Chapter 20
Whoa, baby,” Bryce says, rushing over to help me. He bends to pick up bags while I stand there shell-shocked. Dressed in khaki shorts, a buttoned-up shirt, and slip-on boat shoes, he looks like a preppy catalog model as his thick blond hair blows in the breeze.
“Bryce,” I say, staring at him with big eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Before he can answer, Sam says from behind me, “You okay, Pey—”
I glance back and see his stunned gaze resting on my boyfriend.
Now we’re both staring at Bryce like he’s a Martian.
“Hey, Sam,” says Bryce, now loaded up with my bags. When Sam doesn’t answer, he looks from me to Sam. “What’s going on, Peyton?”
Knowing we both probably look guilty—though we shouldn’t—I force myself to speak. “Nothing. Well, you’re here, and I’m completely shocked.” I step closer to him. “Shocked happy,” I say, forcing a smile. “But very shocked.” I wrap my now free hands around his waist and lift my face for a kiss.
His kiss doesn’t have any of the heat of Sam’s swift peck, and it is entirely too weird kissing Bryce while Sam is behind us, coughing like he suddenly has bronchitis. I pay no attention to Sam.
Bryce grins down at me. “Maybe I should have called, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Oh, it’s a surprise. Very nice, though,” I say, smiling again. The curve of my lips is starting to feel as rigid as plastic.
Sam comes down the stairs and holds his hand out. “Nice seeing you.”
Bryce shakes his hand. “Good to be here.”
At six one, Bryce is taller than Sam by almost three inches, yet somehow Sam generates a more masculine presence with his muscular build. Not that Bryce isn’t muscular. He’s just leaner, in contrast to Sam, who has a little more bulk.
“Come on,” Bryce says, reaching for my hand. “I’ve already got us a room.”
Sam frowns at that news as Bryce tugs me away.
“Great,” I say, dumbfounded. The idea of sharing a room with him feels foreign. Bryce and I have never spent a night together. Sex, yes. Waking up together, no. After having just slept and cuddled with Sam, the idea of sleeping with Bryce seems . . . off.
When we’re almost to the revolving door entrance, Sam yells from behind us, “Hey, Peyton!”
I turn halfway around, giving him a questioning glare.
“You’re still coming out with us tonight, right?” His gaze is a mix of persuasive and threat.
Not wanting to know what he plans to do or say if I refuse, I nod curtly and then turn back around.
As we enter the hotel, Bryce says, “I wanted to take you to a romantic dinner.” I detect a whine in his voice.
“We can go to dinner, but I already made plans for later.” More like I was coerced into plans. “If I would have known you were coming, of course I wouldn’t have made them.”
I smile reassuringly while he takes a minute to pout. “Guess if we’re together, that’s all that matters.”
“Keep that thought in mind. I do have to work tomorrow night,” I say as we move through the huge lobby.
“Maybe the surprise thing wasn’t the best idea,” he murmurs as he hits the up button for the elevator.
We step onto an elevator—and standing across from him, I’m shocked all over again, but it’s good to see him. He reminds me of home. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Did you fly in?”
“Yeah, got here at eight,” he says, and pushes the button for the tenth floor. “Took the first morning flight.”
I blink at him. “When did you decide this? When did you get a ticket? A room reservation?”
“About a week ago. I’d been thinking about it since you told me about the guys’ girlfriends showing up in New Orleans. When our tournament got canceled for this weekend, I decided to do it.”
“Huh, that’s pretty amazing,” I say, recalling all the times we texted over the past week and the few times we talked. “I can’t believe you never slipped up.”
He grins, and I’m reminded of how cute he is. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
The elevator doors open, and I step out into the hall saying, “A lovely thought, but being on the road so long has kind of worn me out.”
He shrugs. “No biggie. I know how it is.”
I suppose, because he’s on a college baseball team, he does.
“Isn’t this hotel a bit expensive?” I ask, taking in the hallway that screams swank, with its fancy textured wallpaper and lush carpet.
“Over three hundred dollars a night,” he says, then smiles down at me. “But you’re worth it.”
I smile weakly. Bryce works off-season in the school store, and I know his parents send him money to help out each month, but for a college student this hotel is really expensive.
