I turn on my heel and the hopeful hazel eyes of the auburn-haired stranger nail me. It’s hard to keep my gaze on her cute face when her long legs are showcased in tiny jean shorts. It doesn’t help that her button’s undone, exposing a tease of her tanned mid-rift and black panties. Her tight, threadbare t-shirt and well-worn cowboy boots finish off her youthful, fun vibe.
A warm, soft breeze sweeps her long locks into her face. Brushing the strands away, she nibbles on her lower lip. She appears forlorn, like she’s the one destitute on the side of the road.
My resolve is crumbling with the innocence radiating off her. She may be whacky, but not in a fear-for-your-life sort of way. My guess is she’s just scattered and wasn’t trying to hit me.
Besides, I do need a ride, and I have no cell phone. It’s one long-ass walk to get to the town where the bus is; best-case scenario, it’ll take me the entire night.
“Eyes on the road and no talking,” I order.
“Yes, I promise. I’m Pansy.” She extends her hand.
With a curt handshake, I contemplate lying about my name, but she doesn’t appear to know who I am. She’s a stranger, and we likely won’t be together long enough for her to figure it out—if she hasn’t already.
“Silas,” I introduce myself as I head for the car, thinking this ride might be the beginning of my final hours on this earth. I have no clue what I’m in for with this crazy chick.
We drive in silence for maybe ten minutes—though I might be generously exaggerating—before she starts talking, or more like rambling.
“So, Silas, where are you headed?”
“I thought you promised no talking,” I remind her.
Her pink, bow-shaped lips puff out a sigh as she confesses, “I suck at no talking, especially when I’m nervous.”
Her being nervous leaves me queasy. Fuck. Who knows what disaster she could cause with her nerves frazzled? I imagine a major pile-up shutting down the highway for hours. I better ease her anxiety.
“Next town.”
“What?” She’s puzzled.
“Where I’m headed, the next town.” By design, my answer is vague. “I need to get there fast.”
“How fast?”
Shit, why’d I say fast? “The sooner the better, but no speeding or driving like a madwoman.”
“Ha. Funny.” She chuckles. “There’s a shortcut up ahead that’ll save us about an hour. The road’s desolate, a lot less traffic.”
I like the sound of that. “Fine.”
Anticipating my return to the tour bus is both a relief and a burden. I want to explain to the band. I’m hoping since they’ll have had time to cool down, they’ll be willing to hear me out, but the real question is if they’ll listen to what I have to say.
“Why were you hitching?”
Sighing, I scrub my hand down my face. She’s not going to shut up. “It’s a long story and I’d rather not get into it,” I clip, hoping my annoyance will do the trick. No such luck.
“Just curious because I can’t figure out why the lead singer of Trojan would be hitchhiking.”
Shit. She’s smarter than she acts. I had no clue she knew who I was. “When did you figure it out?”
“I knew you looked familiar when I first saw you, and then it hit me as we were talking.”
This broad puzzles me. If she knew who I was, I’m surprised she didn’t try to take a picture, ask for an autograph, or maul me—which happens more often than I like to admit. “Why didn’t you say something or go all fangirl?”
She grimaces before glancing back at the road. “Well … I’m not a fan.”
Raising my eyebrows, I laugh. I love how blunt she is. It’s a welcomed change from all the ass-kissing.
“Okay, I can appreciate that. So, if Trojan isn’t your kind of thing, what kind of music do you like?”
“Um, I’d rather not say. I don’t want to insult you or tick you off. You’re talented and millions of people around the world love you guys. It’s just not my thing. Besides, why do you care about what I like? You have countless adoring fans.”
Again, I laugh at her candidness. “True,” I respond unapologetically.
Fame comes with a price, though. In the beginning, I lived for all that shit, the fame and the glory, but now that’s what I want to get away from. It’s why I dropped the bomb on the guys. It’s why I find myself in this car with a pretty, quirky, and possibly crazy woman.
