I scoff, and Arrow shoots me a glare. “What?” I demand. “You do realize how many times he’s said that, don’t you?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” Killer grumbles.
“I’ll talk however loud I want. This is my RV. What are you doing in here, anyway?”
Killer shrugs his shoulders and winces. “Tony and Arrow were talking in ours. Really, really loudly.”
I raise an eyebrow at Arrow, and he gives me a thin smile. “I was distracting Tony while you got Ali into the RV.” He nibbles uncertainly at his lip. “You’re sure you want to keep all this from him?”
“Positive,” I say. “He’s too good at his job. If he thinks Ali is any type of threat to my reputation, he’ll report her.”
Arrow shrugs, but doesn’t disagree. I turn my attention back to Killer. “So you decided to crash in my RV? Without permission?”
“Yup. Besides, your pillows are comfier,” he says, like this is some sort of excuse.
Arrow smirks at me, and I throw him a half-hearted glare. Killer is a nuisance and an ass, but he’s also loyal and devoted. Mostly to Arrow, but also to Tone Deaf. We never would have gotten the band off the ground without his tech skills.
“Next time, ask,” I say.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Our conversation is interrupted by coughing coming from the bathroom. A second later, I hear a faint splashing sound and try not to cringe.
Arrow raises an eyebrow at me. “Your girl bulimic?”
“She’s not my girl. Not by a long shot. And, no, I think she’s just getting over the flu.”
Liar, liar, liar. I grit my teeth against the fit my conscience is throwing. Sure, my conscience is about the size of a pea, but the little thing is devoted to my band. Lies don’t work well in our musical family.
But I can’t just blurt out the truth: that Ali doesn’t have the flu, that she’s terrified and worried and hurting. I recognize that expression she was wearing earlier, the one that probably just looks stressed to most people. But not to me. I can see the pain in the lines of her small frown, the anxiety in the way her eyes squint just a little. The expression screams of abuse, and years of it.
But it’s not my place to start blabbering about that. Chances are, Arrow will know I’m lying the moment he sees Ali and realizes how completely freaked out she is. But, for now, I’m not going to say a single word more about her abuse than absolutely necessary. Earlier, she’d seemed embarrassed when I mentioned that the band knew why she was running away, and I don’t want to make her feel any worse.
I glance toward the bathroom, wondering if I should go check on her. If she’s secluded herself in there, she probably doesn’t want to be bothered. But I also don’t want her to feel alone. I get the feeling she’s dealt with too much loneliness already.
Arrow grunts, bringing me back to our conversation. “Great. You brought a sick girl on board. What happens if she gives it to us all, and we miss the next concert?”
“Stop being a pessimist,” I snap.
“I’m just taking over for you,” Arrow says. “You’re always Mr. Worst Case Scenario, but that seems to have flown out the door since this girl showed up. That and your logic.”
I stand from the couch and head toward the bathroom. “I’m going to check on her.”
When I reach the bathroom, I gently knock on the door. “Ali? You okay?” I immediately feel like an idiot. She’s deaf. What am I expecting, for her to actually hear me? I knock harder, sending vibrations through the wall. A long second passes, and then the lock clicks, and Ali opens the door just a crack.
“Are you okay?” I repeat. “I heard you throw up.”
“I’m fine.” Her response is mumbled and scratchy.
“Liar,” I say.
Hypocrite, my conscience replies.
I sigh and lean against the doorframe, resting my head against the cool paneling. Then I raise my hands and sign, “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“You’re sure you don’t want a drink or something? I have a glass of water for you out here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You already told me that. And I already called you a liar.”
“Just go away.”
“You know, you’re in my RV. You can’t exactly start bossing me around.”
She bites her lip and looks down, and immediately, I feel like a jerk. Scratch that; I know I’m a jerk. What’s my problem, anyway? There must be something wrong with me, if I keep upsetting this girl. Not that I wasn’t aware of that before, but being a jerk has never felt bad. It’s felt comfortable and vital to survival. Now it just feels . . . wrong.
