by Lisa Suzanne
He shrugs with nonchalance, but it’s clear he’s hiding how deep his feelings run on this. That’s something I need to tap into—those emotions he hides. I know he has them because we all do. If I can just get into his head a little, I might find the way to his heart.
“He went to jail, and as soon as he got out, he showed up again. If Chuck hadn’t been there that night, I don’t know what might have happened.”
We’re quiet for a while as he ruminates on that.
“I’m glad he was there,” I finally say, and I mean it. I squeeze his hand, and he glances over at me.
“Me, too,” he says, and he squeezes my hand back.
It’s all so surreal—climbing a mountain with the man who set so many figurative mountains in my path, holding hands and squeezing hands, holding hearts and squeezing into hearts at the same time. A rush of emotion fills my chest with giddiness, and I wish I could say it’s because I’m getting through to him. He’s telling me things that should remain private. He’s trusting me.
But it’s all a lie. He’s giving into a lie, believing me, and while that’s everything I’ve ever wanted, it leaves me feeling more than a little empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MACI
Our next two tour stops, Salt Lake City and Denver, go off without a hitch as Ethan and I continue to get to know each other, but tonight as I made my way back to my bus and passed by his, I heard the same noises I heard back in Phoenix. So while he appears to be into me from his flirty banter and hand-holding ways, he’s still sleeping with other girls, and he’s not hiding it.
We’ve got an overnight trip to Dallas, so rather than stop by his bus and interrupt him in the middle of his sexcapades, I head to my bus with disappointment heavy in my heart, just like when I heard the moaning and groaning back in Phoenix.
I want it to be me, and I’m not sure I fully understand the implications of that. Sure, it’s part of why I’m here…but it’s already starting to feel like it’s more than that and we’re still at the beginning of the tour.
I can’t let it be more than that. My mom deserves more. Sweet and innocent little Dani deserves more. I deserve more.
I push away the disappointment and sketch a bit, and I must fall asleep because the persistent pounding at my door confuses me before it wakes me. I open my eyes and squint in the brightness of the bedside lamp I left on, normally dim but like a goddamn spotlight after waking from a dead sleep. I grab my phone from the nightstand and squint some more at the time. It’s only been an hour since I walked away from Ethan’s bus and my eyes are dry from sleeping in my contacts.
“What?” I yell, assuming it’s Griff.
There’s a beat of silence, and then a semi-awkward voice says, “It’s Ethan. Can you let me in?”
I swipe at the residue of make-up that’s surely painted beneath my eyes and hope for the best as I stand up and walk over to the door.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask.
The bus bumps beneath me. I peer out the door beyond Ethan, but the cabin is empty save for Tony at the steering wheel. I can just barely see the top of his head over the privacy glass.
“Are we moving?” I ask. I reach for the doorframe to steady myself.
Ethan nods. “I sent your—assistant? What is he? Manager? Anyway, I sent him to my bus. We’re on our way to Dallas.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the next ten hours, and then we’ll have to make a stop so the drivers can rest.”
“You woke me up to tell me we’re on our way to Dallas?”
He nods. “And I’m riding with you. Alone. Just the two of us.”
“Why?”
He eyes me up and down, a clear sexual invitation, but when his gaze lands on mine, his eyes are earnest. “Because I want to talk to you.”
“If you want to talk to someone, go find that tail you were screwing earlier, or even the one you were screwing in Phoenix,” I mutter. It’s a stupid comment to make. For one, surely he’ll leave whoever she was here in Denver, but for another, it’s an admission I know he was banging someone on his bus an hour ago.
His brows draw down. “What tail?”
I draw in a deep breath through my mouth and let it out my nose. Still no help. I may as well admit at this point that the breathing exercise just doesn’t work. “I heard you on your bus when I passed by earlier.”
His brows draw further in. “Heard me?” A light suddenly dawns. “Oh!” He laughs.
“You just remembered you were fucking someone?”
He shakes his head as he laughs some more. “No. I haven’t fucked anyone since before this tour started. I’ve been denying tail left and right just so I could come over here and seduce you. But I will admit I watched porn earlier. I figured if I jerked off, I’d last longer with you.”
I can’t suppress a laugh. “You think I’m going to let you fuck me?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You feel it too, Maci. Admit it.” His voice is soft.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel anything except annoyed that you woke me up.”
“You will.” He says it so simply I’m almost inclined to believe him.
“You keep saying that. Why are you bothering with me when you can have anyone?”
“I’m not sure.” He pauses then adds, “You seem like a challenge. Everything else has just been too easy lately.” It feels like a lie—there’s something more beneath his words, but I let it slide.
“What happens after we fuck?” I ask, genuinely curious to hear his answer.
“We clean up the mess.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, taking his words literally and ignoring the figurative meaning they’re laden with because it will be a mess considering how closely we have to work together for the next two months. “You’re disgusting.”
He nods. “Yeah, I know. I admit it. But I like you, and I think we could have a lot of fun together.”
“Once.”
