I'm a little tipsy from the beers at dinner, but I have to pack. I lay my suitcase on my bed and start throwing things at it, aiming for the open luggage but missing it completely most throws. "That's how you pack?" Easton asks, from the door.

"Yes, this is how I pack. Got a problem with it?" I ask, grumpily.

He nods. "It'll all be wrinkled." He states, legitimately concerned.

"Then you can iron it for me." I say, batting my eyelashes at him.

"Why not just do it right the first time?" He questions.

"Because, Easton. I'm in a shit mood and don't even want to go on this trip." I reply, honestly.

    What happened at the gallery is still with me. I don't know why I'm letting Flynn's stupid opinion affect me, but I am. What gets me most is, if he thinks it, so might a lot of people. Will I just be known the artist who dated a football player once? If I ever land a show is that what they'd find out about me? Would it follow me around the art world? What if I become some kind of joke, or what if I already am?

"What is it? Talk to your buddy, Easton. Tell me all about it." He encourages, coming into the room.

I sit on the bed and fall back. "Am I a joke?" I ask, seriously.

"No, the way you pack is." Easton answers, picking up a top and folding it nicely.

"What if I end up doing well with my art? Will I just be known as the artist who dated, Truex Marshall?"

"Dating." Truex corrects, striding to the bed. "What are you doing?" He questions, looking at my bra and panties on the bed. Out of everything strewn about, of course that's what he'd focus on.

"Little miss downer here was packing. If you can call throwing everything in a bag haphazardly, packing." Easton scolds, picking up a pair of pants and folding them.

"Gives us a minute." Truex says, to Easton.

"Don't make it long. These clothes won't fold themselves." Easton replies, pointedly and Truex picks up a tank top, to fold. Easton nods his approval and leaves the room.

"Look at you bitches packing for me." I mock, teasingly.

He raises an eyebrow but continues folding and I watch him smiling. "Don't let him upset you." He says, putting more folded clothes in a pile.

I sigh, loudly. "I'm not. I keep telling myself he's going back to Texas soon." I smirk.

"You know I'm talking about, Flynn Simmons. Not, Easton."

I nod. "What if Flynn is saying what everyone else is thinking?"

"Your work shows him and everyone else who agrees with him, that they're wrong." He answers.

"You're just biased." I remind him.

"I may be, but I'm also right." He replies, moving to stand in front of me. He leans down, hovering over me. He picks me up, bringing me against his chest. I wrap my legs around him and he sits back down on the bed.

"I just wish you could've stayed my dirty little secret." I tease and he grips my butt hard in response.

"I could just give you your own gallery. Your birthdays in April, right?"

I lean back to look up at him. "You would never know pleasure again if you did." I threaten.

"Let me sponsor a event for you then. So, you can show your pieces." I can tell he's thought about these ideas. Although, the thought is sweet, I'd be beyond embarrassed.

"No. Do you know how pathetic that would make me look?" I ask, slightly offended he'd even suggest it.

"Then how can I help?"

"You could quit football and give all your money away. Then live on the streets with me until I make a name for myself as an legitimate artist." I suggest, wincing.

"Tempting, but I'm under contract."

"We could breakup and I could move out. That might get me somewhere." I say, more seriously.

"Yeah, tied to my bed." He replies, quickly and forcefully.

I laugh. "Christian Grey, style. I like it."

"Who?"

"My dream guy." He growls, in response. "He's from a book. Men like him don't really exist." I respond, giggling.

           
    I don't remember falling asleep but I do. I wake up to Mya shaking me awake. "Time to get ready. Our flight leaves soon." I groan but do as she says, noticing my suitcase packed and waiting at the door. I shower, shave my legs...I mean it is Vegas, it has decent weather even in March.

After I blow dry my hair, brush my teeth and put makeup on I take my luggage to the front door. I go to the kitchen and see Truex leaning against the counter reading, Fifty shades of Grey. My shock turns into amusement and I can't stop laughing. "What are you reading?"

"The book with your, dream guy." He scoffs.

"Isn't he great?"

He shakes his head. "I don't get it. You want me to tie you up and spank you?"

"Hell no. You try that shit and you die." I answer, seriously. I mean it sounds good on paper, but I would freak out in real life.

"I thought he was your fantasy?"

"Exactly, fantasy. In real life I'd probably run in the other direction if Christian Grey tried any of his red room, shit on me. Did you buy that?" I ask, distracted by the novel still in his hands.

"No. Mya, had it."

I nod. "Yeah, her and Tate have acted out all of those sex scenes." I reply, nonchalantly.

He drops the book, glaring at me as I laugh. "I'm joking." I admit, taking a coke from the refrigerator.

"Soda for breakfast? Do you even care what you put in your body." Easton, asks taking a water from the same shelf.

"Obviously, I haven't let Truex in it yet." I remark, smugly.

Easton throws back his head laughing. I smile and Truex tries to glare at me, but the smirk he can't keep off his face tells me he thinks it's funny.

I open the can and take a healthy gulp. "So, good in the morning." I moan, blissfully.

"That shit is poison." Easton points out as Mya comes in the kitchen.

"I remember when Truex would never think to keep that in his house. Now, he buys is all the time." She says, teasingly.

"Briar drinks it." He shrugs.

"Because pop is a delicious beverage." I comment, taking another sip out of spite.

"Pop." Easton, repeats making fun of the Michigan girl in me.

"I'm sorry, Ya'll. Is there something wrong with the way I talk? You liver bellied chicken?"

"Is that supposed to be me?" Eason asks, laughing at my attempt at a southern accent. "And what the hell is a liver bellied chicken?"

"You." I reply, poking his chest.

"Alright, finish this conversation on the bus. We have to go." Mya orders, shooing us out of the kitchen.