With the Band

by Jean Haus

  Now as he stares at me with icy eyes, I’m reminded of how ruthless he can be. I’m reminded that I never want to be in that vulnerable position again. I’m reminded of the silent anger we’ve shared over the past three years when we’ve crossed paths at school. And I’m thinking maybe Sam was right. Maybe being around each other is too difficult.

  The photo shoot wraps up, and the tour manager tells the band a town car is waiting outside to take the band to the venue for sound checks. I try to appear busy by looking at the pictures on my camera, but Sam comes over to me on his way out.

  “Missed you this morning,” he says, standing close to me.

  My body is hyperaware of him, and the heat that flashes through me triggers a mixture of uncertainty and guilt and desire. I need to distance myself from him, physically and emotionally.

  Not knowing what else to do, I shrug and do my best to edge away from him while feigning calm. I continue scrolling through pictures, and say, “I needed a coffee.”

  “I would have gone with you.”

  “I wanted to be alone.”

  He moves closer. “Is something wrong, Peyton?”

  “Nope,” I say without looking up. I detest being rude or mean, but I don’t know how to deal with whatever’s going on between us. All I know is that it shouldn’t be going on.

  “What’s with the bitch mode?” he asks roughly.

  Refusing to look up from the blur of pictures or argue with him, I shrug and say, “Just being me.”

  He leaves without saying anything more. I wait several long minutes until I’m sure he’s gone, getting a few cold looks from the photographer and his crew in the process. Once it’s safe, I hightail it up to the room.

  I store my camera, then crawl into my tiny bed. I should call Bryce. It’s been three days. Overcome with shame and confusion, I just stare at the wall.

  Chapter 13

  Come on, Peyton,” Riley says, handing me a beer from the fridge on the bus. “Quit picking up their mess and let’s go. Geez, girl, you’re not their maid.”

  Ignoring the bottle of beer in my face, I say, “I’m doing it for Gary, the bus driver¸ not the band.”

  Riley taps her foot, then sighs and sets the beer on the small counter. “Fine. Let’s whip this out.” She proceeds to help me straighten up the bus, moving much faster than me.

  Because the major arena in New Orleans is under construction, the tour has two dates at a smaller venue. And because the backstage area is small, the tour buses are functioning as the bands’ dressing rooms. The downsized situation also means that everyone is meeting at a local bar to party, since there isn’t a place to hang out at the venue after the show. But I don’t want to party, so I’m picking up clothes, shoes, and tubes of hair gel, prolonging our departure for the bar.

  Beyond trying to stay away from Sam, I’m also buttass tired. The T-shirts, hats, and CDs arrived early this afternoon, which meant that I ran a booth before and after Luminescent Juliet went onstage. Romeo paid Mike from the stage crew to help me set up and tear down the booth, which was nice. But it was impossible not to notice that the other bands’ booths were way busier and had about four times the amount of staff ours did. After hours of sales, Mike helped me pack up the remaining gear in big plastic totes. Then I watched the other bands with Riley and Allie while the guys were busy backstage with local media interviews. Riley offered to come with me to the bus so I could change. After changing out of my Luminescent Juliet T-shirt and into a beaded tank, and slipping on high-heeled sandals, I started cleaning.

  Truly, Gary shouldn’t have to pick up this mess.

  We finish straightening up the bus, pour beers into plastic cups, and go. Riley goes on and on about how awesome the band sounded, especially Romeo and Gabe, for the entire walk to the bar. Since I caught only about fifteen minutes of the show, and was taking pictures that entire time, all I can do is nod. From what I heard, yeah, they were good as usual.

  When we arrive at the bar, it’s packed. Framed pictures of historical New Orleans cover every inch of the walls. The ceiling is tin, and it has an antique feel. There are old wooden booths around the edges of the space and a huge ancient bar in the middle. Bob Marley’s “Stir It Up” blares over the talking and shouting. We shove through the throng and spot our people behind a row of bouncers who don’t let us in until Riley catches Romeo’s eye. He leads us past the other bands’ tables—the guys from Griff are loud and rambunctious while the Brookfield guys are much more subdued—to a table in the far corner, where I see Allie, the band members, and, naturally, a handful of scantily dressed women I don’t know.