“I do want to know who I’ve lost one potential fan to,” I jest.
Rolling her eyes, she smirks. “My all-time favorite rock star is Eddie Vedder, and before you say anything, I’m twenty-seven and my older sister introduced me to Pearl Jam. It’s not the band per se, it’s him.” Her voice is dreamy, the gifted musician obviously on her mind.
“Good choice. Who else?”
“I’m more a Civil Wars or Lumineers kind of girl.”
Nodding, my gaze lingers on Pansy longer than it should. I find her direct nature refreshing and she’s definitely interesting, though I’m still a bit leery. She’s unpredictable.
She’s cute with creamy skin and a light sprinkle of brown freckles on her cheeks and her small, upturned nose. Together with her doe eyes and dewy glow, she appears younger than she is. I’m guessing she’s not wearing any makeup, except for a light pink gloss on her pretty bow lips.
Normally, I wouldn’t look twice. She’s too fresh, too bright, too innocent for me—but right now, I can’t deny that I’m enjoying the view. Always on tour doesn’t lend itself to having a girlfriend, so I’ve gotten used to the groupies.
I tend to gravitate toward the in-your-face type of woman—it’s just easier to get off and get out. I cringe at that pathetic truth; if I’m honest, it disgusts me.
“You know what? I do like one of your songs,” she adds. “Actually, like is too tame a word—I love it. I was so surprised to find out it was a Trojan song.”
Feigning she’s stabbed me in the heart, my hands clutch my chest. “Stop, woman, you’re killing me. This is brutal. You’re worse than our harshest critics.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, you can’t leave me hanging. I must know which song you love.” I grin.
“Only. It’s so poetic and moving, and every single word speaks to me. I totally understand how it is to feel alone, all the time.”
Her confession is both unsettling and uplifting.
“I wrote that song.”
A strange tingling sensation fills my chest. I’m moved by the reverence in her tone. The song never did as well as we’d hoped, a departure from our more upbeat rock tunes. While the critics loved it, fan reception was lukewarm.
It’s a personal song, one I wrote around the time I started questioning if I still wanted to be a rock star. It can be a lonely life—it’s tough to be thirty, in your prime, and all alone.
“Did you?” Contemplating, she regards me, not the rock star, but me, Silas Palmer, the guy. “It’s beautiful.”
Unique
Wow. I’m blown away to discover one of my favorite songs was written by the man sitting next to me. Squirming in his seat, he’s likely uncomfortable with the adoration plastered on my face.
“So, Pansy’s an unusual name. There’s gotta be a story behind it,” he inquires, cutting through my thoughts.
“There is.” I frown. Of all the things to talk about, they always ask about my name.
“Care to share?” he pushes.
“Not really.”
Shaking my head, I stare out at the dark, desolate road. We’ve been driving for over an hour, and the sun set not too long ago. It dawns on me that taking this shortcut wasn’t smart because there aren’t many rest stops, and I need to pee.
“C’mon, you promised not to talk and that’s all you’ve been doing. The least you can do is answer my question.”
“Fine,” I relent. I guess he’s right considering I almost hit him. “My mom was following tradition. My grandmother had thi
s whole flower, nature thing going on with her daughters’ names. My mom was Rose, my aunt was Lily, and my oldest sister is Ivy.”
She’s the smart one, a neurologist, and the one to ream me out for all my screw-ups. Our mom passed away when I was twenty-two, and she’s since appointed herself my mother.
“Then, there’s Poppy.” The one with a heart of gold. “She’s in Africa building schools. Daisy’s next, she’s a model in Europe.” The beautiful one. “That leaves me, the youngest, and the one stuck with the oddest name.” I weakly chuckle.
“Pansy’s not stupid, it’s unique.”
That’s what my mom would say. Pansies were her favorite flower, and she said she had girl after girl, but the name never fit until me. She used to say, “Pansies are beautiful, unique, and resilient like you, my girl.”
