The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel

by Tamsen Parker

  Because he gets it, he scoots closer and lays an affectionate hand on my knee.

  “He’s really fucking famous, Jake. And I know what that’s like. It’s being swarmed by paparazzi, it’s being photographed wherever you go, it’s having stalkers. And while I doubt it bothers Nick much because he loves attention, how long is it going to be before the press is banging down my door? How long is it going to be before my name and photo are splashed all over the media? And how long is it going to take them to figure out that I literally never leave? Other people can run and hide, but I can’t. This is my sanctuary, this is the only place for me, so I won’t be able to get away from them. Yeah, I live in a fishbowl now and have for years, but no one’s been looking in.”

  My chest has started getting tight, the anxiety filling my head like helium until I feel like I’ve gone so high that there’s no oxygen in this part of the atmosphere. I’d thought about this in sort of an academic, detached way, but now it’s really hitting me for the first time and it’s terrifying.

  There’s a shake at my knee, and then a warm arm being draped over my shoulders. Jake’s touch nudges me out enough of my panic that I can look at him. He knows human contact has a decent chance of getting me to start wading out of a panic attack—this isn’t his first Dempsey’s-losing-her-shit rodeo.

  “Hey. It’s just you and me. No one else is here.”

  Jake talks me down until I’m relatively calm, and then he’s got to go to class. After helping me clean up from our mini spa day, I walk him to the door and we hug.

  Usually it’s a brief goodbye, maybe setting up a date for next time, and we go back to our lives. This time, though, we don’t make another appointment, and we both know why. Jake wraps his big hands around my biceps until I look him in the face.

  “I know this is scary. But from what you’ve said, it sounds like you and Nick have something really good going on. Like you both accept and enjoy each other, and that’s not an easy thing to find. So do me a favor and let yourself enjoy it, okay? You deserve it. And I will absolutely not take offense if I don’t hear from you for a while. Though if you guys get married, I better be invited. I can escort Fiona down the aisle.”

  Before I can respond—because I always have a response—he kisses me quick on the cheek and heads out to his car.

  What does it say about me that I’m now imagining a backyard wedding with all the members of LtG in attendance and Fiona as the flower dog with a little crown of peonies on her head? It says I’m probably more screwed than I thought.

  12

  Nick

  * * *

  “Do I have to separate the two of you?”

  Benji and I stop rolling around on the floor of the luxe but cramped lounge area and look up at Papa Teague. He gets mad when we wrestle. To be fair, there’s not a ton of space on the bus, and it’s almost inevitable at some point that one of us will get hurt, and if we get hurt enough to have to cancel a show or three, well, then, everyone will be pretty pissed off. Including the two of us, even though it would totes be our fault. We were lucky that when we shattered the coffee table at the hotel, neither of us were hurt besides a few scrapes and scratches.

  After we’ve born the full brunt of Teague’s glare and massive tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest, we look at each other and offer a grudging handshake and mutter “truce.”

  We use the other as leverage to rise to our feet while Teague is still shaking his head.

  “Don’t you two have better things to do? Maybe call your girlfriends? Your moms? Take a nap? Have a snack? Play videogames?”

  “No, not that last one,” volunteers Christian without looking up from whatever obscure electronica magazine he’s reading now. “That’s what started this brawl.”

  “Brawl,” I scoff. “We haven’t even broken anything yet, never mind each other. It’s not a brawl until there’s broken glass or blood involved, that’s what my mom always said. You people are overreacting.”

  But Teague has a point. I’d much rather talk to Dempsey than play tour bus WWF with Benji. And from the look on his face, he’s thinking the same thing about Jordan.

  “Bunks!”

  That was maybe unnecessarily loud, but I really want to score the bunk area for talking with Demps. It’s the only place I might conceivably talk her into having phone sex, and frankly, that’s an option I’d like to have. Not that it’s easy for any of the guys except Teague and Christian to be on tour—and I think they have the opposite problem of being with their partner twenty-four-seven instead of not enough, but they seem to be managing it well. But at least Zane and Benji have the possibility of seeing their lady loves when they’re touring.

