SKYE

This is a surreal experience.

I'm eating fast food with Jackson Ford, on a white marble table with velvet seats in a freaking mansion on wheels. After shooting his concert as his official tour photographer.

I can't believe anything about this is real.

"So how was your first day as a concert photographer?" he asks, grabbing a few fries out of the tray.

Crazy. Amazing. Wild.

"Incredible," I say. "I think I got some really great shots. I can't wait to edit them."

"That's great. I can't wait to see them." He sweeps his hair back with his hand.

It's so bizarre seeing him like this after watching him perform. On stage, he's all glammed up in a suit with gel in his hair, moving effortlessly and oozing charisma. Now, he's dressed down in a white t-shirt and joggers, his hair still moist from his post-show shower. He's got that same charm and unmistakable smile, but he's more reachable—more human.

"I forgot to mention," he says, taking another sip of his drink. "I loved the uh, boudoir photos you took of me. They were some of the best I've done."

Ohmygodsomebodykillmenow.

"Uh... th- thank you." I can feel my cheeks heating up. "You were an excellent model."

"You think so?"

He gives me a quick smile and looks up at me through his lashes.

"Yeah, I uh... you were great. I'm sure your friend will be very happy to receive them."

"My friend?" His brow furrows and he tilts his head.

"Oh, uh... didn't you say you had someone you were keeping in mind when I took the photos? Did I misunderstand...?"

Filter, Skye. FILTER. You're bringing up his personal business. Why am I so great at making a conversation awkward?

"Oh yeah," he says with a smirk. "My friend, of course. Yeah um... I'll have to get back to you about that."

"Sorry if that was inappropriate. I didn't mean to pry. I don't have the best filter at times, I just kinda... say stuff."

"It's totally fine."

"I am usually very professional, I hope you don't think otherwise."

"Skye," he says in a serious tone, meeting my eyes, "you don't have to worry about being 'professional.' Things are very casual on tour. This is not a regular nine-to-five job, it's... music. Trust me, the things I've seen on tour... let's just say it's more like a frat house than a boardroom."

"Oh," I say with a small laugh. "My mom would have a heart attack. She's a real stickler for the rules."

"Yeah? What about your dad?"

"Pretty much the same. They're both very straight-laced."

He hums in response as he sips his soda.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" he asks with narrowed eyes.

"Go ahead."

"If your parents are pretty traditional, why did they name you so—nontraditional? I mean, I saw your middle name on your hiring paperwork. Skye Sunshine? Is that your real name?"

I sigh and I feel the blood rushing to my face.

Well this is embarrassing.

"That's me," I say with an awkward giggle. "My parents didn't name me though. I'm adopted. Well, me and my twin."

His eyes widen.

"You have a twin?"

"Yeah, uh... Ollie. He's actually a pretty big fan of yours."

"Really?" He chuckles and shakes his head. "That figures."

"How so?"

"Oh um... I don't know. I just meant like... you're the one working for me but your twin is a fan. It's funny how things work out like that."

He seems a little flustered but I decide not to pry further.

"Yeah he's uh... pretty cute and he's a pro surfer too."

Ollie owes me big time for this.

"Are you..." He tilts his head and narrows his gaze, a slight smile stretching across his face. "Are you trying to set me up with your twin brother?"

"Uh... kind of," I say, biting my lip. "Sorry, I told him I'd mention it if he came up in conversation. And you said things were casual so..."

"It is casual," he says with a laugh. "Don't worry. I'm sure your brother is very good-looking, if genetics are any indication, but um... I'm gonna pass just the same."

Wait, what?

"So you're adopted?" he asks. "Both of you?"

I can't believe I'm telling this to someone I barely know—Jackson Ford of all people.

"Yeah, our parents are quite a bit older. They found each other later in life and wanted to raise kids together, but they were seen as too old for traditional adoption, so they adopted us out of the foster system when we were four."

There's a bit more to the story, like a traumatic childhood that I have PTSD from but, ironically, can't remember. And our much older half-brother that resents the crap out of us. But those are the parts that I tell no one. Ever.

"Why is his name not like yours?"

"You mean why doesn't Ollie have a hippie name?"

"I... I didn't mean..."

I giggle at his panicked reaction.

"It's okay, I'm just kidding. He has a weird name too. Ollie is just short for his real name, but I'm pretty sure he'd kill me if I told you what it is."

He'd definitely murder me.

"Is it embarrassing?"

"It is to him. Let's just say I got the normal name in the family."

"I like it. Skye Sunshine. It suits you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because... being near you feels like laying in the sunlight."

My heart feels like it stops beating for a moment, so I do what I usually do when someone compliments me—rapidly change the subject.

"What about you? Is Jackson your real name?"

"Jackson Jeremiah Ford." His mouth narrows into a straight line.

"You don't like it?"

"I prefer Jacks, but the label wanted me to go by Jackson. Jeremiah is my dad's name, and he and I aren't exactly on the best of terms. Let's just say nobody who likes me calls me Jackson."

"Except your screaming fans, of course," I say with a laugh.

"Of course." He smiles wide and his eyes catch mine.

"Well, noted. I'll definitely make sure to call you Jacks."

"Please do, Buttercup."

* * * * *

When we stop for gas, I make my way back to my bus. The crew bus is nice, but a lot gaudier than Jacks's, with black leather seats and shiny wood paneling everywhere.

It's surprisingly busy considering it's almost 3 am. A couple of the guys are playing video games and drinking beer in the front seating area. The smell of marijuana hangs in the air.

Salty is dead asleep in a cage in the corner, snoring louder than a dog three times his size.

"Hey!" Kaylani calls, emerging from the back. "You dumb asses are being too loud. Go to sleep."

"Buzzkill!" one of them shouts.

"Hey, Skye, you heading to bed?" she asks.

"Yep," I say, walking past the living space into the bunks.

"My bed is in the back. I'll see you in the morning."

She yawns and disappears behind another curtain.

I pull the curtain to my bunk back and catch an unexpected sight, Sticks—with his pants down, getting up close and personal with his... stick.

"Ohmygodsorry!" I shout, frantically closing the curtain.

"No worries," he says back through the curtain, as if it were a common occurrence.

I freeze in shock for a moment before I realize my bed was one down from the one I had opened. I—very slowly this time—pull back the curtain to see my laptop in the pouch beside the bed.

This has been a weird day.

I hop into my bunk and open my computer. As the photos from tonight's show load, I scan through them. They're pretty great, actually. I thought they were, but you never know until you get them off the camera.

I put my headphones in and turn on my Winding Down playlist, which starts with Kasey Musgraves's "Rainbow". The gentle piano barely manages to block out the loud whir of tires against the pavement.

I check my texts and see several missed ones.

I guess Greg did remember.

Ollie: How'd ur first show go?

Ollie: Ur gonna rock this, Skittles <3

Oh, okay. They're from Ollie.

I shoot Greg a quick text, and those three dots quickly appear.

Me: Hey! Going to bed now. Had a good first day. Miss you already!

Greg: Cool. I'm out with the boys. Luv u

I lay back and sigh, tuning out my problems and just letting myself melt into the music.

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