I miss my mom. I should be satisfied with what she thought of me, but it’s not easy when others think you’re the flighty one, the stupid one. I could go on, but this line of thinking only puts me in a foul mood.
I need to be positive for Silas, to make it up to him. He’s having a hard time if his deep sighs and clenched jaw are any indication.
“Whatever. So tell me, why you were hitching?”
Like me in response to his inquiries, it’s evident he doesn’t want to talk about it. His fists curl and he turns toward the window. Stealing a few glimpses while his attention’s diverted, it’s hard to miss how good-looking he is.
He’s got the whole hot-rock-star thing down to a tee with his long hair, piercing eyes, and neatly trimmed beard. His faded blue jeans mold to his toned thighs, and his black t-shirt fits his solid chest perfectly.
He’s casual, his clothes like a second skin. Both wrists sport thin, brown leather bands, and his long fingers tell their own story with calloused tips from playing the guitar.
Clearing his throat, he turns to me. My attention’s on the road, but his heated gaze blazes a path along my skin.
“I had news that the guys didn’t want to hear. They got angry and kicked me off the bus.”
“What did you say?” I ask without caring that I’m prying.
“Um …” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. Our eyes lock, his gaze measured like he’s considering whether he can trust me with what he’s about to say. “I, uh, I told them I want out of Trojan.”
For most people, they might need a minute to gather their thoughts, a moment of silence. Not me. Like a bull seeing red, I barrel ahead.
“What? No!” I shriek without considering how judgemental I might sound. “I’m mean, sorry, you do what you have to, but you guys are wildly successful. Why would you end it all?”
“I’m not telling them to end Trojan, I’m walking away. They can go on without me and find another lead singer.”
“Not possible.” I can’t imagine they’d find someone more talented than the songwriter of Only.
He chuckles. “You don’t even like our songs. You can’t say that.”
“Yes, I can. You’re hugely talented. Why would you walk away from it all?”
“I don’t want the fame. It’s taken me so far away from why I started the band.” He sighs like he’s released a huge burden by saying it out loud.
“What would you do then?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. Something to do with music, but what, I’m not sure.”
“Wow. And your band didn’t take the news well?”
“That’s an understatement. I’ve never seen them so pissed at me, and we’ve had our moments. All three of them wanted me off the bus. It didn’t help that Jared was out of his mind on molly. He threatened bodily harm. Even though I tried to resist, I never stood a chance. It was three against one. The fuckers left me on the side of the road with no phone, no water. They didn’t even care how the hell I was going to get home.”
“Is that where you’re headed?”
“Yep. We just finished our North American tour and I figured now was the time to tell them. They were already talking about getting back into the studio to write another album. I couldn’t listen to it.”
He tugs at his bun and wild golden tresses tumble to his shoulders. Usually, I don’t go for guys with long hair—only women should have long hair—yet for the life of me, I can’t make sense of that logic as my heart flutters at sexy Silas Palmer with golden locks framing his handsome face.
He’s exquisite, and nothing like Cody, my ex-boyfriend of two years. He’s shorter than Silas by a few inches, wider, stockier, and his white-blond hair is clipped to less than an inch from his scalp. I wouldn’t say Cody was my type either, but his boyish charm got me.
A lot of good that did me. He ended up sleeping with his boss, a woman twenty years older and married. I have no clue what’s going on in his head and while I felt humiliated, I didn’t love him. That was obvious when I discovered them in our bed. Sadly, I’d been using him.
He had a condo, a steady job, and could be fun, whereas I’d dropped out of my second college program. Yes, you heard me—college at my age, and no medical or legal degree to show for it.
Since graduating high school, I’ve tried to figure out what I want to do with my life. At twenty-seven, I couldn’t argue with Ivy when she said I should have that figured out by now. She’s right.
Thankfully, I spot a rest stop ahead. It’s only a gas station and convenience store, but it’ll have to do. We’re about two hours from our destination, I need to pee, and I’m starving.
“I’m stopping here.” I turn into the parking lot.
