by Jean Haus
“No,” I hiss. I stand slowly, then snatch the clothes from his hand. “Don’t touch my underwear ever again.”
He steps back with a smirk. “I’ll let you touch mine if it makes you feel better.”
“Better? It would reduce me to vomiting again.”
“Right,” he says, reaching for the other half of the candy bar on the table next to me. “Doubt that.”
Ignoring him, I wobble to the bathroom. I find my cosmetic bag on the counter. Moisturizer, a brush, and my already loaded toothbrush are beside it. Again, despite all the innuendo, Sam’s attentiveness is touching.
Sam always was the nice guy, and Seth the bad boy. Like almost every other girl, I fell for the bad boy. My ego wanted what seemed like the biggest prize, but in the end, I got burned.
Except for the light near the door, the room is dark when I emerge from the bathroom. Sam is lying motionless on the end of his bed, his hands splayed over his pretty face. I’m assuming he must have dozed off until I slip under the covers of the rollaway and he gets up.
“Hey,” he says, leaning over me. “You feel better?”
“I’m good.”
He stands.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, then blurt out, “and I’m sorry.”
He rears back a bit. “For what?”
I swallow. “You were right to get mad at me after the first concert of the tour. Everything you said was true. I used you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”
It feels good to finally be honest after being in such denial about that night for so long. Sam offered me comfort and I took it without a thought. All while I was enamored with Seth.
“Oh, that . . .” He runs a hand over his curls. With the light at his back, I can’t see his expression, yet from the dipped slope of his shoulders, I’m imagining a frown. “I was fucked up that night. I thought you were flirting with that douche bag. It brought back memories—but I was being an asshole.” He steps farther back and opens his suitcase lying open on the dresser I catch the shape of flannels and a T-shirt in the shadows. “I’m going to hit the shower, so get some sleep.” Moving toward the bathroom, he runs a hand over his curls again. “You need it.”
Though I still can’t see his expression, the tone of his voice and the tight angle of his body tell me I’ve hit a soft spot. Sam must have had feelings for me back then, I finally realize. It was probably nothing close to my obsession with Seth. However, my total indifference, my obsession with Seth that had me ignoring Sam right after having sex, must have been a bitch-slap to his ego. Truly delivered by a thoughtless bitch.
I push up on an elbow. “Sam—”
“Thanks for the apology, but it wasn’t needed. Like you said, it’s been over three years.” Light spills across my bed as he opens the bathroom door. “Just go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He shuts the door and I fall back on the bed.
I’m such an idiot, and completely self-absorbed. How was it possible that I had never contemplated anyone’s feelings except mine about that night?
I roll on my side carefully, so I don’t fall out of the tiny bed, yanking the covers over my head. I’m not delusional enough to think Sam still carries a torch for me—he practically has women up his ass 24/7—but I’m starting to understand why he didn’t give me the time of day after what I did. I deserved to be ignored by him.
Chapter 14
The next day, on our way to North Carolina, Romeo looks through the pictures on my camera. “Don’t post any with Riley or Allie,” he says curtly. “Besides infringing their privacy, it feels a little too personal.”
“Okay.” I start deleting some pictures in the current post I’m working on.
“The ones of the concerts in New Orleans are great. Put up as many of those as you want.”
I’m about to say “okay” again but loud shouting comes from the front of the bus. The rest of the guys are watching a Tigers baseball game while Romeo and I are going over media-related items.
He scowls at their yelling, then asks, “Are we up on Twitter followers and Facebook likes?”
I nod. “More than double what we had two weeks ago.”
“Good. I hope the sales numbers on downloads reflect that.” He crosses his legs, stretching them onto the table, and keeps looking at pictures. “I like your idea of putting up a biography for each of us, and these pictures from the photo shoot are perfect. Just keep it simple.”
Even though I’ll remember his request, I jot down a note in my small notepad. He worships note taking, so I’ve learned to appease him.
We go over a few more things before he’s off to watch the game too.
