The Rocker's Muse

I turned, surprised to find Tristan standing there. But maybe I shouldn’t have been. This floor had been blocked off for the band and crew.

“This guy was pushing himself on her, when she was clearly resisting,” I explained.

“Are you alright?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” she muttered.

Tristan turned toward the guy. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

The guy looked at the floor. “I had too much to drink,” he slurred.

Tristan took his phone out. “Not an excuse…” He spoke to someone before grabbing the guy by the arm and dragging him down the hall.

Left alone, the girl and I chatted for a bit. She looked about my age, in her early twenties. She explained that she’d met the guy downstairs at the hotel bar, and he’d invited her to come back to his room. Turns out he worked for the tour company, which is how he’d had access to our private floor. After following him upstairs, she’d decided she’d had too much to drink and told him she’d changed her mind. But he’d followed her down the hall, then forced her into the vending area.

After thanking me one last time, she went back downstairs in the elevator.

I was going back to my room when I heard Tristan’s voice behind me.

“Emily. Wait up,” he said.

I turned, surprised he remembered my name. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sure, why?”

“You didn’t seem okay when I left, and I just want to make sure you’re good.”

“Yeah.” I forced a deep breath in and out. “I am.”

He cocked his head. “You sure?”

“That was a little triggering for me,” I admitted. “He was basically attacking her.”

He frowned. “Triggering…because something happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me, but…” I trailed off as a rush of heat warmed my cheeks.

“Can I get you a water or something?” he asked.

My head pounded. Everything that had just happened hit me like a ton of bricks. “You wouldn’t happen to have ibuprofen, would you?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Somewhere around here.” He gestured down the hallway. “Come on. I’ll get you some.”

I followed Tristan into his room, which was a full-on suite. Depending on the offerings of the hotel, I was told sometimes Tristan stayed in a penthouse; other times, he ended up with the best room on whatever floor the band’s management had booked. There was no doubt he got preferential treatment as the star of the band. I wondered if the other guys secretly hated him for it. Each of the band members at least got their own rooms, while the crew had to share. Thankfully, I really liked Layla.

I stayed close to the door as Tristan sifted through some stuff. There were a bunch of papers with handwritten words scattered on his bed. A leather jacket lay over a chair. He’d lit a candle on the bedside table—smelled like vanilla. This scene was a little different than I might’ve imagined in here. Much more Zen.

He zipped open a bag. “I guess you didn’t realize wrangling drunk assholes was part of your job?”

“Thankfully, it’s not, usually.”

“I kind of feel guilty now,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”