We’re both staring up at him, waiting for his response, when he starts chuckling again and challenges, “Were you invited?”
I’m still too pissed off at him to appreciate the support, but I do grin at the way Victoria’s face twists from the rejection. I turn my back on her without another word, my heavy boots leading my hot mess of boys back to the bus. They’re loud, they’re obnoxious, and on the bus, I can hear them even through the walls of my running shower.
Shawn’s kisses linger on my skin. His lips still tingle on my neck. His fingers are everywhere, and I brace my hands against the linoleum wall and let the water rush over the back of my head as I try to block them out.
Kale warned me that joining the band was a bad idea, and I knew it would be hard . . . I just didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know I’d kiss him in Mayhem. I didn’t know he’d kiss me back.
I lift my face into the water.
This time, he kissed me. And just like that girl who would have followed him anywhere six years ago, I let him. I kissed him back. I knew I shouldn’t, but still, I couldn’t not kiss him back. He’s like an addiction that’s always coursing through my veins, waiting to flare at the slightest spark.
It’s his lips. Those eyes. His scent. That touch.
It’s the way he looks at me in the dark. The way he kisses me when my eyes are closed—the way he kisses me when my eyes are open.
I don’t bother drying my hair. I tie it up in a knot on top of my head and emerge from the bathroom in an oversized band T-shirt that swallows up the silky pair of pajama shorts underneath. The guys are still trying to raise the dead in the kitchen, so I huff out a breath and make my way back there.
“Seriously?” I say, my eyes scanning over the shot glasses and liquor bottles decorating the table they’re at.
“I’m not drinking,” Shawn offers, but I ignore him and start rummaging through the cupboards.
“What are you doing?” Joel asks from where he’s sitting on top of the table, a bottle of gin between his legs.
“Making you something to eat.”
“Oh!” Adam pushes Shawn’s head out of the way so he can see me better. “I want . . . cheesecake! Can you make cheesecake?”
“Yeah, Adam, let me pull a cheesecake out of my ass for you.”
As I root through a cabinet, there’s so much laughter from behind me, I can’t even tell who all it’s coming from. I wish I was one of them, drunk off my ass and laughing about shit that’s not even funny. Instead, I’m a model of sobriety to prevent myself from soaking Shawn’s sleeve with my tears and asking him why he can’t just want me when he’s sober.
I pull every bready thing I can find out of the cabinet—crackers, cookies, pretzels—and trade them for the bottles on the table, stashing them away before threatening to murder anyone who dares wake me up. When I finally crawl under sheets that still carry the faint scent of Shawn’s cologne, I’m exhausted—from the long day, from the concert, from having to deal with Victoria Hess . . .
From having to say no to Shawn Scarlett.
SHAWN’S GREEN EYES are the last thing I think of before I fall asleep, and the first thing I see when I wake. The dark is just beginning to give way to light, a hazy glow begging entry through the closed blinds of the bus, while Shawn’s soft fingers brush my elbow. He’s crouched next to my bed—his shirt, clean; his eyes, clear; and his breath, minty fresh when he orders, “Come with me.”
Without waiting for me to argue, he disappears behind the heavy gray curtain leading to the kitchen, and I lie in bed until I’m sure I’m not dreaming. Joel is snoring, traffic outside is moving, and my heart is waking up without me, forcing my feet to free themselves from my covers and swing over the side of my bunk. The chill beneath the pads of my toes confirms that I’m awake as I slip silently between the bunks, careful not to wake anyone as I prepare myself for Shawn’s apology. He’ll say he’s sorry for kissing me, explain that he was drunk, and I’ll accept all the promises he’ll make that it will never happen again. It’ll be awkward, and we’ll agree to keep things professional, and that will be that. Simple and impossible.
When I push back the curtain and slip inside the kitchen, he turns to face me, the glassy sheen from the night before gone from his eyes. “You said to talk to you when I was sober.”
My heart sinks when he confirms that he remembers—the way he touched me, the way I let him. He was drunk enough to come on to me, but not drunk enough to forget it.
I kissed him back. I wasn’t the one who was drunk, but I kissed him back.
Shawn steps closer, my breath catching in my lungs when both of his hands tunnel into my hair—still damp from my shower last night. Without my boots, I’m tilting my chin high to stare up at him.
“I’m sober,” he says.
“What?”
“You said to talk to you when I’m sober,” he explains.