Reagan put on her clothes from the day before but rummaged around in her suitcase until she found everything she needed for a shower.
“Looks like you plan on doing more than going pee,” Trey said.
“I’m going to take a shower.” She was sticky with cum. Trey had used condoms the night before, but he’d peeled them off at the last moment and spurted on her belly. Her back. Her ass. Her breasts. Probably other places too. She’d lost track. At the time, it had been incredibly sexy, but now she needed to feel clean.
After her quick shower—there was a limited supply of water on the bus—she found her purse in the dining area and checked her phone for messages. Her father had called and left a message. “I spent all day Sunday wondering if you’re alive or dead.” She had meant to call him. She made it a habit to call him every Sunday, but so many things were happening that it had slipped her mind. He would probably be at work, but she’d leave him a message so he knew that she was safe. He’d never wanted her to leave Arkansas. He’d been convinced that she couldn’t take care of herself. Or maybe he’d been more worried that there’d be no one to take care of him anymore. She’d taken over the role of domestic goddess when Mom had left. Cooked, cleaned, did the laundry. She sometimes worried that Daddy ate canned tuna every night and wore dirty socks, but she also knew that she had to make her own life. Catering to her father for twenty-one years had been long enough.
She was surprised that he answered when she called.
“Is everything okay, Reagan?” he asked gruffly.
Her heart started to pound. She already knew that Daddy wouldn’t approve of her going on tour with a rock band. Of making her dream to become a professional guitarist a reality. If he had his way, she’d have become a concert cellist in some orchestra. Yawn.
“Everything is wonderful, Daddy,” she said, her voice giving away none of the anxiety in her chest. She wanted him to be proud of her. She didn’t want to listen to him berate her for having dreams that did not match his. “I have some exciting news.”
“I thought you were dead. Or worse. Strung out on drugs.”
“I don’t do drugs,” she said flatly. He was big on stereotypes. “I did win a contest.”
“A music contest?” He actually sounded excited.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re going back to cello?”
“No, it wasn’t an orchestral contest. It was a rock guitarist contest.”
Silence. She could picture the look of displeasure on his face. She’d seen it enough times.
She pressed on. “I’ve been selected to be the rhythm guitarist for Exodus End while they tour the US and world this year. This is an amazing opportunity for me.”
More silence.
“So if I forget to call you, I’m probably doing drugs or sleeping around with tattooed freaks or showing off my ass on stage.”
More silence.
Something, Dad. Say something.
“I’ve got to go,” she said after a long moment of listening to silence.
“Be careful, Reagan.”
The phone clicked in her ear as he hung up. “I love you, Daddy.”
She sank into the booth at the dining table and stared down at her phone. She figured she’d never make the man proud. She might as well let that dream go. Her cell phone sounded, alerting her to the receipt of a text message. She viewed it without much thought.
You took what’s mine, bitch. Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
She sucked a deep breath into her lungs and erased the message before thinking better of it. She’d probably received the message by mistake. She’d never taken anything from anyone. Why would someone threaten her? She suddenly wanted to talk to Ethan. She dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring.
“Reagan?” His deep voice was groggy with sleep.
“Another late night?” she asked. Her heart was still pounding, but she felt safer just hearing his voice.
“Yeah, lucky me.”
“Sorry I woke you.”
“I’m glad you called. I’ve been wondering how you’ve been. I didn’t want to come across as a paranoid, overprotective asshole, so I somehow managed to keep myself from calling you.”
“You are paranoid and overprotective.”
“But not an asshole?”
“Usually not.”
He laughed. “So why did you call? Everything okay?”
“Mostly.”
“New boyfriend getting on your nerves already?”
“No. Trey’s wonderful. I called my dad this morning. Told him about the tour.”
Ethan groaned. “I can imagine how that went.”
“And then… I got a strange text message.”
“Strange? Strange how?”
“Threatening.”
“Someone threatened you?” Ethan no longer sounded groggy. “Who sent it?”
“I don’t know. I deleted it. I didn’t think to check.”
“I can probably get the information from the phone company, but it will take some digging and persuasion.”
Ethan’s means of persuasion were far different from Trey’s methods.
“What time did you get it?” he asked.
“Right before I called you.”
“Seven thirty-ish your time.”
She nodded.
“Reagan?”
“I’m here. Yeah, around seven thirty.”
“I’ll see if I can find out who sent it. If you get another one, make sure you don’t delete it.”
“It scared me,” she admitted.
“What did it say?”
“‘You took what’s mine, bitch. Don’t think you’ll get away with it.’”
“Probably some jealous ex of your new boyfriend’s. It was most likely an empty threat, but I’ll still check up on it. Are you still scared?”
“I feel better now.” Ethan always made her feel safe. She was thinking she overreacted. She’d never been threatened like that before.
“If you need your bodyguard a couple weeks early, I can fly out. Where are you now? On your way to Saint Louis, right?”
“How did you know?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I sort of mapped out your entire trip based on the tour dates posted on Sinners’ website.”
Reagan laughed. “See. You are paranoid and overprotective.”
“You can count on it.”
“I’ll be okay, Ethan. Thanks for being there when I needed you.”
“You can count on that too.”
Chapter 15
Several days later, standing in the dressing room of the venue in Indianapolis, Trey held his cell phone in an iron grip. “What do you mean, you’re stuck in traffic?” Trey asked Brian. “We have to be onstage in twenty minutes.”
“It can’t be helped, Trey. I didn’t order a car fire on the interstate in an attempt to annoy everyone.”
“If you’d quit fucking running off to L.A. every frickin’ night—”
“I have other obligations now, Trey. I know the word ‘responsibility’ isn’t in your vocabulary, but maybe you should think about someone other than yourself for five goddamned minutes.”
Trey hated arguing with Brian. The man had a skill for laying on a guilt trip. “I’m not thinking of myself. I’m thinking about those twenty thousand fans who paid to see us perform and who expect us to be onstage at ten o’clock. Not ten thirty. Not eleven. Ten.”
“So stall them for half an hour. I’ll be there. I’m just going to be late.”