I eyed the ivy plant.
Shrugging, he said, “Roses are so cliché.” Then he kissed me and snickered. “I prefer Ivy.” He made the statement sound simple, but it was so full of meaning. His gift was a symbol of our love and it was something that could last forever . . . like I thought we would. He stayed that night to help me babysit. Once the girls fell asleep, we watched the Grammys and we talked about our dreams for each other—his was that I would be up on that stage one day. That made me laugh and made me cry. After that night he’d bring me ivy plants of all kinds—sometimes as a gesture to make up, sometimes for my birthday, sometimes just because . . . and I loved them all. I planted them in the garden I started with my sisters or hung them in my room, and they never died, but I did dig them all up and throw them away the night I saw him with Tessa.
Shaking off the memory, I divert my attention away from him and try to push him out of my mind. But when he yells, “Come on, motherfucker!” I can’t help but steal a glance. He’s talking to some guy I don’t know and the motherfucker in question is a coin. Watching him as he throws his muscled arm up to release the coin and yells, “Heads,” subconsciously I yell, “Heads” in unison. I know his call—it hasn’t changed. The way his lip curves around the word as he says it gives me a sudden urge to suck on it. Turning, he looks at me and his eyes lock on mine. His mouth forms that same slow, easy grin that always made me weak at the knees. But I can’t smile back . . . I want to, but I’m afraid that if I do I won’t be able to compartmentalize him anymore. What’s between us has to stay professional; if not, things will get too messy. A flash of something mars his finely chiseled face, but he catches the coin without faltering. Covering it with his other hand, he cocks his head and bobs his chin, calling me over. I stay where I am. I hate him. I hate him. I have to keep saying it or I’ll forget.
Shrugging, he lifts his hand. “Heads it is.”
The tall, skinny man standing next him sighs. “Okay, we’ll drive straight through to Denver, but if I crash the bus I’m blaming you.”
Xander lets out an exaggerated laugh and slaps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “First of all, you have Brad, and second, you won’t crash the bus. You’ve made runs like this a million times.”
“Whatever you say, boss man,” replies the man I can now identify as John the bus driver.
Xander walks away. “See you on the bus,” he calls over his shoulder, maybe to me, maybe to John, maybe to both of us, I don’t know. What I do know without a doubt is that I want him. The sound of his voice alone makes every nerve in my body tingle, makes my nipples tighten, and causes an ache between my legs. I stand there and watch him move with that ease he has about him, and I know this is going to be so much harder than I’ve convinced myself it would be.
Later that night, we board the bus and I run for refuge. I have to escape my attraction to him. Being near him only heightens it. I hop in the shower and then get ready for bed. I lie on the mattress in the back bedroom of the bus with my door locked and close my eyes. The movement of the bus should lull me to sleep, but it doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about him. I picture his long, lean body, his face, the sounds he used to make, and even the way he says the word fuck. I remember the sound of his husky voice in my ear, the way his tone oozed sex. My hands slide down my own body and into my pajama bottoms. I tug the elastic down and kick them off, then spread my legs. And as I lie there alone in the darkness, my hands become his—doing what I want him to be doing so badly at this moment. I come in a shattering climax and sleep finally consumes me.
CHAPTER 6
Talk to Me
Xander
The outside passes in a blur as I walk into the front lounge from the galley. As usual, I’m awake before any of the guys. I did my typical tour bus workout in the back lounge—sit-ups, push-ups, and weights that we keep back there. I’ll run tonight before the show. It’s hard to keep a routine on the road, but I try. It helps relieve stress and keeps me focused.
Entering the room, I get a feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face. Jack White’s “Love Interruption” is playing. It’s an awesome slow-burn blues ballad, and the lyrics seem to reflect the way my relationship with Ivy ended. I flip the light on and see her sitting there on one of the benches. Holding a cup with both hands, she’s drinking coffee and staring out the window. I hear soft, quiet notes as she sings along to the song, but she stops when the lights flicker. Her gaze darts to mine for one brief second, and then her eyes swing immediately back to the window.
I clear my throat. “Hey. Good morning.” It seems odd to see her on the bus.