Chapter 15
I sleep in the next morning and wake up to an empty hotel room. I should do some laundry, but I decide to hit the treadmill and maybe lift some weights. Though the guys seem to find time to work out in the hotel gyms whenever we stop, I’ve found time for the treadmill only once since we left. But when I push open the door of the hotel’s exercise room, I almost close it and run away. Sam’s in the far corner lifting weights. I’m still angry with him about his toilet-pouring drug spree, and still shocked that he’s so much more of a druggie than I realized. But as I take the slightest step back, he looks up and smirks.
That smirk hits me in the gut.
Screw leaving. I’m not letting that loser control any aspect of my life. I ignored him last night when we got into the room. I ignored him at breakfast. And I’ll ignore him now. Yet I do decide to skip weights and just do cardio. It’s a little harder to ignore him since he’s only wearing running shorts, and pumping iron with his muscles flexing every-fucking-where.
I go to the treadmill on the other side of the room and turn it on. I do stretches against the machine, pop my earbuds in and find a loud, angry, punk rock playlist, then start running.
About ten minutes later, when I’ve got him pushed from my mind, a sweaty Sam stands in front of the treadmill, his eyes purposely roaming my body. I’m too shocked to be self-conscious. Holy hell, Sam’s body is as rocking as his music.
Loud lyrics, sharp guitar chords, and fast drums pound in my ears as I take in his killer physique. He is all rippling muscle. A fine sheen covers his sculpted chest. His eight-pack gleams under the florescent light. His abs look like they belong to a frickin’ comic book character. Seriously, he’s like six weeks and twenty protein shakes away from being a bodybuilder. But bodybuilders are usually on the side of too muscular. Sam, on the other hand, is perfection. The way I’m gulping for air has nothing to do with jogging, and everything to do with the sight of him.
I force myself to look away, above his head.
“Still not talking to me?” he says loud enough for me to hear over the music in my ears.
I continue running and looking above his head.
The treadmill slows and then stops. His finger hovers over the controls.
I glare at him and keep running on the motionless treadmill.
“Come on, Peyton. You’ve seen me toking before.”
I turn around and run facing the other way.
“Nice view.”
“Perv,” I say. I jump off the treadmill, and he catches my hand, drawing me around toward him until we’re inches apart.
“I only use when I party. It’s not like a daily thing.”
I finally lose it, ripping my earbuds out and hitting stop on the phone attached to my hip. “What about the illegal part? You could have gotten in serious trouble! You could have gotten any one of us on the bus in trouble! Do you think about anyone except yourself? And why the hell would you have that much coke?”
He lets my hand go and runs his own through his curls. “I’m sorry, okay. I just . . . Sometimes it’s hard to get into a party mood.”
“Party mood? In the middle of a tour that your indie band somehow landed, that’s important to you?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I need to unwind.”
My eyes narrow on him. “If you can’t unwind without drugs, you’ve got a problem, Sam.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I’m not depressed or anything. I—things in my life just feel a little too deep sometimes.”
“I don’t want to hear your denial.” Unbelievable. I turn around to leave, and suddenly I’m surrounded by his warm, muscled arms. His hard chest presses against my back. He rubs his sweaty face on the side of mine.
“Come on. I’m sorry. That shit was supposed to last all tour. Six weeks. I’m not an addict or anything.”
“Get off me! You’re all sweaty!” But the truth is, he feels divine, even with the sheen of sweat. He is all hard, slippery muscle.
His arms tighten around me. “You’re right. I should have thought about all the ramifications, especially for everyone else. I was, am, an ass. Forgive me?”
I can feel every inch of his sculpted form against my back. “Let me go! You sweaty pig!”
“Then forgive me?” he whispers in my ear, somehow pulling me closer.
Damn. In addition to the awesome texture of him, beyond the clean scent of soap and his fresh-scented deodorant, I can smell his sweat and it’s making me imagine hot, sweaty sex. With him. Who’s the pig here? My reaction to him overwhelms me to the point that I just give up. “You’re forgiven. Now let me go.”
Releasing me, he reaches for his T-shirt hanging from a stationary bike and grins before tugging the shirt on. “Want to go do something after sound checks?”
His grin has me thinking he’s aware of my response to him, which is so not good. “I’m busy,” I say in a snotty tone.
“Really?” He leans on the bike, his thigh muscles flexing from his weight. “Doing what?”
I tear my gaze from his leg. “Laundry, calling Bryce, and stuff.”
He rolls his eyes, essentially dismissing the reference to my boyfriend. “How about I help you do laundry again, and we can do lunch while we’re at it.”
They won’t be back from sound checks until after two. “It will be too late to eat.”
