DRASTIC (Book 4 of the Soundcrush Series)

Chapter 67: Drummer Boys Spin More Plates

We have two new minor characters in this chapter...but only one is a fan cameo! See if you can guess which character and which regular commenter she reminds you of!

Bodie, three hours later, upon awakening in his Sacramento hotel room.

"Jaz-min!" I bellow, hopping around, trying to force a second leg in my twisted jeans.

She throws open the double doors to the bedroom, and stares at me, cocking her head while I curse and nearly stumble. She's completely ready, looking gorgeous and professional as always, in shockingly crisp white pants, Loubiton suede sandals, and a flowy beige blouse that is slit from the sholders to the bands at her elbows, allowing her toned, tan arms to peak through.

I stop hopping, sensing her calm composure.

I sit and pull my jeans on. "I take it from your demeanor that we're not late for the bus?" I gesture at the clock. Morning press, if there was any, was over hours ago. We should be having our breakfast on the road by now.

"Oh, we're so late we missed the bus," she says playfully. She tosses a small something, at me and I catch it automatically. "Now you have to play catch-up from here to San Francisco."

The item in question is a key fob with an arrow-like symbol on it. I grin. "We got us a McLaren for the day?"

"Yeah, you don't have one of those," she winks and saunters out. "Hurry up, boy. I'm starvin'."

She saunters through the suite, picking up her LV bag and donning her MK sunglasses. She doesn't really care about the designer stuff—she crafted this style at Marianne del Marco's advice, who told her "when you negotiate with LA players, you have to smell like money if you want them to trust you with theirs."

But I like it. All her designer accoutrement is understated, none of the splashy logos. She's as class act. And there is something incredibly alluring about a polished woman who saves all her secret sin for her lover's bed.

She tilts her sunglasses down. "Are you coming, Rock Star?"

"I'd follow you anywhere," I assure her.

There is nothing in this suite but the clothes she left me to put on, my sunglasses, and the shit that fills my pockets.

We stroll out the front like we famous.

Oh wait. We are.

There are a few people hanging around by the car that I take for regular folks—one is a dad indulging his little kid who is smiling big and pointing at the red machine. I admire the car myself as I open the door for Marley.

A woman in a hoodie and jeans pulls a professional camera from nowhere. With a tough New York accent she yells, "Bodie, did Arabella dump you because you cheated on her with your road manager?"

She shoots as I ignore her. When I don't reply, the woman says to Marley, "Weren't you his sobriety companion just three months ago, Dr. Watkins? Did you get your promotion to tour manager by fucking your way there?"

I walk toward the chic and she backs up, still snapping pictures in my face. "Are you going to assault me, Bodie? Maybe that's why Arabella dumped you?"

I stop in front of her. She's frontin' like she's bold, but I see her hands shaking as she tries to steady the camera. This girl looks barely twenty-one and she is definitely not as brave as she's trying to be. She's either a little crazy or a little desperate. She's brunette and earthy, a little like Kat but darker. Yet something about her reminds me of Ashlynn, when she followed Trace to LA.

"I haven't seen you before," I say calmly, reaching out slowly, lowering the camera so I can look at her face to face. "What's your name?"

"Vicki."