Chaos

by Jamie Shaw

  Across the aisle, he watches me, his scruffy cheek sunken into his pillow and his green eyes the brightest things in the room. He doesn’t look away when I stare back at him, and I couldn’t look away if I tried.

  “Stop,” I say, so quietly that I barely reach him across the aisle.

  “Stop what?” The softness in his voice tickles over my skin, lighter and warmer than the scented sheet caressing my shoulder. He’s in my head, wrapped around me, staring at me from so, so close.

  Stop making me forget. Stop making me remember. Stop making me fall for you.

  What I want to do is slip out from under the covers, close the space between us, drop to my knees, and press my lips to his. I want to kiss him until his fingers find my sides like they did in the club, like they did in the car, and then I want to put my hands on him the same way. I want to touch him until he’s as lost as I am, until we’re both just gone.

  What I actually do is close my fingers around my second pillow and toss it across the aisle. Shawn laughs and catches it, tucking it under his head with no intention of giving it back. I can’t help smiling at him before rolling toward the wall, burying my nose in his pillow, and closing my eyes tight.

  I wish Shawn had called me six years ago. I wish he didn’t regret kissing me on the bus.

  I wish he didn’t want a girl like me.

  I wish he wanted me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A GIRL LIKE you.

  Those four words plague me for the next seven days. When Shawn’s smiles give me butterflies, I think he must have been trying to tell me something. When he makes fun of me like I’m one of the guys, I change my mind.

  The thing is, he’s not shy. I remember the way he was in high school, the way he took me upstairs like there was no question I’d follow him anywhere. If he wanted me now, he’d tell me. He’d take me into a dark room again. He wouldn’t say “a girl like you.”

  And anyway, he’s full of shit. Shawn doesn’t want a girlfriend, or he’d have one. It’s not like he’s hurting for options to choose from. Each night we perform, he can have any girl in the crowd. Girls hotter than me, more girly than me, more his type than me. They wait for him at the bus, in their short skirts and plunging tops. And even though I’m thankful he never invites them on board—that he spends his nights reading or teasing me with smiles across the aisle—it’s impossible to forget that if I wasn’t here, that if I wasn’t a girl on his bus, he’d be sampling different groupies every night. And maybe one of them would become his girlfriend, maybe not, but either way, he’d be more himself than when he’s with me. And I’d still be just that girl—that girl he left behind. That girl he forgot.

  “This last one’s a new one,” Adam says into the microphone during our ninth day on tour. It’s our sixth performance, and the sixth time he’s said those exact words. Most shows start the same—with him flirting with the front row before building up my sex appeal to the guys in the crowd. Then he belts lyrics into the mic, with Shawn singing over him and under him and after him and before him. Joel rocks the bass, Mike pounds the drums, and I lose myself somewhere between the spotlights suspended from the rafters and the strings of my guitar.

  But this night has been a little different, with a blonde twenty-something standing just offstage, watching us with her arms folded and a confident smile on her face. She showed up sometime around the third song, on Shawn’s side of the stage, and when we took a break just before the encore, she hugged the guys like they were old friends, and giggled condescendingly when I had to ask her name.

  Victoria Hess.

  Apparently, she’s some hot record exec’s daughter. And she thinks everyone must know this.

  My guitar pick strums the final song to its end, and amidst the thunderous applause, my humming legs carry me back to her annoying smile. I busy myself with chugging down the contents of a water bottle next to Mike, and Adam ignores Victoria, clapping everyone on the back and congratulating them on another successful show.

  My head is pointed toward Adam, but my eyes are focused on Victoria as she sidles up next to Shawn. She’s wearing an all-white skirt-and-top combo that might look professional if it wasn’t for all the skin she’s showing. The top is beyond tight, with a plunging neckline that’s about four buttons too low, and the skirt is high-waisted and mini, flaunting an ass that’s barely there. The outfit is complete with a super-skinny pleather belt that’s hardly necessary, considering the clothes are practically painted to her preteen-sized curves. She’s the exact kind of way-too-perfectly skinny that high school girls develop complexes over.