He shrugs. “At least once.” An odd bit of hope I wasn’t expecting lances through me. He’s open to more than once with me—something he doesn’t do with other girls. I’m different…and that’s exactly what I need to be to get his attention. “Then we take it from there. I’m not asking you for a relationship, Maci. I’m just asking if you want to have some fun with me.”
“I gotta hand it to you, Fuller, you’re sure persistent.”
He grins. “And adorable.”
I shake my head. “You’re definitely something.”
“Is that a yes?”
I roll my eyes but I open my door a little wider. “Seduce me. Give me your best.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
I raise a brow. “You said you want a challenge.”
He laughs and walks into my bedroom. He heads straight for my bed and takes a seat. “Tell me about your childhood.”
I make a face at him and pretend like my heart didn’t just leap out of my chest at his words. Why’d he choose my childhood as his first topic of discussion? “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you’re trying to seduce me, you’re going about it all wrong.” I stand in my doorway with my arms folded over my chest.
“I thought girls liked talking about that kind of shit.”
“First, make no mistake. I’m not a girl. I’m a woman who can fuck you up like you wouldn’t believe.” I’m surprised at my own honesty.
He presses his lips together. “I don’t doubt that for a second.” His voice is soft, and he averts his eyes to the window—fruitlessly, really, because the shades are drawn and he’d be looking out into the blackness of night anyway. Anything not to look at me when he’s giving away a truth of his heart.
“Tell me about your childhood.” I close the door then collapse next to him on my bed.
He laughs. “Not much to tell.”
“Everyone has a story,” I say softly, trying to betray with my tone it’s okay if he tells me his. I w
onder how much of mine to share. I can give him just enough information to soften him and get him where I want him before I drop the bomb on him.
But I can’t drop that bomb until the end of the tour. They’ll kick me off, surely, and I can’t do that to my fans.
He lifts a shoulder and I study his back as I stretch comfortably into my pillow. He hasn’t moved, and the outline of his shoulders in the dim light of my bedroom is masculine and strong. His head is bent down as if he’s trying to battle against the weight pressing down on him.
He heaves in a deep breath. “I basically raised my little sister. My mom did the best she could, but she was constantly in and out of relationships.”
“What about your dad?” I ask.
His shoulders lift lightly in a shrug. “Never knew him.”
I almost slip. I thought he was in jail. Maybe it’s better for him to alter his past in order to deal with it.
“How many siblings do you have?”
He turns to glance at me. “Three.”
“How old?” I only knew Zoey, so the others must be younger.
“The one closest in age is two years younger than me. The two younger ones are fifteen and sixteen.”
I do the math in my head quickly. His mom had two more kids when he was around twenty, and for whatever reason, he considers himself their caregiver.
“How old are you?” I ask as if I don’t know.
“Thirty-six. My mom was only sixteen when she had me.” We’re both quiet for a beat, and then he glances back at me. “Tell me about your family.”
I sigh. “Only child. Great, supportive parents. I didn’t grow up with daddy issues. Those came later in life.”
He chuckles and scoots up the bed until he’s lying on the pillow next to mine. We both turn onto our sides, facing each other. His blue eyes pry into mine almost painfully.
“Supportive parents? What was that like?”
“They wanted my happiness above all else. They allowed me to attend a music charter school. Paid for me to get into a great college.” It’s well-documented I attended the University of Michigan, so I have no reason to deny that. I was Maci Dane by then. I’m teetering on a terrifying line here as I start to delve into the past. “I chose Michigan because I thought it could advance my career.”
“Did it?”
I shrug as I try to push away the painful memories of losing my mom. “I learned a lot, but I still had to work my way up.” I want to tell him more—how I ran from a boy and how I’m still running but I’ve lost all sense of direction.
We’re quiet for a few beats. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask.
His eyes take on shadows of a painful past. “Once. Or, at least I thought it was love,” he says. He shakes his head a little. “It could have been love if we’d been given the chance, I guess. You?”
“There’s only one boy I ever thought I loved with that all-consuming kind of passion I want for my life. But he broke my heart.” I fail to mention he’s sitting in front of me, but I tread the terrifying line anyway. “So I ran from him as hard and as fast as I could.”
“Why’d he break your heart?” He looks genuinely curious, and I can’t believe I’m telling him the story of us and he doesn’t even know.
I shrug. “Something I’ve always wondered.” I change the subject before I go too far down the road, but I can tell I’ve ignited something more than curiosity in him. Maybe compassion, maybe sympathy. “I married a boy in my mid-twenties who I thought I loved, but it turned out I didn’t. We were friends for a long time, but we only dated a few weeks before I married him.”
“You’ve been married?”
I nod and blush in embarrassment. I almost never talk about this, so it feels weird that the truth fell out of my mouth. I needed to change the subject quickly, though, before I admitted truths I couldn’t come back from. “Hardly anyone knows. We got drunk and did it in Vegas. It lasted four days.” I think back to why it ended, and I remember how the boy sitting in my bed with me now was part of the reason.
“Who was it?”
