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His room had been cleaned, his bed made. His guitar lay on the table, his new black coat hung over the back of a chair.
No concern about cameras or recording devices?
“Throw your shirt with my dirty laundry in the bathroom,” he said. “I’ll put a laundry call in.”
Do they not think hotel staff gossip?
“Roscoe, I’m gonna say this as his best friend and not as one of the band members. I probably expected more from you, not gonna lie. And if you do fuck him around, I’ll request you to be my manager, and I’ll make your life so miserable, you’ll request that janitor’s job.”
“I know. It’s just . . . I’ve never had someone.” His eyes met mine, anxious and vulnerable. “I’ve never had anyone in my life. Anyone permanent, that is. If you know what I mean. And now I do. Finally. And I’ll be fucking damned if I’m gonna let someone take that away from me.”