“Good idea, I’ve gotta piss.” He jumps out before the car comes to a complete stop and by the time I turn off the ignition, he’s already inside.
When I return with my stash of food, Silas is leaning on the car. I wanted something warm, but all they had were nasty hot dogs that were more decayed than the walking dead. As I near him, he pops the final bite of a dog in his mouth. Yuck.
“How could you eat that? Gross.” I shiver.
“It wasn’t that bad.” He shrugs.
“Don’t complain to me when your stomach aches. I don’t want to hear it.”
We hop into the car and start on the road again as Silas delves into the plastic bag.
“So, what’d you get?” He names each item he pulls out of the bag. “Twizzlers, salt and vinegar chips, sour keys, peanut M&Ms, water. You didn’t get any protein—how do you expect any of this to fill you up?”
“What are you talking about? The peanuts will.” I don’t need him criticizing my food choices. “Can you please open the chips for me?”
While he disses my lack of nutrition, he has no problem eating my food. We snack and chat about nothing and everything—movies, what we like, what we don’t. He confesses he hasn’t seen a movie in over three years then talks about touring and the lifestyle he leads. While at first, glamorous, it would be exhausting after a while.
Then the topic of food comes up, more specifically, our favorite foods. No surprise, the pound of sugar I just consumed is an anchor in my belly. Why is it when you’re starving, food pops into your mind? It’s pure torture.
As he licks the salt from his fingers, the smacking of his lips gets my attention, and the pink tip of his tongue swirls around his finger as ripples of excitement shoot through my stomach like he’s licking me.
Eyes on the road, Pansy. Eyes on the road.
Brave
“Why are you out here?”
“What?” She sips from the water bottle. “My mouth’s wrung out from the sugar and salt.”
“I bet.” I smirk. She hoovered not only the chips, but also the whole pack of Twizzlers. “Why are you out here on this road tonight?”
“Um, that’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.”
“Come on, I thought we were friends,” I cajole, nudging her shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Fine, but I’m keeping it simple and quick, and don’t interrupt. Actually, don’t say a thing even when I’m done.”
“Got it.
” I make the Boy Scout sign with my fingers. She rolls her eyes, correctly guessing I was never a Boy Scout.
“I’m heading out on a new start. My life is a mess. I’ve been unable to finish a college degree, and not because my grades suck. They’re excellent. It’s because I can’t make my mind up.
“I took a couple years after high school to figure out what interested me, and I thought I’d found my passion in event planning so I enrolled in a hospitality program. It took two years to figure out I’d made a bad choice. I’m not a planner. How I thought I could plan huge events and organize all the vendors and details down to the second is beyond me. I then took another couple years to decide I wanted to be a nurse, but again, I wasn’t cut out for needles, blood, and people dying. I was miserable, so I dropped out—”
“I’m sensing a pattern here,” I interject, unable to resist, although I should keep quiet. I’m fascinated by her story.
“Uh-uh, you promised not to say a word. One more thing out of your mouth and I stop talking.”
I almost challenge her by saying I’d like to see that because I doubt she can be quiet. It’s obvious her story is hard for her to share—she’s wearing down the wheel with her roaming hands. I’m guessing she considers herself a failure because of her lack of direction.
To me, she’s brave enough to try new things, to want to find her true passion. I lost mine for the band years ago and kept my mouth shut for too long—so long, I ended up blurting out my departure to my band mates and closest friends. No wonder they kicked me out.
“Anyway, I’m now less than two weeks out of college and back to square one. About a week ago, I came home early to find my boyfriend in bed with another woman. Even though I wanted to leave, I didn’t have anywhere to go. He said I could stay until I figured things out, but that was his guilt talking, and it was such a bad idea. Two days ago, he kicked me out. His new girlfriend didn’t like me still living with him, and frankly, neither did I, so I had to go. Then …” She hesitates. “You know what? Forget it. That’s enough humiliation for one lifetime.”
Love Happens Page 39