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has, or the media.”
    A clip of the documentary was shown, and we talked for a few minutes more. He stood when I got to my feet to leave, and we shook hands. Turning to the audience, I sent a quick wave and I was met at the stage entrance and escorted back to the green room…
    Where I closed myself in the restroom, clasped my hair at my neck, leaned, and heaved.

    The moment I reached my hotel room, I ordered room service. Suddenly ravenous, I chose generously from the menu while watching from thirty-eight stories above Broadway as the Big Apple city lights began to glow in the falling dusk.
    Feeling an absurd need to wash the last couple of hours away, I stripped off my clothing and jumped in and out of the shower. After wrapping in the complimentary robe, I collapsed on the bed and texted Gage. When he didn’t text or call right back, I knew he was busy with one of his rehab activities. After all, it was three hours earlier in Utah. I flipped on the television, but dangled my feet from the edge of the bed while staring at the crown molding bordering the ceiling. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt this alone.
    Is this what being on tour was like? From what I’d gleaned from Gage, tour was an extreme of never being alone, or being too alone.
    The knock from room service startled me. I let the butler in and flipped through the television channels while he set up. When I was alone again, I ignored the extravagant place setting. Instead, I grabbed the plate of stuffed crab appetizers and the soda. Detouring by the wet bar, I set the china down long enough to dig out a couple of tiny whiskey bottles. Then I settled in the middle of the bed just as the news ended and the night show was coming on.
    It was good Gage hadn’t answered my text. Maybe he would forget this thing was airing. Watching myself onscreen was as surreal this time as the few others. If they’d cut anything in the quick edit before taking it live, I couldn’t tell.
    The second it was over, Gage rang my phone. “Hey, Scar Darlin’.”

Chapter 7

    “H ey.” The forlorn voice greeting him was what he’d been afraid of.
    “What’re you doing?” Closing his eyes, he imagined her in a hotel room with the television muted on the network channel where her show had aired.
    “Eating. But I’m done.”
    “What did you eat?”
    “Coconut shrimp. Macaroni. Um, some stuffed crabs.” A rustling sound came over the phone as if she was changing clothes or lying down. “Jalapeño hushpuppies.” Blowing out a breath, she added. “Cheesecake for dessert. Oh yeah, these little corn fritter things.”
    “Damn. Hungry?” In her habits he’d learned so far, she abstained from eating when upset. This was new if she was eating because of how her guest appearance had gone.
    “I thought I was. Really I just ate a couple of bites of everything.”
    “There are kids starving in Africa.”
    “I know…”
    “I was teasing, Scar Dar’.”
    “I know. Doesn’t change anything for those kids though.”
    He wanted to reach through the phone, pull her in his arms. Miraculously, he was getting a phone signal in his room.
    “Scar, what’s wrong?” He knew, but felt she needed to say it.
    After watching along with millions of viewers the woman he loved being harassed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he was upset, and he knew she was as well.
    “Just tired.” She lied to him.
    “You looked beautiful.” Since she wouldn’t, he opened the dialogue of the show. “New jeans?”
    “Kind of. I got them right before Big Sur.”
    “I didn’t think it was possible for your ass to be hotter. But damn!”
    Nothing from her side of the phone. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t make a sound.
    And so he tried again. “Guess what? You were on the same stage where the Beatles performed for the first time in the U.S.”
    “Really?” There was a pique of interest in her tone.
    “Yeah.” He felt a smile tug one side of his lips. Scar could pretend a disdain for