Heath huffs out a breath, the closest he gets to a laugh. “You know half of what I do, and I’ll be surprised if you make it through the first two weeks without calling me, crying, and begging me to bail you out.”

My mentor, ever the nurturer.

I grab a top from beside me and play with the label, distracting myself from the sudden tug in my chest. The same one as every other time I’ve thought about the documentary over the past several weeks. It starts with a second of bliss, realizing how close I am to what I’ve wanted for so long. Then it stings when I remember Foster’s hands gripping my waist, his calloused fingers dragging over my skin. The way he looked at me before walking away as Adams North.

The rest isn’t far behind, and I blink a few times, running my fingernail along the stitches of the tag.

“You’ll be fine, Sinner,” Heath says when my silence drags out. “If you’re not, I’ll make sure this tour is the last one of their careers.”

“You’re lying,” I tell him with half a smile.

He flicks his lighter on the other end, and I hear the crackle of burning paper as he lights a cigarette. “Of course I am. I’ve told you from the beginning I don’t do the coddling shit. You either grow a pair and rule the fucking world or get on your knees for those of us who already do.”

I blow out a breath and fold the top, laying it aside. “Well, thank you for the attempt. I truly appreciate it.”

Spotting red fabric, I go to the dresser, moving the jeans from on top of my lost skirt. I tuck it in with the rest of my clothes and then flip the lid shut before jerking the zipper across.

“You don’t need me spouting bullshit at you, Sinner. You know how to get your shots, and you have better vision than anyone I know—other than me. Just do what you do and don’t let anyone give you shit about it, got it?”

“And if they spend the entire tour hating me?” I ask. But they is Foster. His parting words have started to sound like a threat the more I’ve replayed them in my mind. I thought enough time had passed that he would have forgiven me.

I guess I was wrong.

“Who the fuck cares if a bunch of musicians hate you or love you?” Heath pauses to take a long drag. Then he gives me a, “You good?”

I inhale and toss my last bag with the other two beside my door. “The best.”

“Now we’re both liars,” he mumbles.

The world’s full of liars and the oblivious.