Once in our room, we set my bags down and Bryce glances toward the bed. “What do you want to do?”
I unzip my suitcase. “I need to take a shower.”
He stares at me, his dark brown eyes gleaming. “Shower sounds good.”
I can’t help the irritated look that crosses my face. Really? I’m going to get off a bus, then fuck his brains out? We have never showered together, but suddenly we’re a domesticated couple?
Obviously reading the look on my face, he reaches for the remote. “I’ll watch TV while you shower.”
I dig through my suitcase, trying to get a grip on my irritation. “Then maybe lunch?” I say lightly.
“Lunch would be good,” he says flatly, settling onto the chair by the bed.
“After that I need to do laundry.”
“Laundry?” he asks, his tone even more dull than before.
I keep digging for something clean to wear. “Yeah, we’ve been on the road for six days straight.”
“Okay,” he says, looking disappointed. “Lunch then laundry.”
I grab my cosmetic bag and march to the bathroom. Why am I getting the feeling that Bryce made this trip to get laid? It’s like he imagined coming for a three-day sexathon. It’s as if my boyfriend thinks he has free rein with my body.
I turn on the shower and lean against the sink counter.
Bryce and I have always worked. Both of us are busy, but for the past year, I’ve thought going out once or twice a week with him was fun. He was patient with me when it came to the sex. At least he worked at helping me get more comfortable, and it’s been getting good. I’m not sure if it’s my body image issues, but when it comes to sex, I can be too self-conscious to enjoy it. Besides losing my virginity to Sam, and being with Bryce, the only other experience I’ve had was one short, fast, and awkward relationship sophomore year with a guy in my journalism classes. The one thing I will say is that since I’ve noticed how my body responds to Sam, I’m realizing that maybe the good between Bryce and me could be better.
Now that he’s here visiting, acting like we have some deep, committed relationship, I’m realizing that what we have feels like convenience. At the moment, a three-hundred-dollars-a-night convenience. Am I worth the three hundred dollars a night? Or is the sex?
It’s not even 10:00 p.m. and we’re already at our third bar of the evening. I still can’t believe I agreed to hit the town with Gabe and Sam—and Bryce.
“Six more shots of vodka,” Sam tells the waitress. I give him a dirty look since one round of vodka is more than enough for me. “Make it four,” he says, then glances at Bryce’s beer. “And another Budweiser.”
I sip my beer, trying to ignore the huge deer head on the wall above our tiny table. After a nice dinner in the hotel, Bryce and I had met Sam and Gabe in the lobby. Though this bar doesn’t have loud, roaring music like the last one, where we couldn’t talk, the brick walls are adorned with dead animals. Bears, raccoons, and owls stare at us. Very odd.
Bryce sits next to me with his hand on my cotton-clad thigh. We’re a bit dressed up from dinner. Bryce is in khaki pants and a polo shirt, and I’m wearing white capris and a flowery top. Sam and Gabe are dressed sloppy in shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. We make an odd-looking group.
Curling his lip at Bryce’s hand movement on my thigh, Sam tosses back a shot. I did one at the last bar. I’m not doing another. At least Gabe has moved to the bar to talk to a group of women. I want to throw my beer at him for the knowing smirk he has worn all night.
We entered the bar through a telephone booth in a hot dog place after Sam called the concert manager because, apparently, this tiny taxidermy haven of a bar requires reservations. When the phone booth magically opened after Sam’s call, Bryce was impressed with Sam’s connections. I rolled my eyes. The bar is kind of neat, but this entire night is annoying me. It’s like I’m tagging along on a guys’ night out.
“So, baseball, right?” Sam asks Bryce, who nods though we already covered this in the taxi ride over. Sam taps his full beer on the table. “You hoping to go professional?”
Bryce pulls his hand from my lap to twist the class ring around his finger. “Always hoping, but we’re not a major college nor do we have the best record to attract scouts. Yet I might try out, even for a farm team.”
Stunned, I stare at Bryce as he finishes off his beer. He has never told me this. He’s getting a degree in physical therapy. I’d always assumed he’d pursue that career once he graduated. Not that I care what he does, but it seems odd that this is the first I’ve ever heard of his future plans, given that we’ve been together for the past seven months.
