Page 59 of Layla

I pat his shoulder. “I need coffee or my manager is going to murder me.”

He winces. “Good luck.” Again, he grabs my hand, looking up at me from the couch with bleary eyes. “But after, right? We’ll hang out?”

I try to ignore the uncertainty in my mind. “Sure. Come find me when we’re finished.”

He kisses my hand one more time and I stumble away, trying not to notice the way the rest of his band seem to be glaring at me, the lead singer passing by with a giant mug of coffee.

Out in the hall, I have to place my hand on the wall to stay steady. Everything is loud and chaotic and it’s hurting my head, the roadies rushing around, the tittering girls with their big hair and backstage passes slung around their necks. I don’t want to think about which one of them Dylan or James might hook up with later.

I’ve almost made it to our dressing room when John comes storming out of it. He takes one look at me and his usual scowl slips into place. “Where were you?”

“The other dressing room,” I mutter, rubbing my head. God, why is everything so loud? My freaking drums are going to kill me. “Eddie knew where I was. Checked on me a few times.”

John is still scowling but his face tightens in a more concerned way the longer he looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

I try to pass him but he grasps my elbow, his fingers gentle. That doesn’t stop me from yanking my arm away, all the anger from earlier rushing back. “You do not get to touch me,” I snarl.

He watches me for a long moment, his face expressionless. Finally, he says, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You look unsteady.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need you monitoring my alcohol consumption.”

Understanding dawns on his face. “You’re drunk.”

I snort. “Real observant of you, John. Thank God I have an observant guy like you keeping an eye on me.”

“Layla,” he starts, but I push past him. This time he lets me go.