  Benj got to see Jordan when we made our stop in Chicago, and Rowan’s coming up to Montreal for our show since she’s back in Lake Placid after her race in Europe. And me? The only time I can possibly see Dempsey is when I’m in LA. If the world were a perfect place, she’d be able to travel and hook up with me at tour stops, but it’s not perfect. And definitely no one is perfect. If the worst thing about being with Dempsey is that I miss her like crazy, then that’s pretty fucking good.

  I hear Benji groan behind me as I scramble for the back of the bus where the bunks are.

  “Keep it clean, asshole!”

  “No chance, dickwad!”

  There’s a muffled thump on the door right after I slam it closed, and I’m gonna go ahead and assume that was Benji’s shoe. I could reach out and steal it, and if the windows on this thing opened, I’d definitely throw it outside. But they don’t. Not back here anyway. Up front there are some. And why is that? Like, people don’t like to sleep with the windows open? I totally do if it’s cold enough, which it isn’t back in LA usually, but some places it could be. Do other tour buses have windows that open and it’s just ours that doesn’t? That seems rude. Or maybe just like, Stan—who’s probably the one who arranged for this thing—has met us before, and he doesn’t feel like explaining to some corn country sheriff why the world’s biggest boy band threw underwear all over his downtown. I would’ve done it because it’s funny, obviously, and also, do you know how much money a person could make from selling our underwear? Especially if it was dirty? I’d actually be doing them all a favor. But it’s all moot because the windows don’t fucking open.

  I’m so tempted to climb into Benji’s bunk and mess up his sheets, but then he’ll be whiny and we still have a couple of hours until we get to…where the fuck are we headed? Memphis, I think? Wherever. Doesn’t matter. So many of the hotel rooms look the same, and unless we’re eating someplace that’s got a specific regional flavor, I have no clue where the hell we are most times. Good thing Zane’s the one who yells, “Thank you, New York,” or whatever city we’re in.

  Also, I’m tired and I can just sort of fling myself into my bunk, but I’d have to climb into Benji’s. I don’t know why he likes the top bunk, but he always has. I prefer to be closer to the ground because the number of times I’ve rolled out of bed while I was absolutely wasted is…higher than I’d like to admit.

  Flicking over to my call list, it’s pretty clear who my recent favorite is. Dempsey, Dempsey, Dempsey, Dempsey, a couple of my baby sibs, my mom, Dempsey, Dempsey, Dempsey… Yeah. And I’m gonna add another Dempsey to the top of that list.

  It rings a couple times. Maybe she’s busy? I forgot to check what the hell time it is, which isn’t out of the question on a regular day and is downright standard when I’m on tour. Time ceases to mean anything except when someone smacks me upside the head and tells me it’s time for something. Sound check, presser, going on stage, photo shoot, whatever the hell is going on that day.

  Demps keeps her phone on silent when she’s asleep, thank god, because otherwise I’d look like a total jackass. As it is, I look charming and thoughtful because I leave her rambly and adorable voicemails that she gets when she wakes up. And then I get to see texts from her when I finally wake up, and to be honest, it’s kind of a cycle of cute that, if
I weren’t involved in it, it would be so goddamn precious I’d puke. Since I am, though, it just makes me feel really good.

  “’Lo?”

  “Hey, babe. You sound like I woke you up.”

  “Mmm, yeah, little bit. S’okay. I fell asleep on the couch, didn’t mean to.”

  Now I do check the time because when I’m not around—and sometimes when I am and she’s got a full day of clients—Dempsey keeps to a pretty tight schedule. And that doesn’t include napping.

  “Are you getting sick? I can have Magda make you some soup. She makes the best chicken soup; it has the little stars in it and everything. It tastes just like my mom’s. I don’t know how she did it. Maybe she called and got the recipe or something because Magda would totally do something like that. She’s the best. Why does everyone put stars in their chicken soup? Wouldn’t you think it would make more sense to put, like, dino-shaped pasta in because birds came from dinosaurs and there’s already chicken in it?”