  “So,” she says, pushing a strand of pale blonde hair away from her face and hooking her arm in Shawn’s, “who wants to pour me a drink?”

  I glare daggers at the back of her silky blonde head the whole way down the backstage hallway to the greenroom. Victoria is front and center, squeezed between Shawn and Adam, and I’m in the back between Joel and Mike, trying to avoid getting smacked in the face every time she flicks her stupid hair over her stupid shoulder.

  “I guess you know why I’m here,” she says, her white heels clicking loudly off the laminate floor. “Jonathan still really, really wants you to sign with him.”

  She turns a snooty upturned nose over her shoulder when I interrupt with, “Who’s Jonathan?”

  “Jonathan,” she repeats, like I’m an idiot for having to ask. “President of Mosh Records?”

  “You mean your dad?”

  Mike snickers when she turns away without answering me.

  “So anyway,” she continues as if I’d said nothing at all, giving her attention back to Shawn and missing the look I share with Mike and Joel. They both stop walking with amused looks on their faces, hanging back as Victoria drags Shawn and Adam into the greenroom. She’s going on and on and on about how selling out would do wonders for our band, and the three of us wait until she’s gone.

  “She hates being reminded that the only reason she has her job is because of who her dad is,” Mike explains, and Joel nods in agreement.

  I remember Shawn mentioning Mosh Records—something about them being cannibals . . .

  I don’t doubt Victoria would just love a taste of him.

  “Is she in love with Shawn or something?” I ask, and Joel continues his vigorous nodding.

  “She’s an opportunist,” Mike reasons. “So yeah, right now, she’s in love with Shawn.”

  Joel stops nodding long enough to argue, “She had a thing for him way before we started getting big.”

  I look to Mike for confirmation, but he simply shrugs, doing nothing to calm my nerves as we finish the short walk to the greenroom.

  This past week and a half with Shawn, I’ve learned that he’s an early riser, that he never takes his coffee the same way two days in a row, that he usually wears chunky-framed glasses when he reads. I’ve seen the way his chest rises and falls when he sleeps, the way his hair looks when it’s wet from a shower, the way he twirls a guitar pick against his lip when he’s trying to brainstorm lyrics for a song.

  Onstage, Adam is the frontman, but behind the scenes, it’s Shawn’s show. He books our performances, plans fun things to do on our days off, picks up our coffee orders every time we park within walking distance of a Starbucks. He’s organized, meticulous, and impossibly charismatic. Backstage, he’s always saying the right things to the right faces and shaking the right hands, and everyone in the industry loves him. They love him because in spite of it all—the spotlights, the fans, the attention—the music is still number one for him, always will be, and even the sellouts have to admire that. They see a genuine artist in him, and I see it too—along with a guy who smiles at me before my head hits the pillow, a guy who gives me butterflies along with my morning coffee.

  I don’t know what I expect to see when I turn the corner into the greenroom, but it definitely isn’t Victoria curled on his lap with her twiggy arms coiled around his neck. The room is buzzing with people anxious to congratulate us on a gr
eat show, and the blonde-haired cannibal in white makes sure she’s right in the middle of it.

  “Joel!” she shouts as soon as we step inside, ensuring that she’s the star of the show. Her voice is so annoying and whiny, I’m not sure how anyone could miss it. “I heard you got a girlfriend!”

  Joel collapses next to Adam on the couch opposite Shawn, propping his feet on a coffee table and linking his fingers behind his head.

  “So did Adam,” he says, and Victoria grins.

  It’s like I’m not even here. It’s like I’m invisible, and if I wasn’t sure Shawn’s eyes were on me, I’d believe it. I feel them—those bottomless greens—staring at me even though I won’t meet his gaze. How can I, with her arms around him? It’s like he’s watching me to . . . to what? To see if I mind that he has a hot chick on his lap?

  If he wants my approval, he’s not going to get it. But he’s not going to get my disapproval either, because I have no right to give it.

  He’s not mine. He never was.