I shake away the thought and ask, “Do you want to go take a nap? You look like you haven’t slept much.”
She blushes in embarrassment and quickly rubs at her face, as if she’s trying to brush away her obvious exhaustion. She looks cute like that, all flustered and freckly. I’ve never liked freckles before, but hers are pale and sparse, and they’re kind of . . . adorable, I guess.
It’s a strange contrast to the rest of her. There’s nothing adorable about her oval face and refined features, or her dark auburn hair. No, not adorable. Just beautiful.
I take a step back. No, no, no. I’m not going to do this. I’m keeping this relationship completely, utterly platonic. Period.
“I’m fi—” She cuts off and sighs. “I’m good. I can just, um, hang out by the couches. Or the kitchen. Wherever I won’t get in the way.”
I push the door the rest of the way open, and Ali shuffles her feet so she faces the door of the RV, like she’s considering bolting. I step in front of her and do my best to offer a small smile. Her expression stays scared, telling me that the Friendly Jace look has failed. Time for tactic number two.
“Look, I told you that I was going to help you get to safety. Remember? And that means I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you. Got it?”
Her eyes grow wide, and for a moment, I think she might actually go along with it. Then her eyes narrow and she says, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I shrug.
She sidesteps away from me. “I’m about to travel across the country with you, Jace. I want more than that.”
For a brief moment, I consider telling her everything. About the pain and the fear and the anger, and how I understand in the most unfortunate way possible. But I shake away the thought. I don’t ever talk about that shit, and I’m not going to start now. “Well, you’re not going to get it,” I say.
Her lips purse into another frown, and I groan without moving my mouth. Damn it. Why can’t I just be nice for once? But, no, it’s like I’m hardwired to be a jerk.
I gently grasp her shoulders, and this time, she hardly flinches. I turn her around until she’s facing the short hallway leading to my bedroom in the very back of the RV. I point to it and step forward so she can see my hands clearly. “You should go take a nap. You look like you’re about to collapse.”
She eyes the door hesitantly. “Is that your room?”
“Yes.”
“Then no thanks.”
I roll my eyes, not even hiding it this time. Then I sign, “I’ll take Cuddles out, and you can lock the door. We’ll all stay out here.”
She stares hard at my bedroom door. “Promise? You promise to stay away?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I promise.”
She nods, but her eyes narrow a little, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am: all she has to protect her is the word of a random dude she barely knows. A random dude publicly known for being a jerk and a player.
But it’s the best she’s going to get, and she seems to realize this, because she hesitantly shrugs in what I assume is resignation. I jog to the door and open it, finding Cuddles lying in the doorway, staring up with a pitiful expression. She’s used to being the center of my attention when we’re on the road, and she’s probably not very happy about having Ali onboard. But my do
g is going to have to buck up, because Ali is sticking around, as long as I have a say in it.
I shoo Cuddles out of the room, and she trots off toward the kitchen. Ali cringes away from my dog, but then she turns to me and gives a nod of thanks. I shrug and walk back toward the couches, leaving Ali to nap. She disappears into my bedroom, and as she closes the door, I hear the lock click into place.
My chest starts hurting again.
14
ALI
WHEN I OPEN my eyes, everything is wrong. The ceiling isn’t the right shade of white, and it’s too low. The walls are painted bright green, instead of the soft beige of my bedroom. Even the scent is wrong; my room is supposed to smell like pencil shavings and laundry detergent and that unmistakable odor of an overheated computer. This room smells like cologne and some sort of wood varnish. It smells like a . . . guy.
Then it hits me:
The concert. Tone Deaf. Running away. Jace.
A sudden burst of anxiety hits me, and my chest feels impossibly tight as the reality of my situation strikes me. I’m on the run with a guy who’s practically a stranger. And if that’s not bad enough, any minute now my dad is going to be figuring out that I’m gone, and he’s not going to give up on finding me.