  Without success, I try to keep my gaze from the far end of the table, where Sam sits with a dark-haired woman. His stage look is rocker sexy, and I can’t help but notice how his fitted T-shirt shows off his muscular biceps. The cute disheveled college boy thing he usually pulls off with his shorts and flip-flops on the bus is totally different from this. He’s a chameleon.

  He’s laughing with the girl next to him until he looks up and notices me staring. His laughter instantly dies. His eyes burn into me for a long, agonizing moment, until his attention returns to the woman next to him. She glances at me, then scoots closer to him. A spike of unwanted irritation shoots through me. It’s merely irritation, I tell myself. Nothing else. I. Am. Not . . . Shit! The irritation flowing through me does feel a lot like jealousy. Now irritated with myself, I try to concentrate on anything but Sam and the girl across the table.

  On one side of me, Riley and Romeo are nose to nose. On the other side of me, women surround Gabe. A server comes and I order a Diet Coke, wishing I were back at the hotel instead of here. However, walking across the French Quarter at midnight alone is a pretty stupid idea.

  By the time my drink arrives, I’m coming close to dying of boredom and irritation. The brunette is now on Sam’s lap. Her huge chest is inches from his chin. Ugh. I get up, seriously considering walking back by myself. Just as I’m about to pass the line of bouncers, Rick, the guitarist from Griff, is at my side.

  “Hey, Peyton,” he says loudly over the music. “I haven’t seen you around lately. Missed you at dinner last night.”

  “Been busy.” Over Rick’s shoulder, I see the girl wrapping her hand around the back of Sam’s neck.

  Rick inches closer, his fingers brushing my shoulder where a strap usually is. “No camera tonight? Means you’re off, right?”

  The brunette’s other hand disappears under the table and Sam grins. I force myself to look at Rick. “Yeah, I’m off.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  I pause, looking him over. Although not classically handsome like Sam, he has that lean, dark-haired rocker look that makes fan girls swoon. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Sam sliding his hand down the girl’s bare back. “Sure.”

  Rick calls a waitress over and whispers something in her ear. He turns back to me. “How’s the Big Easy been treating you?”

  It’s turning me into a confused piece of shit. “All right.”

  “All right? That’s it?” He leans closer. “You should let me show you the town. Tonight. This town never sleeps.”

  It’s pretty clear Rick would be showing me more than the town. “But I need to sleep.”

  He grins. “You’ve got the whole day to sleep away, baby.”

  Luckily, before I have time to comment, the waitress reappears and hands me an orange-colored cocktail in a tall glass. “What is this?”

  “See if you can guess.”

  The girl in Sam’s lap is now biting his earlobe. I take a long sip. It tastes like fruit juice and some kind of alcohol. “Mai tai?”

  He cocks his head and an earring dangles. “Close. A zombie.” He smiles. “Very similar, though.”

  I sip my drink and he keeps talking about different bars, about jazz bands, about taking me out, and about how this could be the best night of our life. Bored, I drain my drink. Rick orders me another amid his bragging about all his connections in this city
. A half hour passes as I nod every now and then, not really listening, paying more attention to the scene to the left of us. Sam and his lady friend keep touching until their display has me feeling slightly sick.

  The more they touch, the sicker I feel. My stomach starts to roll. It feels like I ate every dessert on Tony’s Italian menu and then downed a thick cream soda. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The loud bar is getting stuffier by the second. I stand up and immediately start to weave, my heels making my balance worse, and Rick catches me by the hip and wraps an arm around me. I set my second empty glass on the edge of the nearest table before it slips from my hand.

  “You ready to go?” he whispers in my ear.

  I shake my head. I’m ready to puke. I don’t know if it’s from the drinks or Sam’s PDA, but I’m really, really woozy. I try to pull away. Rick yanks me closer. My stomach reels more at the sweaty smell of him.