  Dempsey laughs, and it makes me turn to the side of my bunk where there’s a picture of her taped up. She and Fiona are the only ones who get to claim wall space in my bunk. The picture of Dempsey is of her in her backyard, sitting on a chair with one knee tucked up and her chin resting on it. Her hair’s all long and red and loose, and she’s so pretty I think I might die.

  “Would it completely ruin your childhood if I told you I suspect both your mother and Magda just use canned chicken soup, and that’s why they both have stars in them and taste the same?”

  Oh my fucking god.

  “Thanks a goddamn lot, Demps. Now I have to go call my mom and yell at her for not loving me enough to make soup from scratch when I was sick. What the hell?”

  It is actually kind of unnerving, but only because I didn’t think of it first. What other things are patently obvious but that my brain just doesn’t connect the dots? Not while it’s so busy wondering why there isn’t dino-shaped pasta in chicken soup anyway. Fucking A, brain, priorities please. But that’s not really a thing my brain has. Unless you count shiny things. My brain fucking loves shiny things. Literally, physically shiny, but also new ideas. Lucky for me, there’s not a whole lot I get embarrassed about so it’s easy to try shit. Because failure is always an option. And when I’m involved, frequently the result.

  Which reminds me that I wanted to run something by Dempsey. The guys thought it was a good idea, and even Stan had seemed impressed when I mentioned it, but I want to hear her thoughts. She’s smart and practical, and her brain actually does the right thing and sifts through the information she has, sticks it together in a useful way. Mine only seems to do that with music. And maybe with sex? Hopefully with sex.

  “Aw, Nicky, I’m sorry.”

  I put a fake pout into my voice because I’m not actually upset. I’d basically forgotten we were talking about soup. “You don’t sound sorry.”

  “I would be if I thought I’d actually broken your heart. But, um, actually, there is something I need to tell you.”

  Shit, man. That’s never what a guy wants to hear. If it were me saying things in that order, who knows how I would’ve made the leap, but Demps is more orderly. There’s probably a connection between what she’s going to tell me and breaking my heart. Yeah, no, not good.

  “Okay?”

  “Promise you’ll let me finish before you make any decisions?”

  I raise my right hand, even though she can’t see me do it. “I swear on Lawrence Welk’s accordion.”

  Which Stan has been trying to purchase for me from Conrad’s. They keep saying it’s not for sale, but one thing I’ve learned in this business is that just about everything can be bought—it’s just a matter of offering the right price. It’s worth a shot, I think. How jazzed would my grandpa be to get that for Christmas? He’d be showing it off to everyone in the fancy retirement community he lives in.

  “Okay. So.” She sounds nervous, and I want to be there to tell her she’s got nothing to worry about. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. I may not be good at the actual fixing, but I am good at paying other people to fix shit. “You remember me telling you about using escorts for sex?”

  She pauses, but I have been told not to interrupt so I won’t.

  “Right, I told you not to say anything. Okay. Well, yesterday one of my regulars was here.”

  One of Dempsey’s…call boys? Gigolos? Men of the evening? What the hell are male prostitutes called? Feels like there should be a better word for it. Ho-bro? Or is that insulting? Whatever, that is definitely not the point here.

  “Jake was here, and we didn’t have sex, but…that is what I initially called him for. The fact that I had him over is in no way reflective of your skills in the bedroom, really. We—you and I—have—I think—a phenomenal time in bed together.”

  Dempsey was going to fuck someone else? There’s definitely a tinder pile of jealousy that’s caught fire in my brain, but I promised to hear her out so I will. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone since I’ve been on tour, but I could’ve. A thousand times. I don’t even think Teague would be mad about it since Demps and I haven’t talked about being exclusive. Maybe we should. Unless this is her way of breaking up with me? Cushioning the blow by telling me I’m really good at sex? Not a bad way to go to be honest, but it doesn’t seem like her.