I close my eyes, concentrating on slowing my frantic breaths. There’s nothing I can do now to make things better, so I just need to focus on staying hidden away and out of my dad’s reach. I’m way too far into this to ditch my plans of escape.
I glance over to the door and find it still locked, which gives me a little relief. Jace kept his promise to leave me alone in here. As I toss the sheet off, I look down at my clothes and grimace. They’re damp with sweat, probably from the nightmares I was having. Definitely time for a change.
The room shakes a little, and I throw out an arm to steady myself. We must be moving. I mean, this is an RV after all. As my heart calms down a little, I notice the steady flow of vibrations running through the floor, probably from the engine. It’s official: we’re on the road, and I’m actually running away.
I gulp in a deep breath and decide I can second-guess myself and freak out about the situation later. For now, I’m sweaty and thirsty and hungry, and I need to do something about that.
I creep outside the room, relieved when I don’t see anyone. They must still be in the front of the RV, where those couches are. Should I join them? Or should I wait for Jace to come get me, to make sure I don’t intrude on anything? I shuffle my feet and peer around, hoping for some sort of clue about what to do. My breath catches when I glance out the tiny window above the front door and see the setting sun. Have I really been asleep all day?
The RV jostles as it hits a pothole, making me stumble and bump against the wall. I curse and then bite my lip. Did anyone hear that? One of the worst parts about being deaf is not being able to control my volume level. It’s hard to tell how loudly I’m talking when I can’t hear myself, and my anxiety isn’t making it any easier.
I give a frustrated groan—not too loudly—and then rush into the bathroom. Relief courses through me as I spot my duffle still tucked in the corner, undisturbed.
I grab the bag and dig through for another change of clothes, quickly settling on a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt. I take a deep breath and stare into the mirror, cringing at the mess that looks back at me. My hair is all ruffled, and without makeup to hide it, my skin is freakishly pale, except where it’s blotched with dark bruises. I curse again, unable to stop myself, and do my best to quickly fix my hair. Cleaning up further will have to wait until I get something to eat. I’m starving and my mouth is totally dry, reminding me of my long trek to the stadium.
I hesitantly undo the lock and step out of the bathroom. The RV feels strange under my feet as the floor rocks softly, the rumbling engine creating a steady stream of vibrations. I glance out the window and see desert rushing past—sand and rocks, and more sand and more rocks. It seems endless.
New York has never felt farther away.
I shudder and tread down the short hallway leading to the room with the couches. Killer is sitting at the desk in the far corner with a laptop. He’s wearing nerd glasses and squinting at the screen, and the way his wrist expertly flicks around the mouse tells me he’s experienced with computers. Strange. I didn’t think rock stars could be geeks.
Killer doesn’t notice me, and I nervously shuffle my feet as I consider what to do. I could just nonchalantly say, “Hey,” and pretend I belong here. Or I could introduce myself properly, which I never got a chance to do earlier. Although I’m not even sure how I’d do that. Hello, I’m Ali, a random chick who will be stowing away here for a bit. Pleasure to meet you. Sorry I’ve never listened to even a second of your music. Yeah, there’s nothing I can say without being awkward.
Before I can force any words out of my mouth, more vibrations move across the floor, and I look up to find Arrow striding out of the kitchen and toward me. Heat instantly floods my cheeks, and I grit my teeth. Last time I saw Arrow, it was when Jace had flipped me off. Not the most elegant of introductions.
Arrow seems about as happy to see me as I am to see him. He tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. “Well,” he says, “if it isn’t Jace’s little sailor.”
I’m about to ask him what he means, when I remember my curses from before.
Oh. Right.
“Where’s Jace?” I ask. I try to keep my feet still, but they just keep shuffling, giving away my anxiety. Arrow’s posture remains rigid and unfriendly, and I can’t help noticing that he has quite a bit of muscle. I watch his fists carefully in the corner of my eye as I wait for his reply, unable to stop myself from the habit.
Arrow inclines his head toward the front of the RV. “Jace is taking a shift driving.”