“Grab a snack. I’ll get lunch. My treat.”
He’s making a refusal extremely difficult, as in having to admit he’s starting to do weird, hot things to my insides difficult. Hell will freeze over before I admit that to him.
“Fine.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “You’d better get going or you’re going to miss sound checks.”
Those baby blues roam slowly over my shorts and tank top. “See you later,” he says wistfully, then exits the exercise room.
I move toward the weight station. What the heck was that? I’m not sure what’s worse. Sam coming on to me. Or Sam being nice to me. Either way I’m in trouble.
The hotel in Charlotte is nothing like the one we stayed at in New Orleans. It’s not a dive or anything, just a normal hotel, with no chandeliers dripping crystals in the lobby or limos pulling up under a canopy out front. But at least the rollaway is much bigger, which confirms my suspicion that luxury hotels like to torment the extra person.
Hours after exercising, I’m in our small room, rearranging stuff in my suitcase because I already did the laundry—I’m not hanging out with Sam any more than I have to—and seriously contemplating taking off before the band returns, when a knock booms on the door. Dang. I contemplated too long. They must be back. Thinking Sam or Justin forgot his room key, I march over to the door and whip it open.
My eyes widen at the sight of the person standing in the hall. It can’t be him but it is. Shock like the sizzle of lightning courses through my veins. Seriously, I’m about to faint like a Southern belle in an old movie.
His shocked expression, which I’m sure mirrors mine, becomes tighter and more confused with each passing second. “Peyton?”
I grip the edge of the door for support. He is thinner than I remember, more lanky than muscular, and his once shoulder-length dark hair is cut super short, but there’s no mistaking that blade of a nose and his angular face, even drawn out and fatigued-looking as it is now. His dark blue eyes look as vivid as ever.
“Seth,” I say.
Hands deep in the pockets of his long shorts, he glances at the number on the door as his beat-up checkered Vans shuffle on the hallway carpet. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . .” Holy hell, breathe, Peyton! The sight of him still brings on hurt and guilt.
“Seth?” I hear the incredulous tone in Sam’s voice from down the hallway.
Seth turns and I draw in much-needed air. He looks back to me, then down the hall again to Sam, whom I can hear almost stomping toward us. “Sam, what the fuck is this?” Seth pulls a hand from his pocket and points at me. His lips twist into a snarl.
Sam steps into the doorway. Drawing in a deep breath, he wears a shocked expression too. “What are you doing here?” he asks his brother, obviously ignoring the reference to me.
Crossing his arms over his white beater tank, Seth glances at me. “Caught a bus. What is she doing in your room? What the hell is going on?”
Sam doesn’t look at me. Staring at his brother he says, “Peyton, can you give us a few?”
“Sure,” I say weakly, spinning around to grab my purse from the dresser.
Pushing a pissed off–looking Seth into our room, Sam says to me, “Wait in the lobby.”
I reach for the door handle. I’m not going to lunch with these two. There is absolutely no way. Other than the fact that Seth de-stroyed my reputation with wild rumors and my teenage heart, it would be very, very weird. “Um . . .”
Sam’s eyes bore into mine. “Please, Peyton.”
I’m not sure if it’s the plea in his eyes or the desperate tone of his voice, but I find myself stupidly nodding.
After shutting the door behind me, I move toward the elevator in a haze of confusion. The doors of the elevator open and Justin steps out.
“Hey, Peyton,” he says casually.
Still in shock, I drag him back into the elevator with me. “Don’t go to our room right now.”
He gives me an odd look. “Why?”
“Sam’s brother showed up unannounced.” With a shaky finger, I push the button for the ground floor.
Justin’s expression grows more confused. “Sam has a brother?”
I blink at Justin. How does he not know about Seth? He and Sam have been in a band for years together. “A twin brother.”
Justin gapes as the elevator doors open to the lobby. “Like identical?”
I shake my head. “No, not identical. They’re . . .” I was about to say “fraternal” and “eleven minutes apart, with Seth being the ‘older’ one.” But luckily, I catch myself. In my shock, I almost blew our cover. This is definitely not the time to reveal to Justin and the others that Sam and I have only been acting like we didn’t know each other before the tour. I really, really don’t want to open that can of craziness with Seth here. I don’t want to open it at all. “They must be fraternal.” I step out of the elevator and Justin follows. “I mean, they do look like they could be brothers, but they’re not identical.”
“Strange, he never said anything about having a brother,” Justin says, shoving his hands into his pockets as we enter the lobby. “Why shouldn’t we go up?”
“Well . . .” I desperately search for a plausible reason, but I don’t know what the hell is going on and decide to stick with the truth as much as possible. “Sam looked shocked and a little pissed that his brother was here. He asked me to leave,” I say, adding a shrug for good measure.