  “This is going to sound strange, and the more I turn it over in my head, the weirder it sounds, but…it was supposed to be for science? Sort of? And by science, I mean that I think I might really like you and it scares me. Kind of a lot. So I…I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just that you were a good lay. But I couldn’t actually go through with it because I kept thinking about you. This is going to sound terrible, but it wasn’t a guilt thing, like it would make me a terrible person to fuck him. It was…he wasn’t you. And I— Yeah, it maybe wasn’t the smartest way to go about it, and I’ll understand if you’re mad, but it helped me figure some shit out. Like, that I really like you. And I hope I haven’t fucked all this up. You can say something now. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of things to say. Just please don’t yell.”

  Huh. There are a bunch of feelings splashing around in the pool of my mind, and I’m not really sure what to do with all of them. Yeah, jealousy and caveman possessiveness are definitely there, but there’s also a lot of feel-good, she-likes-me going on, and I like that better. Probably most dudes would be super-mad that she got so close to sleeping with someone else, but while the jealousy is sputtering “mine,” the rest of me is okay with it. I can kind of understand that for a girl like Dempsey, she might want proof. Suspicion isn’t good enough. And she got it, without actually sleeping with this Jake person. Because she wants me. And she trusts me enough to tell me about it when I never would have known? Not like I want this to happen every day, but it’s not too shabby.

  “Nick?”

  Aw, crap. Her voice is soft with a note of pleading, and it stabs right into my heart. She’s not used to me being quiet, and now she’s probably afraid that it’s a very bad thing. To be fair, if I’m quiet, it’s usually because I’m unconscious. I don’t want her to worry, and she sounds real worried. Like I might respond in some mean way. But that’s not a thing I would do, even if I were angry about this. It’s not really my jam. I’ve got better things to do.

  “Yeah, I’m here. He, uh, he wasn’t a dick to you about not going through with it?”

  There’s a beat, and I can only imagine that is not what she was expecting.

  “No, of course not. I mean, I paid him anyway because I did take up his time and it’s not his fault that we didn’t have sex. He totally held up his end of the bargain. Plus, Jake is a professional and he’s a good guy. He wouldn’t be an asshole about it. And I told him about you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did he say?” What I want to ask is what she said, but I don’t think she’d be telling me this if it weren’t nice. She’d have no reason to.

  “That it sounds like I’ve got it bad.” Maybe we should’ve done a video call bec
ause I’d like to see the blush I bet is creeping up her cheeks and the way the corner of her mouth curls into half a smile when she says that. This is more like it.

  “And do you?”

  “Uh, well… I, um… Yes, okay? Didn’t I already say that?”

  “Yeah, but I like hearing it.”

  “In that case, yes. As it turns out, I do like you very much and not just because of the sex. Are you happy now?”

  “I’d be happier if I could be there with you right now.”

  “Yeah, that’d make me happier, too.”

  Dempsey

  * * *

  Nick is still on tour, but we’ve been talking. A lot. He’s been calling me and video-chatting me, not just from the tour bus but basically from anywhere and everywhere, and sometimes I say hi to the guys if they’re around. If I’m in the middle of a client call or have to do work, I text him back with when I’ll be free, but it’s become a highlight of my days: being on tour with Nick. He brings me to restaurants, shows me the streets he walks down, the hotels he stays at, the sights he sees. He’s in Philadelphia, and last night they had a night off, so they were out at a restaurant and Benji’s girlfriend, Jordan, was with them.

  It made me feel a little ridiculous to know that theoretically it would have been possible for me to join them and yet I didn’t, but it was godawful sweet that Nick arranged for my favorite Cuban place to bring food and drinks to my doorstep so I could virtually toast them with mojitos. I’m going to be eating lechon asado and vaca frita for a month. Which is about how long it’s going to take for Nick to get back here.