  “I heard that too,” Victoria says as Mike’s shoulder parts from mine. He heads for a table full of food and drinks in the corner, and I gravitate toward Joel’s arm of the couch, watching as Victoria turns her smile down at Shawn, who looks like he always does after a show—worn out but wide awake, like he pushed past exhaustion and decided he never needs to sleep again. His irises are darker, his hair is damp and curling at the tips, and his entire body looks like it would sizzle at the touch. I’ve spent nights wondering how his chest would feel against mine, right after a show, when we’re both still fueled with adrenaline and stage light. Now, Victoria is the one trailing her fingers over his collarbone.

  He turns his chin up and meets her gaze.

  “Not you though, right?” Victoria continues, her hazel eyes sparkling down at Shawn as she brazenly asks if he has a girlfriend. “You’re still up for grabs.”

  Aaand that’s my cue. Not waiting to hear his answer, I push off the couch and meet Mike at the food table. I grab a cookie, take a bite, and pour myself a much-needed shot of vodka, swallowing it down and scrunching my face at the aftertaste—a welcome distraction.

  “When we get big enough,” Mike says as I try to reverse-lick the cookie-hairspray taste out of my mouth, “I’m demanding there be pizza at every show.” His big fingers lift a petite mini-sandwich to his mouth, and he makes a face at it before popping it in his mouth.

  “I’d ask for a froyo machine,” I counter. And right now? I’d drown myself in it.

  “What flavor?”

  “All of them.”

  Mike chuckles as we both turn back toward the room and lean against the table. I stand at his side—trying to avoid glancing at Shawn, and failing. My heart aches with jealously at the way Victoria can flirt with him like I never could. At the way she can touch him like I never can.

  “I heard Van Halen likes M&Ms,” I continue, “but with all the brown ones removed.”

  Mike swallows down another mini-sandwich. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” I peel my eyes from Shawn, pinning them on Mike and commanding them to stay there. “And Mariah Carey likes furry animals backstage.” When he lifts a thick brown eyebrow, I explain, “Like kittens and puppies and stuff.”

  “You’re kidding . . . ”

  “Nope. I did a paper on backstage request lists in college. And that’s not even the weirdest thing. Marilyn Manson requests a bald hooker with no teeth.”

  Mike’s disturbed expression gives way to a short laugh, and then he shouts across the room, “Joel! Did you know that someday, you’ll be able to put a bald toothless hooker on your backstage request list instead of having to track one down yourself?”

  And of all the questions Joel could ask after he spins around on the couch, the one he chooses is, “What the hell is a backstage request list?”

  “It’s a list you give the tour organizers,” some random person in the room answers, “of all the shit to have ready for you backstage.”

  Joel’s elbows slip from the back of the couch as he whirls on Shawn. “Why don’t we have one of those?”

  “You could,” Victoria croons, her long fingernails dancing up the side of Shawn’s neck. “Most of our bands—”

  “Not happening.” Shawn unceremoniously shifts her off his lap before making his way over to me and Mike. As acting manager of our band, it’s his job to handle music execs like Victoria’s dad. The guys support his decisions, and so do I—especially if they involve pissing off Victoria in the process.

  “You could be so big!” she protests.

  “Will be,” Shawn corrects. His shoulder brushes mine as he collects the vodka bottle and a stack of disposable shot glasses, but he doesn’t even glance at me before walking back over to Victoria.

  “Don’t you want the fame? The money? The girls?”

  He sinks back into the couch and sets the vodka and shot glasses on the table, immediately unscrewing the cap. “Not if it means selling my soul.”

  “Vicki thinks souls are overrated,” Adam taunts, earning a smirk from Shawn, who’s busy pouring the world’s messiest round of shots. “Isn’t that right, Vicki?”

  Victoria sticks her tongue out at him while Shawn swallows two shots in short order, but she loses her good mood when he holds the third up for me. “Kit?”

