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attempted a lame joke at all of that sounding very “Nice” (since it’s not pronounced the way it’s spelled). Instead I nodded and asked, “And what is your job with the promoters?”
    She grinned, observing me closely. “I’m making sure your travels here in France go smoothly.”
    “Isn’t that my job, love?” Jacob’s rough voice came from behind me. I turned my head to see him pushing the luggage cart, eyeing Angeline suspiciously.
    She didn’t seem put off by his brusque attitude. I didn’t think the French were put off by a lot of things. Then again, I hadn’t been in the country for very long.
    “You must be Jacob Edwards,” she said, eyeing him back. Her lips twitched up into a pleasant smile, though her dark blue eyes were as cold as anything. She stuck out her hand and he took it hesitantly. But once his hand closed over hers, he gave one hundred percent, his patent bone-crushing squeeze.
    It was enough to make Angeline wince, though she still managed to look polite as she withdrew her hand. I notice her wriggling her fingers out at her side. “Nice you meet you.”
    Jacob grunted and eyed me. “Your bags here yet?”
    I shook my head, pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, and looked at Angeline. “I wasn’t aware that the promoters cared that much about what we thought about the country.”
    She tilted her head. “Well, after Jim Morrison came over and sort of made a mess of things, we’ve been a lot more, how you say, vigilant with our touring American bands. And the British, of course. But the Americans are the ones who seem to go the most, well, wild.” Her gaze intensified. “I’ve heard Hybrid was quite the wild band.”
    I swallowed hard. This was not the conversation I wanted to be having the moment I stepped off the plane. A sick feeling swirled in my gut, though perhaps it was the excess vodka at thirty-five thousand feet.
    Jacob spoke up quickly. “Sage Knightly is not Hybrid. It would be best if any comparisons stopped from here on out.”
    She shrugged, unfazed, her eyes fastening on my crotch. “That’s too bad. I like it when boys are wild.”
    Right then I knew she would be the easiest lay ever—if I wanted it, of course.
    “And who is this babe?” Tricky’s voice broke through the downward spiral of my thoughts. He was sauntering over from the bathroom, his nose jerking back and forth and he quickly snorted through it. Naturally he had been doing blow; I just couldn’t figure out how he had gotten it through the strict French customs. Actually, I could figure it out…I just didn’t want to think about it.
    Tricky’s real name was Richard. But people called him Dick. And then with Nixon’s rise and fall, he became Tricky Dick. It helped that he fucked everything that walked (and some that didn’t) and was rumored to do tricks with his penis. Not sure if that started before or after the name, but I didn’t ask, and contrary to the threesomes and orgies we took part in together, I had never seen his dick bent into any funny shapes, either.
    Tricky was an amazing bassist and a fun guy to be around, but aside from pussy-swapping, we weren’t exactly close. He was thin yet muscular and quite dark for a black person, with piercing brown eyes and dreadlocks, and the ladies were drawn to his exotic looks as much as they were drawn to mine. But while Tricky dipped into the same drugs as I did—and then some—he wasn’t trying to escape anything. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was just Tricky, just a musician and a rock star through and through. This tour meant more to him than it did to me.
    It was only sometimes, when we were jamming together and his well-honed stubbornness came into play, insisting he knew my songs better than I did, that I missed the past. I missed Noelle, the old bassist for Hybrid, how easy she was to play with. Maybe it had helped that Noelle had sucked more than a few of our dicks, but she had made the ride in Hybrid smooth. She had talent