The bus rolling along is strangely comforting. Though yesterday was quite calm—Allie, Riley, and I went shopping and sightseeing during the afternoon sound checks, then I went back to the hotel right after the concert—it wasn’t quite enough to overcome the clusterfuck of emotion and weirdness I’d experienced in the two days prior. The boredom of being on the bus feels like a return to normalcy.
Both Sam and I have been polite, but he has seemed aloof since he helped me back to the hotel. I’m thinking he’s uncomfortable that the past still bothers him, and he’s not the only one.
Talking to Bryce yesterday was a good distraction. While the itch of guilt at the back of my throat didn’t go away, hearing his voice drew me back to the present. Bryce and I fit. There’s no drama. No issues. And though I can admit I’m not head over heels in love with him, I really, really like him. We have fun going out, and neither of us is in any rush to dive into a deeper relationship. We’re both serious about college and our future careers. We’re both stable.
I like stable. A lot.
The day passes as we make the ten-hour drive to Charlotte. I work on loading pictures onto Facebook and writing a couple of new blog posts. One I’m hoping to post today; the other will be for tomorrow. I try to catch the excitement of the show in descriptive words, wanting to convey how incredible Luminescent Juliet sounded. I pull Romeo away from the TV to get approval on the first one, and once he nods, I load the day’s post.
At around seven, I make what passes for dinner on the tour bus—microwaved hot dogs, a bag of chips, and a veggie tray. While he works on business figures at the small table, Romeo tries to get one of the guys to help me. I wave away his bitching. It’s not a big deal to heat hot dogs, but I do almost laugh when I imagine the disapproving comments Riley would make if she saw me taking care of the guys. The game is over but ESPN stays on while the guys eat sprawled out on couches. After dinner, I watch TV in the back room, call both Jill and Bryce, and then decide to get ready for bed, so I can quickly crawl into my rollaway when we get to the hotel later tonight.
I’m brushing my teeth in the minuscule bathroom as the bus slows and then comes to a complete stop. I pause, recalling that we’d entered Georgia just over an hour ago. There’s no way we could be in North Carolina yet.
Someone pounds on the bathroom door.
Confused why we’ve stopped, I slowly open it.
Sam rushes in, whips the door closed, locks it, and opens the toilet. Because the bathroom is tiny, I’m behind him, pressed in shock to the outer shower wall. He furiously begins digging through the backpack in his hands, throwing a myriad of novels onto the floor. Lastly, he hauls out several baggies and begins dumping the contents into the toilet. First, it’s dry, green leafy stems, then a lot of fine white powder.
My eyes bug out at the sight of the drugs floating in the toilet.
“Turn on the pump,” he says over his shoulder.
Shocked, I stand there immobile.
“Turn on the pump!” he hisses.
“It’s already on,” I say in a rush of air, gesturing to the switch on the wall. To get water, the pump has to be on in the bus, and I had it on to brush my teeth.
Sam begins filling the bowl with water and flushing, then re-peating.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask loudly.
�
��Be quiet!” he whispers. “We got pulled over.”
“Why?” I whisper back.
He shrugs and flushes one last time, then begins throwing the books back into his backpack.
Watching him, I cross my arms and say in a low tone, “Your stash is still going to be in the tank.”
“I’m betting they don’t want to search in a tank of chemicals, piss, and shit for it.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “That was quite a lot of drugs, Sam,” I grumble.
He tugs his bag on his shoulder. “Do not say anything. To anyone.”
I shake my head at him. “Sam—”
“I mean it, Peyton,” he says, grabbing the door handle. “It’s none of your business,” he adds over his shoulder. Then I’m alone again in the tiny bathroom.
I absentmindedly pack my cosmetic bag back up. I’m shocked. I obviously knew he did drugs, but I didn’t imagine the extent. Although I’m ignorant of the actual cost, he must have flushed hundreds of dollars down the toilet.
I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom.
