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“You’re going to show those rock-gods how we jam in Kansas.”

I tore my gaze away from the entrance of The Blast Room, where Shawn and his agent waited. I shifted my body sideways toward Josh, bringing a squeak from the leather truck seat.

If my stomach were Irish, it’d be dancing a jig right now.

“Champ, I don’t jam. And these guys”—I pointed at the dark door of the bar—“don’t jam either. What music did you Ivy-Leaguers listen to anyway?” My mouth curled into a smile for the first time that morning. The knots torturing my guts loosened. A tiny bit.

“Nothing I’m going to admit to now…” He shrugged and smiled back. “But it doesn’t matter because whatever cool I retained in school, getting into politics is gonna kill it.”

“When have you ever been cool, MacBride?” I gave him a slap on the chest. “But thanks, I get the idea. I’m still fighting to keep my breakfast down though.”

Josh had on a well-worn pair of jeans and the same washed-out T-shirt I’d given him for his seventeenth birthday. It was a bit too tight for him now because he wasn’t a boy anymore, but I still loved seeing him in it. His short hair was the same mess as it’d been when he got out of bed earlier that morning. No more preppy Oxford snob.

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