  His fingers dig into my waist. “Come on. You’ll never have a hotter time.”

  Again, I shake my head and try to push away. His other arm wraps around me.

  Suddenly, Sam is next to us. “Peyton? You okay?”

  I shake my head. My stomach is seriously rolling now. “Need to go,” I somehow get out.

  “We were just leaving,” Rick sneers at Sam.

  My stomach heaves as Sam studies me, brows lowering. “Bath-room,” I murmur.

  Rick tries to snatch me away. Sam pushes his arm. I’m a human wishbone between them.

  Sam now shoves at Rick. “I should let her puke on you, you stupid fuck,” he snarls.

  While Sam wraps his arm around me, Rick glances down at me with wide, horrified eyes and practically jumps away. Sam drags me beyond the maze of tables and out a side door. I make it to the curb as my insides eject a gush of acidic liquid fruit and alcohol. Sam holds both my waist, so I don’t fall onto the street, and my hair, so it doesn’t get puked on.

  When there’s nothing left but dry heaves, he gently lifts me up. “How much did you drink?” he asks with an edge of anger in his tone.

  “Just a beer and two drinks,” I say weakly, leaning on him. I’m beyond embarrassed, and so weak I can barely stand.

  “Two drinks?” he asks in a tone of disbelief.

  “Rick bought me two . . . zombies,” I say, finally recalling the name of the drink.

  “Zombies? That shit has like, more than four shots in it, Peyton.”

  “Well, now those shots are in the street,” I mumble against his shirt, then add a self-deprecating laugh. “They weren’t in me long enough to get me that drunk.”

  “I’m going kill that fucker,” he says, his hands at my waist. “Shove that stupid flaming guitar right up his taking-advantage ass.”

  “His guitar is stupid,” I say in agreement, weaving more as a hot flash hits me.

  “Come on.” He tugs me by the waist across the sidewalk. “There are cars waiting out front.”

  Forcing my feet forward, I groan. “So I could have left earlier instead of watching . . .”

  “Watching what?” he asks, rounding the corner.

  “Nothing,” I say, and simply concentrate on keeping up with him.

  Sam tows me through the mass of people waiting outside to get into the bar. The guy standing next to one of the waiting town cars looks us over suspiciously.

  “I’m in Luminescent Juliet,” Sam says, reaching for the door handle because the guy doesn’t open the door.

  The driver moves as if to stop him.

  “I’m not in the mood for this shit, dude. She’s sick”—he gestures toward me—“and you’re taking us back to the hotel.” Sam whips the door open. “Now.”

  I lean back against the leather seat and force myself to relax. The short car ride is quiet as my stomach slowly settles. When we pull into the roundabout in front of the hotel, the driver asks for Sam’s name.

  Gently helping me out, Sam says, “Samuel Fucking Carr.” He slams the door shut and flips the guy off.

  On the sidewalk, my continued weaving inspires me to tug off my high-heeled sandals. The cool concrete feels nice and solid under my feet. I take a few more steps toward the entrance but stop when Sam gently pulls my arm.

  “You can’t walk barefoot on this dirty-ass sidewalk.”

  “I can’t walk in those shoes anymore,” I say, taking several more slow steps forward.

  Sam strides in front of me and turns. “Then get on my back.”

  His comment from yesterday instantly pops in my head. “No.”

  “No?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “No boobs on your back.”

  Turning around, he rolls his eyes but as I step forward, he sweeps me off my feet and into his arms. My head swims for a moment from the quick movement as my body bounces in his arms, one under my knees and the other around my back with his hand wrapped around my ribs, just under my breast. I’m quickly mortified.

  “You’re not carrying me!” I hiss, embarrassed by being carried and because my breath is gross after puking.

  He starts moving. “It appears that I am.”

  “Put. Me. Down!” I accentuate each word, with the sandals in my hand pointed at him.

  “When we get in the room.”

