Chapter 19
Two concerts and two nights later, I wake up and realize the bus isn’t moving. Artificial light shines through the window above the couch. Something clanks below, and I slowly comprehend we’re at a truck stop. Gary must be draining the tanks. I reach down and dig my phone out of my purse on the floor. Five twenty-nine a.m. I check our location with the phone. We’re only two hours out of Toronto. Damn. Still almost five more hours until we get to New York.
More clanking from below ensues and I sit up, burying my head in my hands. I’m exhausted and getting more irritated by the second. These past five days have been grueling. Concert after concert without hotels. Sleep, wake up in a new city, set up, deal with concert, help pack up, and then get back on the road. So I’m excited that when we reach New York City today, we’re staying for three full days. Though I want to sightsee, I might use all the extra time to sleep.
I tiptoe through the bus and retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. On my way back to my little room, a bunk curtain opens.
“Peyton?” Sam whispers.
I ignore him, but a minute after I’m back on the couch, the heavy plastic curtain between the two rooms quietly opens. The leather couch moans as Sam sits down next to me.
“I’m sorry, Peyton,” he whispers.
The bottle of water twists in my hands. I’ve stayed away from him or ignored him and his swollen nose—he told the guys he ran into a wall in the darkened bus—for the past couple of days. Every time I’m near him, my blood about boils because he could have killed himself with his stupid-ass drugs. For him to come in here and ask for forgiveness in the middle of the night has me about to erupt with anger.
He sets his chin on my shoulder. “Please, Peyton,” he begs.
My lip quivers as I set the bottle of water on the table. “So this is the right time for an apology?”
“I couldn’t sleep either. Kept thinking about you being pissed.”
That my anger kept him awake softens me a bit. “You scared the crap out of me,” I whisper, and my voice nearly breaks.
His arms wrap around me, and I’m suddenly pressed to a warm naked chest. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I needed to get away from everything.”
I try to ignore the smooth sensation of his skin. “But you’re not escaping. It’s called getting high.”
“Those short moments of escape keep me going,” he says in a soft whisper.
“Those short moments are going to kill you!” I hiss. “If I hadn’t shown up—” My voice breaks on the last word.
He buries his head in my neck. “I know. I know. I’m trying to stay away from that stuff. It’s just that when Seth came, and it was evident he’s doing worse and not taking his meds . . .”
And there is the crux of the matter, the reason I have kept my mouth shut and my anger in. Because no matter how nuts it is to mess around with drugs like he is, I get it. I understand why he wants to escape. I’d probably want to escape too if I were him.
Giving in, I wrap an arm around him. “Don’t simply try. Stay away from that stuff.”
His hold tightens on me, his fingers dig into my waist, his nose slides against the skin of my collarbone. “I’ll do it for you.”
“No, Sam,” I say in a sad tone, pushing away a bit and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Do it for you.”
“For me,” he says miserably.
I wrap both of my arms around him, and my pulse quickens at the feel of his hard, muscular body. This is not the time to get revved up, Peyton! Sam is hurting so much, he can’t see past the pain.
“You’re in an up-and-coming band,” I whisper. “Your album just went up three spots on several lists. You’re talented. A new set of ladies are after you every night. You’re on a major tour.”
He sighs against the skin of my neck. “None of that shit is im-portant.”
“Stop. Tons of people would kill to be in your place. Don’t waste what you have, what you’ve worked for, with drugs or depression, and never, ever stop valuing you.”
He holds me super tight for several long moments, then sighs sadly as his hands slide along the bottom of my back. “You feel right.”
“Sam,” I warn, and try to pull away from the tingle his touch causes.
His hand spans my back. “I don’t mean like that. I mean strong, someone to lean on.”
“Oh,” I say, letting him tug me close again.
“We both can’t sleep,” he says, gently pushing me back until we’re lying on the couch, my pillow under our heads. “Can I just hold you?”
I should say no but his voice is so sad, so lost, I can’t help but nod. He tows the blanket over us, then we both turn sideways with his arms wrapped around me. Though the press of his body is comforting, I feel awkward too. I’m far too aware of his breath in my ear, his muscled leg over mine, and the crisp, clean scent of him.
The bus starts moving, and in minutes, his breathing evens. The awkwardness diminishes. I relax into his strong arms and let the warmth of him and the movement of the bus entice me into sleep.
Someone is shaking me. I open my eyes and the sight of Gabe above me has me rearing back into . . . Sam.
Oh shit.
Gabe grins, his long hair shaking with his laugh. “You two might want to separate before anyone else gets up,” he whispers, then grabs my computer from the table and disappears out the curtained door.
He’s using the computer for a good cause. Apparently, because Gabe’s on probation for getting into several fights, he has to Skype with an anger management counselor every other week.
Sam pulls me close and tries to wrap a leg around me again. I crawl out of his arms and stand, hovering over him. Gabe thinking we’re together is bad enough. The entire band thinking it would be mortifying.
“Get up, Sam,” I say in a hushed tone.
His eyes stay closed, but he says, “Too early.”
I shake him, much harder than Gabe shook me. “Get up!” I hiss.
One blue eye pops open. “Come cuddle.”
I tug his arm. “Sam!”
“Okay, okay, I’m getting up.” He sits up, stretches, and runs his hands through his messy curls. His pectorals lift, then bunch. “What time is it?”
I drag my gaze from his chest. “I don’t know. Get back to your bunk.”
Smirking, he stands next to me. “You really care what they think?”
My eyes shoot darts at him. “I’m not into drama.”
He shrugs and gazes at me through his lashes. “You going out on the town with us tonight?”
I push him toward the door. He doesn’t move. “I’m going to smack you!”
“Tell me you’ll come out with Gabe and me.”
When I don’t answer, he crosses his arms, waiting. A freaking unmovable rock.
“Fine, I’ll go.” I point to the curtained door. “Now get out.”
He laughs and gives me a quick peck on the lips.
My lips are tingling. Stunned for a moment, it takes me a few seconds to grab a pillow. It hits him on his way out, bouncing off his muscular back.
I take my time getting dressed. Then I take my time in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, washing my face, applying a little makeup, and brushing my hair until it’s a crackling mess of static. After that, I take my time organizing and packing up my stuff. I’m a bit freaked out, and don’t want to see Gabe’s or Sam’s knowing smirk. Because nothing happened.
By the time I’m ready to go, the bus is parked. I peek out the window. Perfect timing. We’re at the hotel.
I ignore both Sam and Gabe, who are sitting at the table eating cereal as I pass by with my shoulders and hands loaded down with bags. Head held high, I step off the bus ready to start building a pile of bags outside the door. At the sight of the person standing on the sidewalk, the bags fall from my grasp.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Luckily, my camera bag is around my neck.