“Yep.” I shove my phone, wallet, and room key into a pocket and step out into the hallway so I can swing the door shut behind me.
Without permission, my eyes flick to the left, toward the door Sutton disappeared behind. There’s no sign of anyone else now, except for Camille and Jaxon, who are waiting down by the elevators.
The hotel is just down the street from Vondelpark. We walk past the lingering crowd outside the hotel and head toward the ornate metal arch that marks the entrance to the massive park. The path is lined with tulips and cuts through swaths of grass, covered with laughing kids and picnicking families.
Sunlight filters through hazy clouds, tempering some of the summer heat. When we finish winding through the whole park, there’s a tour bus parked at the exit, meant for tourists hopping on and off. There’s a huge map displayed on the window, advertising all the different destinations where the bus stops—Koninklijk Paleis, The New Church, National Monument, Westerkerk, the Rembrandt House Museum, the Hortus Botanicus Amsterdam, the Amsterdam Royal Zoo, and the Rijksmuseum.
The last serves as a reminder of what this trip was supposed to help me forget.
Camille suggests we “hop on,” and then we’re off.
Three hours later, we end up at a Syrian restaurant a couple of blocks from the hotel, eating hot pita dipped in hummus.
We order main courses, and then conversation turns to the tour. I learn Amelia joined at the start of the American leg while Camille was part of Sutton’s last world tour two years ago. Jaxon has been with her recording band for four years.
Jaxon is the one who asks me, “How do you know Sutton?” as I’m digging into shish taouk—marinated, grilled chicken skewers.
As far as I know, the only explanation for my presence is that I’m filling in for Devon Michaels, Sutton’s guitarist. But it was probably naïve of me to think no one would have more questions about how I ended up here. This is the big leagues, not a pickup game in a backyard. I doubt I’m qualified to be here by any music professional’s standards.
“I knew her in high school,” I answer.
“High school, huh?” Jaxon glances at Amelia, who’s studying me closely from the seat beside me.
I’m tempted to shift under the scrutiny, but I take another bite of chicken instead and nod confirmation.
“Did you guys date?”
I shake my head as I swallow and take a sip of water.
“I’ve worked with some difficult singers. Sutton isn’t one. But she’s not…she doesn’t…” Jaxon waves a hand around. “Honestly? I could count on one hand the number of conversations I’ve had with her.”
I think of what Sutton said the other night—that everyone else here is technically an employee. Rather than commenting, I just shrug. Building a rapport isn’t worth betraying her confidence.
Jaxon seems to catch on to my unwillingness to discuss the topic of Sutton. He changes the subject.
After dinner, Jaxon and Camille head to a club. I beg off, and so does Amelia. So far, the rock-star lifestyle has looked a lot more like early mornings and strict schedules. We have a rehearsal at eight a.m. tomorrow, which I doubt Jaxon or Camille will be feeling great for. But they’re not the new guy, the weak link. I am. Fuck if I’m going to go out partying the night before my second show as part of Sutton Everett’s tour.
Amelia is easy to talk to. We take a cab from the restaurant back to the hotel. There are a few paparazzi still camped outside the front doors who glance at us and then decide we’re not worth the film.
I spot her as soon as we walk inside the doors.
Sutton is sitting at the hotel bar. She says something to the bartender and then looks down at her drink. The bar is mostly empty. There’s a table of three silver-haired men in the far corner, sipping at scotch. A few couples whispering to each other.
Her hair is up in a messy knot, and she’s wearing a hoodie. There’s no sign of anyone else—no sign of Kyle—and no indication she just arrived or is about to leave. Then, she looks over and sees me. We make direct eye contact. I’m expecting her to look away—she doesn’t. She holds my gaze.
Amelia’s voice trails off when she notices my steps slow.
I clear my throat, trying to decide what to say. Do. Approaching her is a wild card. It could clear some of the tension that’s hovered between us since I arrived and thickened when we got crepes in Cologne. Or it could make it much worse.
Without consciously deciding to stay, I opt to find out.
“You go ahead,” I tell Amelia. “I’m just going to…” I sort of vaguely gesture in Sutton’s direction.
Her eyes widen slightly, but she schools her reaction otherwise. Drawing conclusions, some of them probably correct. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I nod. “Thanks for inviting me. I had fun.”
“Good. Me too.” She smiles and then keeps walking toward the elevator.
I take a deep breath and then turn and head toward Sutton.