way too much baggage for that shit—but wearefamily. We’re there for each other, always have been.

So why do I feel so shitty about those words?

I stand suddenly, needing to get away from him. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kick your ass.”

Some of the intensity goes from his eyes, replaced by a twinkle of humor. “You do realize I have like seventy pounds and six inches on you?”

I lean down to hiss in his face. “I swear to God, Lance, I will put my stiletto through your balls if you say a word.”

Dylan chooses that moment to pass by, laughing at what he overheard. “Shit, dude, what’d you do to piss her off? Don’t you know better by now?”

I hold my breath as I look down at our piano player. He wouldn’t tell Dylan, would he? He holds my gaze for a long moment before he finally sighs, turning back to Dyl. “Don’t insult the new hair color,” he mutters. “She’s a little sensitive about it.”

I blow out a relieved breath—until I remember just who had helped me achieve this hair color. And everything that had happened after. My hands are doing that shaking thing again, the anger rising in my chest, and I push past Dylan, needing to get out of here.

I stumble down the hallway, having no idea where to go. I want to be outside, need the fresh air, but I know that will only piss John off. And the last thing I need is for him to lecture me after this morning. If I feel mortified right now, the thought of him going all strict babysitter hours after kissing me would just push me over the edge.

I happen to pass the second, smaller dressing room just as Conner, the bassist for our opening act, Downlow, comes out into the hall. “Hey,” he says, his eyes lighting up in a way I’m very familiar with. “How’s it going?”

He takes a minuscule step closer, the movement subtle but still noticeable. I’m familiar with that, too. This guy is interested. Vaguely I wonder if he has been this whole time or if it’s just a convenience thing—the fact that I’m here. Then I wonder if I care either way.

“Fine,” I say, trying to return my heavy breathing to something normal. “What are you guys up to today?”

He leans against the cement block wall, bringing an arm up to cage me in. He’s smiling down at me, his grin a little smug, eyes briefly flicking down from my face to travel the length of my body. “You know how it goes,” he drawls. “Guys are being idiots, trying to pass the time.”

I nod. “It’s impossible to find a greater concentration of idiots than bored musicians on the road.”

He chuckles, leaning in a little more. This guy is definitely throwing out some major signals. Again, his eyes flick down from my face. This time I allow my eyes to do the same, running my gaze over his tight black t-shirt and faded blue jeans.

Conner is exactly the kind of guy I usually go for. Lanky limbs and longish hair. Tattoos up and down his arms. From the few times we’ve been out to the clubs and bars with these guys, I know he’s a player. Which isn’t a surprise at all—just about every musician I’ve ever met on the road has been a player—and none of them are worse than I am myself.

He must notice me checking him out because his voice dips slightly, becoming a shade richer, more seductive. “You should come hang out with us.”

“With the obnoxious guys you’re trying to get away from?” I ask, hearing the flirtatious note come to my voice, almost like a reflex. “You sure know how to sell it.”

He grins, leaning even closer. “We could talk, just me and you. Have a couple drinks.”

A month ago, I would have gone with him, no question. Hell, I probably would have already invited him up to my hotel room. But something has me pausing today, questioning myself. Do I really want to hang out with this guy? This carbon copy of so many drummers and bassists and guitar players I’ve hooked up with over the years? Sure, he’s hot, but I’m not feeling any rush of chemistry. No wanting. No excitement.

Just then, Lance steps into the hallway behind me. “Layla?”

I spin, still annoyed with him. “What?”

His eyes are narrowed. “Are you supposed to be doing this?”

I cross my arms over my chest, glaring at him. “Doingwhat?” If he had any sense of self-preservation, Lance would drop it now. I can hear how murderous my voice has turned—even Conner has taken a step back behind me.

But Lance, stupid idiot that he is, holds his ground. “Walking around the venue without security.”

I want to slap him. I very nearly do. How the fuck dare he try to boss me around? Is this how it’s going to be now? John and Louis aren’t bad enough, I’m going to have fucking Lance babysitting me too?

I take a step closer, my eyes narrowed to slits, and speak in a low voice so only he can hear. “You do not get to tell me what to do, Lance. Do you understand?” He opens his mouth to argue but I’m already turning away, my hair swinging behind me. “In case you wondered,” I shoot over my shoulder. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell anyone before.” Then I grab a thoroughly surprised Conner’s hand and pull him into the opener’s dressing room.

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