I was smiling foolishly as Tricky came down the stairs and embraced me in tight hug. For one, I was known as The Dawn, which meant Sage had talked about me before. For two, he had called Sage my man. God, it was stupid how incredible such an offhand comment could make me feel.
“You can let go now,” Sage said, and he reached for Tricky’s shoulder, pulling him off of me. Sage shot me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, this is my bassist, Tricky, and if he’d held on to you any longer, you’d never get him off.”
Tricky grinned at me. “He’s had to use the hose on me before. I go after chicks like a dog in heat.”
“Whether they like it or not,” Sage pointed out.
“Oh, they always like it,” Tricky said. He looked back to me. “I am no Sage Knightly, though. I usually get the chicks who Sage doesn’t want, but hey, Tricky ain’t a bad substitute.” He wiggled his brows. “You should try me sometime.”
I was too focused on what he said about “chicks who Sage doesn’t want” to realize he was hitting on me. I forced a laugh—maybe a bit too loud—to make up for the fact that I was dying inside. Tricky’s words made me go from amazing to shit in two seconds flat. I really needed to get a fucking grip on today.
Sage cleared his throat again, and I could tell he was nervous about our interacting. “The players in the lobby?” he asked Tricky.
“Yup,” he said, nodding sharply. “Only one Frenchman and the rest are Brits. Seem like they’ll be okay. One of them has more badass tattoos than you do.”
I had almost—almost—forgotten about Sage’s tattoos. They were covered up right now, but I could see the sugar skulls on his arms and shoulder as clear as day in my head. I could see my fingers tracing their outlines as we lay in a sun-drenched California bed.
I blinked quickly and here we were, standing under a grey Paris sky, looking at each other like strangers.
How time had changed us.
Despite the background noise of rolling suitcases, car horns, and flapping pigeons, I could feel the silence between us and pulled myself out of my head to realize that Sage was staring at me intently. His shades were pulled up on top of his head and his eyes were burning into me, startlingly clear. I wondered if he knew what I had been thinking. I wondered what he’d think about all of that.
“Do you guys need a minute?” Tricky asked us. “Because I don’t think we have another minute, Sage man.”
As if to prove his point, Jacob suddenly appeared, striding toward us out of the foyer.
“Sage, get your arse inside,” he barked. “We’re all waiting and we have dinner reservations.” He then looked at me. “Sorry, Dawn, it’s official business and all that. Nothing you’d need to cover. Feel free to order room service though.”
He put his hands behind Tricky and Sage’s shoulders and pushed them inside. Sage glanced at me over his shoulder but didn’t say anything.
“Uh, my room?” I yelled after Jacob.
“Oh, right-o,” he said, annoyed, and fished an ornate-looking key out of his jacket pocket. “Room 616. We’re all on the same floor.” He pressed it hard into my hand and ran off after the boys, the flaps of his ugly jacket waving behind him. He was in full-on stressed-out-manager mode, and I did not want to get on his bad side.
I sighed and watched as Sage shook the hands of three other men—I guessed they were the drummer, other guitarist, and keyboardist—and then I made my way up the narrow staircase with a red velvet runner to the sixth floor. Just like with Hybrid, sometimes you felt you were part of the band, and sometimes it was very clear you weren’t. I was certain even my rock journalist hero, Lester Bangs, felt that way on occasion.
I walked down the hallway, searching the doors for my room number. The hallway was dimly lit and very long and winding, with a low wood ceiling that would graze anyone taller than Sage or Max. The carpet in the hall was an ornate brown tapestry, and when I looked closer at the room numbers, I noticed the garish-looking heads that framed the plaques they were written on. I shuddered a bit at their pinprick eyes and kept walking.
Eventually I found my room and wondered which one was Sage’s. Half of me hoped he was right next door, and the other half feared the proximity. The closer he was sleeping to me, the more likely I’d do something that I now knew would be totally stupid.
Or I’d find him doing something totally stupid.
I opened the door with a few twists from the cranky keyhole and stepped in. It was dark so I flicked on the light. It stuttered, making the room look staticky and jarring for a second before it evened out. My suitcase was already on one of the luggage holders at the foot of the bed, and it took me a few moments to grasp how nice the room was. The bed was a four-poster one, queen-sized, and I had a chaise and coffee table by the windows, which were large and looked out on the city.
I let out a giddy squeal, quickly closed the door, and pranced my way over to the window. I could see the fucking Eiffel Tower from here! It was like looking out at a painting, but I was living it. Once again it hit me. Paris. I was here. I craned my neck so my face was pressed up against the glass and took in more of the view. We were on the left bank, close to the river, and I could see all of Paris spreading out before me in a sea of neutral-colored buildings and matching grey roofs, the domes and spires of the various churches and cathedrals sprinkled here and there.
I stood like that for quite a bit, pushing up the bottoms of the windows to let the fresh air in. Then the phone rang, making me jump. Despite the peaceful view, I was still a little jittery.
I snapped it up. It was Max.
“Hey, little lamb,” he said.
“Hi, giant red potato.”