“Huh,” Justin says. “I can’t believe he has a twin brother.” He shakes his head. “Sam sometimes is closemouthed, but this takes it to a new level.”
I’m a little freaked out too that Sam never said anything to Justin about Seth. Is there still a huge rift between the brothers? If so, there’s no way I can still be the cause. That would be insane.
Justin glances around the lobby. “I’m supposed to meet Romeo for a workout.”
Guess today is workout day. “Sam told me he’d be down in a few.”
Justin digs out his phone, shaking his head. “I’ll give Sam ten, then I’m going up.” He puts the phone to his ear and says, “Hey, baby.”
While he talks to Allie, I go to one of the couches in the lobby and send a What’s up? text to Jill. While I wait to hear back from her, I have to force myself to stay seated, because I feel so agitated after seeing Seth. The guy annihilated my reputation and my heart.
It’s really, really not fair for Sam to ask me to wait for them. I’m about to leave when Sam and Seth step out of the elevator. Both appear tense, and my instinct to take off goes into overdrive. But when Sam’s pleading gaze finds me, I feel stuck in the corner of the couch.
Sam comes over with Seth slowly following. “I noticed you got the laundry done, so how about that lunch?”
I glance at Seth, who is studying me with a suspicious gaze. “I . . .”
“Come on, Peyton,” Sam says. “Like I said, my treat, especially for doing the laundry.”
My eyes implore Sam to go without me as I say, “I already ate.”
His eyes beg me to come. “We’re going to grab something quick, then we’re walking to the bus terminal.”
“Bus terminal?” I repeat.
“Yeah, Seth needs to get home,” he says in a tight tone, though Seth shakes his head behind him. “He’ll miss work. We’re heading to the bus station so he doesn’t lose his job. Please come?”
“Okay,” I say, standing. None of this makes sense, yet I can’t seem to refuse Sam’s pleading.
Sam gives me a pained smile before we all start walking toward the entrance.
“You’re aware,” Seth says as we step outside, “there might not be a bus back home today.”
“Detroit has to be a main hub. There’ll be a bus there today,” Sam says through gritted teeth.
“We’ll see,” Seth says, and I notice Sam’s entire posture visibly tightening.
Sam stalks a bit ahead of us in obvious anger, but over his shoulder he says, “Just ask her your questions.”
Watching him, I’m completely confused by whatever is going on between them.
“So,” Seth says, bringing my attention to him, “you and Sam haven’t talked since—well, in years?”
No. No. No. This weird tense crap between them can’t be because of me. I draw in a breath and force myself to remain calm. “Nope. And he wasn’t too excited—was actually quite upset—when Romeo asked me to come on tour.”
“And you came because—because you’re on the school newspaper, right?”
Obviously, Seth didn’t believe Sam’s explanation and now I’m being interrogated. “Yes, Romeo asked me because this fall I’ll be on the editing team for the university paper.”
Seth looks at me blankly, lost in thought and pulling at the unkempt scruff on his chin. “Huh? I don’t recall you wanting to write.”
He wouldn’t. We never used to talk about serious stuff. “I’m getting a degree in journalism and hoping to make it as a music journalist.”
His head tilts toward me, and he rubs the back of his neck with a palm while the lines of his face scrunch in confusion. “Well, I guess that makes sense.”
I stare at Seth. He’s not just thinner but kind of disoriented, in complete contrast to the cocksure attitude I remember him having.
“Actually, things don’t make total sense,” Seth says, tapping on his chin as we stop at a corner. Sam has his back to us. Seth looks down at me, studying me again with a suspicious glare. “I have to admit, Peyton, when I saw you standing in Sam’s room, I thought you guys were still going behind my back.”
Behind his back? After so many years, I don’t know what to say. Sam apparently does, because he whips around. “Dammit, Seth! I told you to quit. I told you that shit wasn’t happening.”
Seth crosses his arms, tucks in his bottom lip, and glares at his brother. “Then why didn’t you tell me she was with you?”
Sam runs a hand through his curls and tugs on them before lowering his hand. “I didn’t want to upset you, okay?” he says in a pleading tone. “Nothing is going on. It wasn’t worth you worrying about it.”
Frowning, Seth looks from Sam to me. I fight the urge to run away from both of them. I’m feeling super weirded out.
“Tell him, Peyton,” Sam says roughly. “Tell him we’re just friends.”
“Um,” I say, my hands twisting the strap of the purse hanging across my chest. “Sometimes we are, I guess, but usually we’re not even really friends, to be honest.”
Seth looks confused by the statement, while Sam throws his head back and lets out a roaring laugh.