Justin, Gabe, and Sam sit on the front couches, playing video games. I quickly assume Romeo’s outside with Gary and the policeman. Or men?
Leaning on the small kitchen counter, I ask no one in particular, “What’s going on?”
Justin shrugs. “No idea. Cop pulled us over. Couldn’t be speeding. Gary never drives over sixty in this beast.”
“Beast is right.” Sam’s gaze stays glued to the screen.
Gabe glances at Sam, then me. “Better hide your pot, Peyton.”
I snort, “Yeah, I’ll go do that.”
Gabe laughs. Sam’s appearance remains smooth and calm. Justin yawns.
I head to the back room and put my stuff away. Nervous and fidgety, I sit on the couch and peer out the little window. All I can see out there in the dark are the lights of passing cars and the faint blue swirling lights of the police car, which must be parked ahead of us.
A rush of nervous air escapes me as I fall back against the couch. Sam is sitting up front like a calm zombie and I’m the one freaking out, thinking of all the horrible outcomes if he gets caught. Sam sitting in jail. Sam ruining the tour. Sam getting kicked out of school. I sit up. Can they do that? Is his entire future at stake at the moment?
Finally, the bus lurches back onto the road. I head to the front. Except for Romeo hunched over a notebook at the small table, the guys are still playing video games.
“What happened?” I ask Romeo.
He looks up from whatever he is writing. “The bus has a taillight out. Gary’s going to get it fixed in Charlotte, and the tour will take care of the ticket.”
“Oh,” I say, as the thudding of my heart at last slows. Sam glances at me with a smirk before his attention goes back to the onscreen fighting—and suddenly I’m angry. The dumbass is acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world while I’m stressing out. Over his future. Over his stupidity.
I stomp back past the bunk beds, grab a blanket, and fall onto the couch.
Sam a nice guy?
Yeah, right.
I smack my pillow.
More like a major asshole. Grass-smoking, coke-snorting asshole.
Chapter 15
I sleep in the next morning and wake up to an empty hotel room. I should do some laundry, but I decide to hit the treadmill and maybe lift some weights. Though the guys seem to find time to work out in the hotel gyms whenever we stop, I’ve found time for the treadmill only once since we left. But when I push open the door of the hotel’s exercise room, I almost close it and run away. Sam’s in the far corner lifting weights. I’m still angry with him about his toilet-pouring drug spree, and still shocked that he’s so much more of a druggie than I realized. But as I take the slightest step back, he looks up and smirks.
That smirk hits me in the gut.
Screw leaving. I’m not letting that loser control any aspect of my life. I ignored him last night when we got into the room. I ignored him at breakfast. And I’ll ignore him now. Yet I do decide to skip weights and just do cardio. It’s a little harder to ignore him since he’s only wearing running shorts, and pumping iron with his muscles flexing every-fucking-where.
I go to the treadmill on the other side of the room and turn it on. I do stretches against the machine, pop my earbuds in and find a loud, angry, punk rock playlist, then start running.
About ten minutes later, when I’ve got him pushed from my mind, a sweaty Sam stands in front of the treadmill, his eyes purposely roaming my body. I’m too shocked to be self-conscious. Holy hell, Sam’s body is as rocking as his music.
Loud lyrics, sharp guitar chords, and fast drums pound in my ears as I take in his killer physique. He is all rippling muscle. A fine sheen covers his sculpted chest. His eight-pack gleams under the florescent light. His abs look like they belong to a frickin’ comic book character. Seriously, he’s like six weeks and twenty protein shakes away from being a bodybuilder. But bodybuilders are usually on the side of too muscular. Sam, on the other hand, is perfection. The way I’m gulping for air has nothing to do with jogging, and everything to do with the sight of him.
I force myself to look away, above his head.
“Still not talking to me?” he says loud enough for me to hear over the music in my ears.
I continue running and looking above his head.
The treadmill slows and then stops. His finger hovers over the controls.
I glare at him and keep running on the motionless treadmill.
“Come on, Peyton. You’ve seen me toking before.”