Sam leans over the table and gives Bryce a conspiratorial look. “You ever use steroids?”
“Um . . . no,” Bryce says, pushing his empty beer bottle to the edge of the table.
“Never?” Sam says with raised eyebrows.
The waitress appears with the beer and shots. Sam shoves a shot and the Budweiser at Bryce, then pays. He’s been paying all night, and unfortunately, I don’t think it has anything to do with goodwill. To me it looks like he’s out to get bombed and take Bryce along for the ride.
Once the waitress leaves, he raises his shot toward Bryce. His tone is sarcastic as he says, “To clean athletes.”
I resist kicking Sam’s shin under the table as they down the shots.
Sam shoves yet another shot of vodka at my boyfriend while I glare across the table. Ignoring me, he says to Bryce, “Dude, I wouldn’t think less of you if you had. If your career’s on the line, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
Bryce twists the shot around, holding it by his fingertips. He stares intently at the short glass of clear liquid. “Yeah, we’ll see how my hitting goes this fall. I need to bat above three hundred for scouts to come.”
Sam makes a finger motion in his groin area that’s clearly meant to insinuate shrinkage, and since we’re sitting on high stools, the insult would be entirely visible to me and Bryce, if he were to look up.
I kick Sam in the shin.
He lets out an “oomph” and Bryce looks up. Sam smirks and lifts the second shot. “To batting over three hundred,” he says.
Bryce downs his shot with a grimace and I place a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you think that’s enough shots?”
He points to Sam, who is wearing a smirk. “Keeping up with the locals.”
Really? Are we in fucking high school? “He’s not local. He’s in a rock band. He parties regularly.” Tired of the little games he’s playing, I glare at Sam again. “Trust me. You don’t want to keep up with him. You don’t want to be anything like him.”
Sam’s mouth goes from a frown of hurt to a lazy smile so fast, I question if I imagined the hurt.
Sam lifts his beer, the one he’d ordered in the first round and hasn’t touched, before taking a drink, and says, “Yeah, who’d want to be a famous rich rocker?”
I snort but Sam grins.
Bryce asks, “Is it weird?”
Sam cocks his head in a question.
“Being famous, having people fawn over you, girls you’ve never met want . . .” Bryce doesn’t finish his sentence. Nor does he look at me.
“Not there yet,” Sam says, gesturing around the bar. “These people don’t know me from dick, but yeah, the getting chicks part has always been a bonus of the gig.” He glances at me. “Even when I was in a high school garage band.”
Anger burns through me and I clench my jaw. Sam is related to Dr. Jekyll.
Bryce shakes his head. “Chicks come with the territory, then. I should have learned how to play an instrument,” he says with a laugh, wrapping an arm around my waist. “But not my girl. She’s smarter than that.”
“Oh yeah, Peyton’s definitely immune,” Sam says sarcastically as his gaze pins me to my stool.
What the fuck? I’d like to kick him in the shin again and throw my beer in his face. The snide reference to our past is making me furious. I’ve never made a remark about it to anyone, even a veiled one.
Bryce’s gaze snaps to Sam. “You saying she isn’t?” His tone is somehow both threatening and horrified at the same time.
Sam shakes his head. “No, bro, I meant she was immune.” He cuts a hand through the air and adds, “Like totally.”
Bryce’s fingers dig into my waist. “Peyton would never be a groupie.”
Ugh. Hello? I’m right here. I can stand up for myself if needed. What is wrong with these idiots?
Suddenly, Gabe’s back, standing at our table. “You guys ready to head out?”
I look around and notice the girls he was talking to are gone.
Sam jumps off his stool and tugs out his phone from a pocket. “There’s a place I wanted to check out a few blocks from here.”
I should talk Bryce into going back to the hotel, but that king-size bed has been looming in my thoughts all night. So we head into the muggy summer night and stroll several blocks in the direction of the hotel. We took a cab to the East Village, which means it’s way too far to walk all the way back to the hotel, especially since it’s obvious to me now that we’re outside that Bryce is drunk. Though his arm is around my shoulders, he can’t walk straight. He keeps veering left, then right. A few feet ahead of us, Sam and Gabe jokingly argue about who can kick more ass. My opinion? They’re both jackasses.
