Literature
Makeshift Medic
If Xander didn’t make it back to his room on the bus by 4 AM, that typically meant he didn’t plan on sleeping that night. It was nearly dawn, and Grayson hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. It wasn’t that he was worried about what Xander was doing—he was a rockstar on tour, what could anyone expect? No, Grayson’s uneasiness came from having the room to himself. Intimidating as Xander’s presence could be, having him around was a safeguard. A drunken roadie could stumble into the room to harass him. Or maybe a rabid fan looking for Micah. Laying back on the pillow, Grayson kneaded his temples. He was being paranoid. There was twenty-four-hour security keeping an eye on the troop of tour vehicles. But would anyone bother to intervene if it was a print who was in the danger? The door burst open. A figure stumbled into the dark room. Sleep-deprived and wired as he was, Grayson shouted in alarm and scrambled to the corner of his pillow. Then he froze up, his heavy breathing beginning to
*fangirling