I turn around and run facing the other way.
“Nice view.”
“Perv,” I say. I jump off the treadmill, and he catches my hand, drawing me around toward him until we’re inches apart.
“I only use when I party. It’s not like a daily thing.”
I finally lose it, ripping my earbuds out and hitting stop on the phone attached to my hip. “What about the illegal part? You could have gotten in serious trouble! You could have gotten any one of us on the bus in trouble! Do you think about anyone except yourself? And why the hell would you have that much coke?”
He lets my hand go and runs his own through his curls. “I’m sorry, okay. I just . . . Sometimes it’s hard to get into a party mood.”
“Party mood? In the middle of a tour that your indie band somehow landed, that’s important to you?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I need to unwind.”
My eyes narrow on him. “If you can’t unwind without drugs, you’ve got a problem, Sam.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I’m not depressed or anything. I—things in my life just feel a little too deep sometimes.”
“I don’t want to hear your denial.” Unbelievable. I turn around to leave, and suddenly I’m surrounded by his warm, muscled arms. His hard chest presses against my back. He rubs his sweaty face on the side of mine.
“Come on. I’m sorry. That shit was supposed to last all tour. Six weeks. I’m not an addict or anything.”
“Get off me! You’re all sweaty!” But the truth is, he feels divine, even with the sheen of sweat. He is all hard, slippery muscle.
His arms tighten around me. “You’re right. I should have thought about all the ramifications, especially for everyone else. I was, am, an ass. Forgive me?”
I can feel every inch of his sculpted form against my back. “Let me go! You sweaty pig!”
“Then forgive me?” he whispers in my ear, somehow pulling me closer.
Damn. In addition to the awesome texture of him, beyond the clean scent of soap and his fresh-scented deodorant, I can smell his sweat and it’s making me imagine hot, sweaty sex. With him. Who’s the pig here? My reaction to him overwhelms me to the point that I just give up. “You’re forgiven. Now let me go.”
Releasing me, he reaches for his T-shirt hanging from a stationary bike and grins before tugging the shirt on. “Want to go do something after sound checks?”
His grin has me thinking he’s aware of my response to him, which is so not good. “I’m busy,” I say in a snotty tone.
“Really?” He leans on the bike, his thigh muscles flexing from his weight. “Doing what?”
I tear my gaze from his leg. “Laundry, calling Bryce, and stuff.”
He rolls his eyes, essentially dismissing the reference to my boyfriend. “How about I help you do laundry again, and we can do lunch while we’re at it.”
They won’t be back from sound checks until after two. “It will be too late to eat.”
“Grab a snack. I’ll get lunch. My treat.”
He’s making a refusal extremely difficult, as in having to admit he’s starting to do weird, hot things to my insides difficult. Hell will freeze over before I admit that to him.
“Fine.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “You’d better get going or you’re going to miss sound checks.”
Those baby blues roam slowly over my shorts and tank top. “See you later,” he says wistfully, then exits the exercise room.
I move toward the weight station. What the heck was that? I’m not sure what’s worse. Sam coming on to me. Or Sam being nice to me. Either way I’m in trouble.
The hotel in Charlotte is nothing like the one we stayed at in New Orleans. It’s not a dive or anything, just a normal hotel, with no chandeliers dripping crystals in the lobby or limos pulling up under a canopy out front. But at least the rollaway is much bigger, which confirms my suspicion that luxury hotels like to torment the extra person.
Hours after exercising, I’m in our small room, rearranging stuff in my suitcase because I already did the laundry—I’m not hanging out with Sam any more than I have to—and seriously contemplating taking off before the band returns, when a knock booms on the door. Dang. I contemplated too long. They must be back. Thinking Sam or Justin forgot his room key, I march over to the door and whip it open.
My eyes widen at the sight of the person standing in the hall. It can’t be him but it is. Shock like the sizzle of lightning courses through my veins. Seriously, I’m about to faint like a Southern belle in an old movie.