Page 105 of Revv

He invited himself.

I failed to stop him.

There’s a difference.

A very important one that I will absolutely be bringing up later when somebody inevitably accuses me of voluntarily taking a romantic weekend to Miami with him.

Because this is not romantic.

It’s work.

There just happens to be a six-foot-three biker sitting beside me in my Civic looking entirely too pleased with himself after four hours of invading my space, eating my snacks, criticizing my car, and making himself impossible to ignore.

Miami stretches around us in late-morning heat, all tall glass buildings throwing sunlight back at the sky, palm trees bending over wide streets, and flashes of blue water appearing between hotels and condos. The closer we get to the beach, the brighter everything feels. White buildings, pastel walls, bright signs, café patios already packed, and people moving around like the day started hours ago without us.

Tomorrow, somewhere in the middle of all this, I’m playing Sol Fuego.

That thought slips in quietly and still manages to flip my stomach.

Fuck.

I look out the window harder, like Miami is somehow going to distract me from the fact that in a little over twenty-four hours, I’ll be standing in front of the biggest crowd I’ve ever played for.

“You’re doing the thing again.”

I glance toward Revel. “What thing?”

He keeps one hand loose on the wheel while the other rests near the gearshift, sunglasses low on his nose. “Where you pretend staring out the window counts as not freaking out.”

“I’m looking at Miami.”

“You’ve been looking at the same building for thirty seconds.”

“It’s a nice building.”

“It’s a fucking parking garage.”

I turn my head enough to glare at him. “Maybe you should take your own advice and focus on what’s in front of you.”

His mouth pulls into a grin. “Oh, Mama, trust me. I’ve been appreciating the view this whole fucking drive.”

His eyes leave the road just long enough to drag slowly over me, making it very fucking clear he isn’t talking about Miami.

I immediately point toward the windshield. “Road.”

He laughs. “See? Traumatized me. I’m never gonna hear that word normally again.”

“That sounds deeply personal and not at all like my problem.”

“Haven’t you noticed anything involving me eventually becomes your problem?”

“Ay, Dios mío.”

He’s still smiling when he turns into the hotel entrance.

The Marisol Hotel & Beach Club sits a block back from the water, all pale coral stucco, arched windows, white stone, and giant palms lining the circular drive. It’s nicer than what I usually book for gigs, but not so fancy that I feel like I need to whisper in the lobby.

There’s a fountain out front surrounded by tropical flowers, brass luggage carts parked beneath the awning, and a sliver of ocean visible between the buildings across the street. Somewhere behind the hotel, music carries from what I’m guessing is the pool deck, mixing with traffic and voices drifting in from the sidewalk.