“I need ice cream. Now. Where the hell are we?”
“We’re outside of Lubbock. Drivers needed a rest. We got fuel about an hour ago and I haven’t seen any places since. I’m guessing she saw it?”
“Saw what?” He was scared to even guess.
“The article. It wasn’t great.” The short dark-haired girl retrieved an iPad from her purse and pulled up the latest issue of Rolling Stone.
Trace let his eyes drink in the vision of perfection on the cover. It was Kylie. She was in a tight plaid button-up but none of the buttons were buttoned. A lacy black bra thrust her full breasts up just below her collarbone. Her eyes were sultry and her fingertips lingered by her full, pouty lips.
The wanton expression on her face made him want to run back onto the bus and do unspeakable things to her. Well, unspeakable in front of Hannah.
The idea of the entire world seeing it made him want to hit something. Several somethings.
“She looks…amazing,” he choked out.
“It’s not the picture she’s upset about. It’s the headline.”
He looked at the bold print on the bottom of the cover. Kylie Ryans: Not Nashville’s F@#*ing Sweetheart, it read.
Aw hell. Trace swiped the screen until he came to the article about her. There was another picture of her scantily clad body sprawled out next to a guitar. She was smiling this time. Again, he was struck dumb and breathless. He forced himself to look away from her and scan the article.
Very concerned about how she’s portrayed and whether or not the world thinks she’s a diva.
Below that was a breakdown of a day in the life of Kylie Ryans, and the writer had taken the time to add that she “barked” at her assistant every other hour and that she “handled” people like equipment. He called their performance that night in Connecticut “cold and automated.” He even hinted that she herself had said that the whole tour was a farce and she and Trace had no chemistry. Which the asshole made sure to mention he agreed with.
Trace let out a low whistle. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. I tried to steer her away from the magazine stand at the last few stops but I guess she ventured online. How is she?”
“I need ice cream, Hannah. A large amount. Mint chocolate chip, stat. Can you help me with that?”
She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pulled out her phone and he left her to it.
Trace headed back onto the bus. His heart sank when he saw that Kylie hadn’t moved an inch since he’d left her.
“Hey, um, Hannah’s working on the ice cream situation now. Anything else I can do? Order a pizza? Put on a movie? Kick the Rolling Stone reporter’s ass?”
She sighed. “I guess you saw it then.”
“Eh, I’m half illiterate according to that guy so I could barely read it.”
“He called you illiterate? I must’ve missed that part. What a dick.” She frowned and Trace couldn’t help but smile at the cute little thing her forehead did when she was mad.
“Not in your article. A long time ago when I was first starting out. He made a reference to hillbillies and the inability to read. He was surprised that one of my songs contained a reference to a Keats poem. Said I couldn’t have written that myself because surely stupid ol’ me had never read anything other than girls’ phone numbers on bathroom walls in bars.”
Kylie’s expression melded from annoyed to outraged. “I’m sorry. I never would’ve given him an interview if I’d have known he said that about you.”
He shrugged. “No big. Trust me, in this business, you learn to let things like that go.” Their gazes met as he spoke. “But I guess you know that already. You’re on tour with me, after all.”
He saw an unidentifiable emotion flicker in her eyes as he heard her sharp intake of breath, but before she could say anything, the sound of several people making their way onto the bus distracted them.
They turned to see Lulu, Mike, Steven, and Hannah all clomping onto the bus. Mike held a plastic grocery bag that Trace hoped contained ice cream.
“There wasn’t any mint chocolate chip at the Stop-N-Shop we found,” Mike began. “But there was chocolate chip cookie dough, double chocolate chunk, and chocolate fudge swirl.”
“Which one did you get?” Kylie asked, looking slightly amused.
“All of them,” Steven said, pulling out several spoons from a drawer next to Trace. “We figured you could mix them all together. If you want, I’ll squirt some toothpaste on it and it will taste just like that disgusting stuff you love so much.”
Kylie laughed, really laughed, and the sound both warmed Trace’s heart and cut into it at once. Steven made her laugh. Steven made her happy. She needed that. She deserved it.