  My name on his lips is like a foreign thing, something that happened before Victoria and not after. I take the shot in a sort of daze, feeling her eyes on me as my fingers close around the clear plastic. When Shawn settles back into the leather couch cushion, she crosses one of her legs over his, and I get her message loud and clear. I sit on the arm of the opposite couch, declining the second shot he offers me because the last thing I need to do tonight is get drunk and emotional. He shrugs and downs his third.

  “Look, I get it,” Victoria says, her pink tongue flicking over the vodka on her lips. “You’re not ready to sign with anyone. Whatever. You have my number when you are. I didn’t come all this way just to talk business.”

  “What’d you come for then?” Joel asks, taking the bait she dangles.

  “To see all of you, of course.” She turns her meat-eating eyes on Shawn and gives him a photo-ready smile. “I missed you.”

  Her hand falls from his chest when he leans forward to pour another round of shots, but it finds its way home as soon as he sits back. And all I can do is watch. Even when other people join in the conversation, my eyes keep drifting back to Victoria’s fingers on Shawn’s chest, her bare calf on his thigh, her lips against his ear.

  She’s the type of girl he needs, even if he doesn’t sign with her. A hot, rich, take-control girl. One who’s unforgettable. One with a name like Victoria Hess.

  I’m staring at him—at them—when his gaze locks with mine, and Victoria tracks its movement, hers narrowing my way. They can tell I’ve been staring at them like some jealous love-struck creeper, and with two sets of eyes on me, all I can do is stand up. Brush myself off. Announce that I’m going to the bathroom.

  “Are you okay?” Mike asks, cutting off the conversation he’s having with some of the stage crew.

  “Not feeling so well.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No,” I stammer as I make my sloppy escape. “No, I’ll be back later.”

  I make my way through a maze of hallways, all the way to an exit door that gives way to a burst of star-sprinkled air. I have no intention of ever going back inside—not with my heart having manicured fingernails scratched all down its neck—so my combat boots punish the asphalt all the way across the deserted lot to the bus. We’ve been in that greenroom for so long that the crowd that normally waits for us has gone home, and I’m fumbling with the keypad next to the door when calloused fingertips curl around my arm.

  Shawn spins me around, and my chin lifts to meet the intense way he’s staring down at me. “Why did you leave?”

  The seriousness in his voice leaves no room for jokes, lies, or anything else I could possibly say
. The vodka he drank is practically swimming in his electric-green gaze as he waits for my answer, but I have no answer to give. He brushes soft, black strands of hair away from my face until he’s palming the side of my neck. Then, with his fingers threaded in the thick of my hair, he steps forward and cages me against the bus.

  “Why’d you look so pissed when you walked in the greenroom earlier? Why couldn’t you look at me? Why’d you leave?”

  There’s nowhere left to run, but I can’t answer him . . . I can’t. “Why did you follow me?”

  “For the same reason you left.” His face lowers closer to mine, and my lips quiver with the touch of his breath. “I want to kiss you.”

  My heart kicks against my ribs, my palms flattening against the metal behind me. He’s asking me to make the same mistakes all over again. He’s asking me to revisit a party, relive a night on the dance floor, re-create a memory on the bus. And I know I shouldn’t want to . . . but I do. God, I want to.

  I want him.

  “No.”

  “Please.” Shawn’s whisper pleads with me, his lips pulling closer and brushing mine on the word. I turn my face away, but his uncompromising fingers turn my chin back until there’s no more escaping. “Please,” he says again, just before his hungry eyes drop to my mouth. His lips follow, nipping at the closed seam of a kiss that’s threatening to consume me. All of me wants to bloom for him, wants to open wide and let him in. “Let me. Just once.”

  His voice is like a kiss in itself—smooth and warm against my mouth, melting my resolve. I wouldn’t have the strength to tell him no again, but he doesn’t give me the chance to. Instead, he draws me closer, and he kisses me with such insistency that the soft petals of my lips are helpless against the heat of him. He kisses me with his eyes open. And, eyes open, I melt.

  Kissing Shawn sober is like jumping off a cliff. Like realizing you can fly. Like welcoming the consuming rush of air. Like falling.