My eyes zero in on his. “My first drummer.”
He laughs. “You got a thing for drummers?”
“Only my whole life.” I say it in jest, but…
If he only knew the truth.
“Is that why your band always rotates?”
I shrug. “I’ve had the same guitarist for years. It’s just the drummer and bassist that rotate.”
“Arguably the two most important spots.”
“Arguably. Don’t forget about the singer.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like I don’t hear enough that ‘Mark is Vail’.” He puts air quotes around the last part of his sentence.
“Does that hurt?” I watch him carefully to gauge his reaction.
“He’d never agree to it. Ever. But when I hear it, yeah…it hurts. We all write that shit together and we’re a team.”
I raise a brow. “No one writes my shit but me.”
“And your name reflects that.” He draws his arm up and props it under his head. “Vail is a mix of the four of us.”
“How?”
“Literally our name is.” His eyes dart to my lips almost subconsciously. “Steve and James are from Virginia and Mark and I are from Illinois. VA and IL.”
“That’s cute.”
He wrinkles his nose adorably. “I don’t know if I’d call it cute but we thought it was a good representation of where we came from. Literally.”
I giggle.
“Were you born Maci Dane?” he asks.
I nod. I have to lie about this—his line of questioning is far too dangerous for my liking. He’s getting too close to finding out the truth I’ve painstakingly hidden.
“Were you born Ethan Fuller?”
He nods. “The one thing my dad gave me is my last name. And the one thing my mom gave me is my music gene. She had a beautiful voice, but she never used it except to sing to us when we were kids.”
“Do you see her very often?”
He shakes his head. “Only when I make it home to visit the cemetery where she’s buried.”
“Oh,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.” I link my fingers through his because it feels right to provide some comfort in his sad truth. I didn’t know she passed away.
“She never had a good life. I wish she was still here so I could give her one. Everyone told me she was in a better place at the funeral. I got sick of hearing it, but I think for her it may have been true.” He squeezes his fingers against mine, and I lightly rub my thumb over his.
“What about you?” he asks. “Are you close with your mom?”
“She was killed in a drunk driving accident when I was nineteen. She was on her way to visit me at school.”
I leave out all the details, but the fact of the matter is she was killed by a man who was not only drunk, but who had traces of cocaine in his system when he hit her. It’s my fault, and if I hadn’t changed high schools mid-year because of the man in bed with me, I might not have ended up at the college where I did, and my mom never would’ve been in that car on her way to see me. I don’t blame Ethan for my mother’s death, but I still see his role in it.
“God,” he mutters. He doesn’t apologize for my loss, oddly refreshing. “Were you close before that?”
I nod. “She was my best friend.”
“What about your dad?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since the night of my mom’s funeral.”
“Why not?” Now his thumb brushes mine in some attempt at comfort.
There were things I saw that were too painful to face, so I ran. Again. It’s a pattern for me, I guess—get hurt and run away. Feel the betrayal and bolt. “He was too caught up in his own loss to realize I was hurt, too. Maybe he blamed me a little. If I hadn’t chosen that school, she never would’ve been on her way to visit me that night.”
“It’s not your fault.” He says it immediately and without reservation, which tells me I�
��ve garnered his sympathy. While it’s everything I want to work my way toward his heart, it feels cheap to get there this way. This conversation is real and raw, and it’s not about revenge right now. It’s about getting to know this man on a personal level—which isn’t something I’d bargained for in my grand scheme.
I don’t answer because I don’t agree. It’s my fault, it’s Ethan’s fault, it’s the other driver’s fault, but it doesn’t matter whose fault it is anymore. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s not here. I can’t call her up and tell her about my last show. I can’t spot her in the crowd cheering me on. I can’t invite her onto my tour bus.
All those things leave an aching hole in my heart and remind me why I’m here.
“Do you want to talk to your father?” He looks genuinely curious.
“Of course I do.” I shrug. “But a lot of time has passed.”
“Our song should be about that,” he muses. “Loss, I mean. It seems like something we have in common.”
More than he even knows.
We’re both quiet so long following his words that eventually I fall asleep. The night caught up with me—being on stage, the rush of lust, the disappointment that I thought he was with someone else, and then, of course, dodging the truth while Ethan Fuller stretched out beside me in my bed.
In the morning, I push away the feeling like I’ve found a friend in him after last night.
The bus is still moving and he’s still sleeping in my bed.
I take a few beats to study him while he sleeps beside me before I roll out of bed. He hasn’t moved from the position we fell asleep in—his arm’s still tucked under his head just as it was as we talked late into the night.
His icy blue eyes are hidden away behind closed lids. I study the lines around his eyes—lines that weren’t there back in high school. Hard earned lines from the life he’s lived. Cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, stress, all written there in the story of his face, though they could be much worse if he didn’t have the means to pay for top of the line skincare.
His hair is a beautiful mess, sun streaks of lighter blond softening the nearly brunette color underneath. It’s long—too long, and sticking up in crazy directions from whatever pomade he uses in it…but it’s somehow perfect on him.