  He steps into the foyer. Luckily, it’s nearly empty, but the few people inside give us startled looks as Sam strolls past them with me in his arms. Unfortunately, the singer from Brookfield is at the reception counter. Watching us, he waves and grins.

  I’m completely mortified as we pass him. “Put me down,” I repeat.

  “Soon.” There’s an open elevator waiting, and he moves into it and steps to the front corner. “Push nine.”

  “Okay.” I don’t push the button. “Just put me down.”

  Ignoring me, he shifts my weight and pushes the button himself.

  I glare at his five-o’clock-shadowed chin all the way up, and then down the hall. Even at the door to our room, he doesn’t put me down.

  Shifting my weight, he says, “Get the key from my back pocket.”

  “Sam,” I say in warning, not reaching for the key.

  “I can stand here holding you all night.”

  “Fine,” I growl, and jerk the key from his pocket, trying to ig-nore the appealingly tight muscle of his butt under his jeans.

  I slide the card in and he pushes the door open with one foot. Once inside, he deposits me in a chair. The sandals drop from my hand and I push myself up to stand. Even without heels, I still weave. I put a hand to my forehead. “Whoa.”

  “Sit down,” Sam snaps.

  I follow orders and fall back against the cushions of the chair.

  Sam kneels in front of me and grasps my chin gently. “Do you think that asshole slipped something in your drink?”

  I recall Rick whispering to the waitress, yet she brought me the drinks. “No, I—I don’t think so.” Why would I be so woozy? My hand comes up this time to slap my forehead. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Between the heat and working and then those crazy drinks . . .”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” Sam growls, standing.

  I rub the skin of my forehead, which I’d just slapped. “I just forgot.”

  He goes to the minibar and starts pulling items out, then dumps juice, peanuts, and a candy bar onto my lap. “Eat,” he orders, then sits down on the bed across from the chair and stares at me.

  Obviously, he’s going to give me the cool stare until I eat. I open the juice and reach for the peanuts. As I pop a few nuts in, his mouth twists into a slight satisfied smile, and he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

  I stare into space and follow his orders, eating slowly. I’ve finished half of the small bag of peanuts when he comes out, holding wet washcloths and a towel. As he kneels and reaches for one foot, I try to jump out of the chair.

  “What are you doing?”

  He gently pushes me down. “Washing your feet,” he says in a simple tone. “They’re grossing me out.”

  I tuck my feet under the chair. “
Ah, no. Gross or not.”

  His expression turns stern. “Are you going to take a shower? Or just pass out?”

  The thought of undressing, of simply turning on the shower, of the energy it will take, has me untucking my feet. “Pass out.”

  He gently washes both feet with one washcloth, then wipes the soap off with another. Staring at his dark curly hair, I’m completely mortified and extremely touched by his care of me.

  He sits back on his heels and grins warmly. “No more gross.”

  “Thanks,” I say, knowing my cheeks must be flushed.

  He glances at the peanut bag, then raises a brow.

  I dump the rest of peanuts into my mouth. “Happy?” I ask from a mouthful of peanuts.

  “Almost.” He stands and gestures to the candy bar on my lap.

  I swallow the last of the nuts and tear open the candy wrapper. “Geez, I’m getting to it.”

  I’m munching on the chocolate peacefully but almost spit it out when I notice Sam going through my suitcase. He’s holding up a lacy pair of pink panties in one hand and the matching bra in the other.

  “What are you doing?” I screech.

  “Looking for pajamas.”

  I wash down the candy with a huge gulp of juice. “Those are obviously not them.”

  He grins over his shoulder. “I know. I got distracted.”

  “Put those down! My sleep shorts and tanks are in the front.”

  His thumb brushes over a lacy cup, and I instantly imagine him touching me instead. He shoots me a smile like he knows what I’m thinking before carefully folding—folding!—both items and setting them down.

  I glare at him as he comes over to me with shorts and a tank top bunched in his hand.

  “Need any help getting dressed?” he asks innocently.