stage, then leapt the four feet down, grinning like the love-struck fool I was as I jogged toward her.
“The one and only,” I finally answered, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She squealed for a split second as I lifted her off the ground, circling once with her pressed close to my body before setting her down and planting one hell of a road-weary kiss on her full, painted red lips. Cadillac red, as always.
“Miss me?” she questioned, trying to sound sarcastic, but I could hear slight relief in her voice. It didn’t startle me—she always sounded that way. Surprised that I might actually miss the love of my life.
She still wasn’t used to being loved unconditionally. Not all the time, though are any of us ever prepared to receive that?
I surprised her again, lifting her up and setting her on the stage in front of me before I lowered my forehead, resting it on the warm, soft tops of her thighs.
“You have no idea,” I sighed through my answer.
Her hands touched the top of my head, soft as she gently raked her short, black-painted fingernails down my scalp a few times, as if coaxing a feral cat. There’s a bit of stray in every road musician, and Georgia always recognized when mine needed to be nurtured.
Nine
Regan
Georgia and I only swung by the hotel for a minute so I could deposit my violin and Georgia could change before meeting CJ for dinner. We’d have plenty of time to catch up physically later—which killed me to convince myself—but it was important to me that I didn’t turn into one of those guys that went MIA when his girlfriend or wife showed up. Life on the road is always about maintaining balance when able.
“How’d you manage to con your way into getting your own room?” Georgia asked as we entered the hibachi grill restaurant.
While it was fairly common for me to have my own room when on longer tours with Celtic Summer, because our budget was nearly bottomless, it was much less common on smaller tours, regardless of our label’s income. Yardley was smart with money, and while she didn’t cut unnecessary corners, wasting money gave her anxiety.
“I paid the difference,” I admitted. “Yardley said she didn’t mind, but I don’t want to turn into that guy, either,” I said of the prima donna’s that reveal themselves on every tour, no matter how big or small.
“Regan,” Georgia chuckled, “I don’t think it’s possible for you to ever become that guy.”
I stared down at my wife, looking succulent in a black, 50s-style dress that highlighted her ample cleavage and flared out over her incredible hips.
Perhaps going to dinner before doing anything else was a shortsighted decision on my part.
“What?” she playfully snapped. “Stop looking at me like I’m on the menu.”
I leaned in close to her ear as we worked our way to the private area reserved for us. “Oh,” I whispered against her earlobe, “but you are.” I grinned in satisfaction as goose bumps popped up along the slope of her neck.
“There you guys are!” CJ announced as we entered the tucked-away area with its own, private grill. “We got worried you decided to hammer it out before dinner, and we’re starving.”
He grinned like a sixteen-year-old as he stood and walked to Georgia, lifting her off the ground in a bear hug that nearly swallowed her inside his broad body.
“How you doin’, kid?” he asked when he set her down.
She smiled at him like he was her big brother, which in some ways, was quite true. “Fine. You? Behaving yourself on this tour?”
“Never,” he teased, returning to his seat.
I took a few seconds to introduce Georgia to a couple of the guys from the other bands she didn’t know yet. There were eight of us in all—myself, Georgia, CJ, then five members of The Brewers, including Nessa, who Georgia had met on a few occasions before.
As we settled into our seats and placed our drink orders, Georgia leaned in, whispering. “What’s up over there?” she asked
“The one and only,” I finally answered, wrapping my arms around her waist.
She squealed for a split second as I lifted her off the ground, circling once with her pressed close to my body before setting her down and planting one hell of a road-weary kiss on her full, painted red lips. Cadillac red, as always.
“Miss me?” she questioned, trying to sound sarcastic, but I could hear slight relief in her voice. It didn’t startle me—she always sounded that way. Surprised that I might actually miss the love of my life.
She still wasn’t used to being loved unconditionally. Not all the time, though are any of us ever prepared to receive that?
I surprised her again, lifting her up and setting her on the stage in front of me before I lowered my forehead, resting it on the warm, soft tops of her thighs.
“You have no idea,” I sighed through my answer.
Her hands touched the top of my head, soft as she gently raked her short, black-painted fingernails down my scalp a few times, as if coaxing a feral cat. There’s a bit of stray in every road musician, and Georgia always recognized when mine needed to be nurtured.
Nine
Regan
Georgia and I only swung by the hotel for a minute so I could deposit my violin and Georgia could change before meeting CJ for dinner. We’d have plenty of time to catch up physically later—which killed me to convince myself—but it was important to me that I didn’t turn into one of those guys that went MIA when his girlfriend or wife showed up. Life on the road is always about maintaining balance when able.
“How’d you manage to con your way into getting your own room?” Georgia asked as we entered the hibachi grill restaurant.
While it was fairly common for me to have my own room when on longer tours with Celtic Summer, because our budget was nearly bottomless, it was much less common on smaller tours, regardless of our label’s income. Yardley was smart with money, and while she didn’t cut unnecessary corners, wasting money gave her anxiety.
“I paid the difference,” I admitted. “Yardley said she didn’t mind, but I don’t want to turn into that guy, either,” I said of the prima donna’s that reveal themselves on every tour, no matter how big or small.
“Regan,” Georgia chuckled, “I don’t think it’s possible for you to ever become that guy.”
I stared down at my wife, looking succulent in a black, 50s-style dress that highlighted her ample cleavage and flared out over her incredible hips.
Perhaps going to dinner before doing anything else was a shortsighted decision on my part.
“What?” she playfully snapped. “Stop looking at me like I’m on the menu.”
I leaned in close to her ear as we worked our way to the private area reserved for us. “Oh,” I whispered against her earlobe, “but you are.” I grinned in satisfaction as goose bumps popped up along the slope of her neck.
“There you guys are!” CJ announced as we entered the tucked-away area with its own, private grill. “We got worried you decided to hammer it out before dinner, and we’re starving.”
He grinned like a sixteen-year-old as he stood and walked to Georgia, lifting her off the ground in a bear hug that nearly swallowed her inside his broad body.
“How you doin’, kid?” he asked when he set her down.
She smiled at him like he was her big brother, which in some ways, was quite true. “Fine. You? Behaving yourself on this tour?”
“Never,” he teased, returning to his seat.
I took a few seconds to introduce Georgia to a couple of the guys from the other bands she didn’t know yet. There were eight of us in all—myself, Georgia, CJ, then five members of The Brewers, including Nessa, who Georgia had met on a few occasions before.
As we settled into our seats and placed our drink orders, Georgia leaned in, whispering. “What’s up over there?” she asked
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