Adam
My mood could not be beat.Jet lagged, hangry, kinda smelly, I was what the youths referred to as a hot mess. None of it mattered. Nothing was going to steal my sunshine. Not this fucking traffic. Not unanswered texts. Not my entire band sending me pissy vibes from Europe.
I was going to see my Baddie today.
Over the last two months, I’d sussed it out. In between cities, concerts, interviews, and parties, I’d come to a conclusion: life without Adelaide Goodman sucked.
I should’ve come to that conclusion months ago. Sometimes, I was slow on the uptake. The fact of the matter was, I hadn’t gone more than a couple days without speaking to Adelaide since I’d discovered her existence.
The withdrawal was rough. Andreal.
Rougher still because Adelaide was a shit correspondent. She took days to text back, never answered my calls, stood me up in the cities she was supposed to visit me on tour. I’d gone two whole months of barely speaking to the woman who’d become a daily fixture in my life over the last year.
I wasn’t gonna lie, I was more than a little mad at her. She’d be getting a stern talking-to. Maybe I’d leave the sweaty T-shirt I wore on stage two nights ago under her pillow. She was lucky it was her birthday and I had a present for her burning a hole in my pocket. The talking-to would happen, but not today.
“Have you ever been friends with a woman, Bill?”
My driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror and shook his head. “Can’t say I have, unless you count my wife.”
I settled back in the cushy leather seats of the Escalade, attempting to relax. That didn’t last long. Ants crawled under my skin. I wanted to slough it off and chuck it out the window. Impatience squeezed my throat and made my clothing too tight. Goddamn, Bill could drive a little faster.
I was supposed to be in Europe right now. I’d breached my contract just a touch by skipping out on two days of press with my band, The Seasons Change. But the shows were over, and I’d been speaking to the press throughout the tour. They knew where I drew my fucking inspiration from. If not, they could read the interview I did in Scotland two weeks ago.
Shit. I was riling myself up.
My band wasn’t happy with me for leaving early, but they’d get over it. If they didn’t…well, I didn’t care very much right now. How could I miss Baddie’s birthday, which, coincidentally, was the anniversary of our friendship? I couldn’t.
Even if she hadn’t returned a text in weeks.
Even if I hadn’t heard her voice in two months.
I’d crossed the ocean to get back to her today, and we were gonna celebrate dammit.
“Not that kind of friend, Bill.”
He hummed. “Strictly platonic?”
“Always.” My stomach curdled. Jesus, I was hungry.
“I never understood how that worked. Is she ugly?”
I burst out laughing. The very suggestion was so fucking preposterous.
“No, Bill, she’s not ugly. The opposite.”
“But you’re…just friends?”
“Best friends,” I replied.
He hummed again. “She think you’re ugly?”
I laughed then shrugged. “Hell, who knows? I’ve never asked her opinion of my mug. She just might.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
“Men and women can be friends. It happens.”
Bill hummed a third time. I had to wonder what he was covering up with those hums. I had a feeling he did that instead of biting his tongue to save himself from the pain. Technically, Bill wasn’tmydriver. He worked for Ronan, and Ronan was married to Iris, my other bestie of the gentler persuasion, who also happened to be the lead singer of my band.