The Rocker's Muse

“Not really. I was just going back to my bus.”

“You’re off the clock, right?”

“Technically.”

“Have you eaten tonight?”

“I had a slice of pizza.”

“That’s not enough. Feel like taking a ride? I hate going out alone, but I could use a change of scenery.”

“Won’t people mob you if we go out? The other guys took most of security with them.”

“I know a place open this late where no one will bother us. Really good food, too, and not far from here.”

It was a no-brainer. I couldn’t pass this up. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

“Cool. Let me just grab a hoodie.”

Tristan pulled the black hood over his head as we ran across the parking lot, past security to the rental car. I drove while Tristan sat in the passenger seat, texting someone. He then punched an address into the GPS on his phone and directed me as I drove us there.

After a few minutes we arrived at a Middle Eastern restaurant with a house attached. The sign out front read Abdul’s.

“We’re eating here?” I parked in the lot.

“Abdul, the owner, is a friend of mine,” Tristan explained. “Whenever I’m in Detroit, I try to hit this place up. They stay open late. I wasn’t going to come this time, but you reminded me I was hungry.”

“I remind you of falafel?” I laughed.

“You’re more like kibbeh.” He winked.

“What?”

He chuckled. “Come on,” he said as he exited the car.

I followed him to the door of the house. A dark-haired man with a moustache let us in. He and Tristan chatted for a few minutes about the band, and then the man clapped him on the back.

“Make yourself at home,” he told us, gesturing toward the living room. “I’ll have someone bring you a platter.”

“Thanks, my guy.” Tristan patted him on the shoulder.

I looked around. The house smelled like the spices coming from the restaurant, and there were religious statues all around the room—mostly variations of Mary. “I feel like I’m being judged right now with all these Holy Marys staring at me.”

Tristan nodded. “Abdul’s mother was very religious. She passed away a few years back, but he hasn’t had the heart to move any of her statues.”

“Well, that’s kind of sweet.”

“You’ll also notice a stash of gay porn DVDs in the corner. Goes well with everything else, doesn’t it?”

“Well, that’s interesting.”

“Life’s about balance, Emily.” Tristan laughed.

God, he was gorgeous. The way pieces of his silky hair fell over his forehead. His hair was amazing. “No wonder that nutty girl kept it in a jar,” I muttered.

“Hmm?” he asked.

Guess I said that aloud. I shook my head. “Nothing.”