I nod and force in a deep breath. Okay, so I’m stuck with two strangers in a small, isolated room that Jace definitely isn’t in. I can handle this. After all, if Jace is going through all this trouble to help me, it’s not like he’s going to leave me alone with guys who are actually a threat.
I edge toward the couch facing the desk, and Arrow moves toward the one opposite of it. We both sit at the same time, me barely touching the cushions, and Arrow falling back heavily into them. The message is clear:
He belongs here. I don’t.
Killer finally tears his attention from the computer and toward me, spinning his chair away from the desk as he offers me a wide smile. Relief trickles through me, slowing my pounding heart. At least someone is happy to see me.
Killer pushes his glasses up his nose in a practiced way that tells me he’s been wearing them forever, and doesn’t use them just for style. Then he strides over to me and extends his hand. “We haven’t properly met.”
His lips move slightly differently, and I can tell that he has a pretty strong accent. Which just makes him all the more interesting. Now that he’s not hungover, I’m surprised to find that he’s far from shabby looking. I can’t tell what race he is—maybe Asian, maybe African American, maybe both. Whatever he is, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Not really a handsome type of gorgeous, but a more delicate type, the kind that would make most girls jealous.
“Hi,” I say and hesitantly give him a little wave. But I don’t take his hand. My nerves still feel overloaded with anxiety, and touching people is the last thing I want right now.
Killer doesn’t skip a beat when I reject his handshake. He just sticks his hands in his pockets and settles next to me on the couch, sitting way, way too close. I frown at him and scooch away. It’s not his fault that I don’t like being close to people, but still, this is definitely uncomfortably close, even for normal people.
Again, Killer hardly seems to notice my reaction and just keeps smiling. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the silhouette of a white bow tie at the top. In bold letters, the shirt reads, BOW TIES ARE COOL. My frown disappears as I recognize the saying from my favorite TV show. Yeah, Killer is definitely a geek-in-disguise.
&nb
sp; “So,” Killer says, “what’s your name, little stowaway?”
I’m guessing he already knows my name, and is just trying to be polite by asking, but that just makes me like him even more.
“I’m Ali Collins.”
A smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s merely amused and not at all scathing. “Ali Collins? Come on, can you get more generic than that?”
I roll my eyes. If anyone else had asked that, I would have bitten their head off—Collins is my mom’s name, and one of the last things I have left of her. And she chose the name “Alison” for me, which somehow makes it special, even if it is generic. But I can’t get mad, not with Killer’s goofy shirt and smile so close. “It’s not like I got to choose my name,” I say.
He laughs a little. “Well, I guess that makes it more acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” I repeat. “You’re one to be talking. Who names their kid ‘Killer’?”
“I was really bad at keeping my pet goldfish alive when I was little.”
On the other couch, Arrow cracks a small smile. But it’s strained, and as he stares at me, I avoid his harsh gaze. He nods to Killer. “Don’t listen to him. His real name is Kilimanjaro.”
I raise my eyebrows at Killer. “Wow. That’s almost worse.”
He sighs and holds his hands up, like he’s surrendering to the terrible naming skills of his parents. “Totally not my fault I was adopted by hippies.” He points to his boyfriend. “Arrow started calling me Kilim when we were like sixteen.”
“Which Jace quickly turned into Kill ’Em, and then to Killer,” Arrow explains.
“And it stuck,” Killer says.
It’s kind of cute how they keep finishing each other’s sentences. They sound like an old married couple, which I guess they pretty much are. Well, not technically married, and definitely not old. But according to Avery, Killer and Arrow have been boyfriends since the very start of their band.
Damn, I wish I could talk to Avery. It hasn’t even been a day, and I already miss her excited babbling about Tone Deaf, something I never thought I’d want to hear. I think she was already asleep when I sent that message last night, otherwise she would have come over and demanded to speak to me. But I’m sure she got the message this morning, and I cringe as I think of how worried she must be.
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