The next bar is somewhat similar to the last. No dead animals, yet it has a dark, modern interior filled with eccentric antiques. The furniture reminds me of the antique shop below where the band practices when they’re home—maybe that’s why Sam likes these spots.
Only a few minutes pass before the real reason Sam wanted to come here is revealed: Jell-O shots. The bar serves them, and he buys each of us three. I cave in and do one, but refuse the rest. I’m more than aware that the sweet, fruity taste of a Jell-O shot can mistakenly cause people to consider them harmless. I know otherwise, since I once spent a night at the toilet bowl regurgitating a colorful array of Jell-O shots after a fraternity party. Besides, since Bryce seems to be on a tear, I’m trying to stay functional.
Unfortunately, when I emerge from the postcard-covered bathroom, I find my remaining two Jell-O shots empty and Bryce gone from the couch area where we’re sitting.
Sam looks up from whatever he was saying to Gabe and laughs at my expression as I hold up the little plastic cups. “He got mine too,” says Sam.
I look around. “Where is he?”
Sam points to the far end of the bar. “At the jukebox, socializing with the locals.” He wiggles his eyebrows as if I should be jealous and pissed.
I glare at him before following the direction of his pointed finger. Hunched over the jukebox, Bryce stands in between two women. The women are bopping to the music. Bryce is swaying off beat. I mentally do alcohol math. In the past three hours, he has had at least five beers, five vodka shots, and now at least five Jell-O shots. If not wasted yet, any minute he’s going to be blind drunk.
I’m not close to jealous, though I’m beyond irritated. I make my way over to the jukebox.
“Hey, Peyton,” Bryce slurs, then points above one of the girl’s heads. “Kimmy and—um, Braily.”
“Bailey,” the second girl says, correcting him with a laugh.
“Nice meeting you both,” I say. “But Bryce here really needs to go sit down.”
“I’m picking all your favorite songs, baby,” Bryce slurs.
I almost laugh. As if Bryce would know my favorite songs. His music taste is whatever is popular at the moment. We’ve never connected over bands. In fact, so far as I know, he thinks my interest in music, especially punk rock, is peculiar.
“Great,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go sit down and listen.”
Kimmy frowns at me. “He has five songs left to pick.”
I yank Bryce toward the couches in the corner. “How about you pick them?” I say over my shoulder.
The girls give me sour looks, as if I’m being a bitch. Whatever. Fortunately, Bryce lets me lead him back to the little seating arrangement. He bumps into stools and people along the way. I murmur “Sorry” about ten times.
Once we get to our couch, which now has several girls sitting and keeping Sam and Gabe company, Bryce decides he needs another beer.
Grinning, Sam looks around for a waitress.
Standing, I decide it’s time to go.
“We’re leaving,” I say loudly.
“What?” Gabe says, cutting off whatever the girl next to him was saying. He lifts up his phone. “It’s only one thirty. The bars stay open until four here.”
I hold out a hand for Bryce. There is no way in hell I’m babysitting Bryce for hours at the bar. “You can stay. We’ll get a taxi.”
Sam looks indecisive.
Bryce slobbers near my ear. “We should go dancing, baby.”
If he says “baby” one more time, I will scream. “Sure,” I say, knowing not to argue with the inebriated. “Let’s go.”
At last he allows me to drag him from the bar. Completely intent on getting Bryce out of there, I’m surprised when I find Sam is on the sidewalk next to us. “Go back inside, Sam,” I snap as Bryce leans on me and murmurs incoherent babble that definitely involves saying “baby” repeatedly.
With a remorseful expression, Sam says, “Let me help you find a cab at least.”
It takes Sam ten minutes to hail a cab. The entire time, Bryce slobbers on me and tries to grind on me as if dancing. After we get him into the backseat of the cab, Sam holds the door open. “You sure you don’t want me to come along and help?”
“I’m sure,” I say heatedly, tugging the door out of his grasp. “You’ve ‘helped’ enough already.”
His expression turns contrite.
I resist giving him the finger.
Finally, the cab takes off, so I don’t have to see his guilt-stricken face any longer.