Dylan walks into the penthouse suite. He’s followed by two redhead girls. The girls are shocked by me screaming. They scream, too. Dylan catches my eyes with his, and starts laughing. His laughter echoes the room. I’ve never heard him quite this happy. “Guilty conscience?” he says. He’s got his old beat-up guitar with him, which he sets just inside the door. I holding my hands to my chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” “I brought some old friends,” he says, nodding to the girls. They’re pretty redheads. One has blue eyes and the other green. I recognize them as the singer twins I met at Dylan’s gig. They slept off their partying at his loft, and then they wouldn’t leave. And now they’re here. Great. Marley shrugs up her shoulders and runs over to me, squealing.
