Chapter 7
The next day, I focus on writing and don’t stray from the back of the bus. I can’t look Sam in the face after recalling the passion we shared—when I hear his voice, a rush of heat warms my cheeks. I’m stuck in a state between embarrassment and awe. I’m not sure how I kept that memory buried so long; yet bringing it back up doesn’t change anything, especially the rumors that followed me for the rest of senior year, the months of heartache over Seth, and the overwhelming desire to avoid Sam once I realized we shared a college campus. Desperate to stop thinking about the whole thing, I try to dismiss it from my mind.
I was distraught.
I did not use Sam.
Letting out a sigh, I pull myself together. I change some wording to make the first post I’m finalizing sound more upbeat, weeding out the sad tone that Romeo didn’t like. I wrote about the band’s leaving like I saw it. However, Romeo wants me to portray their departure as mainly filled with excitement for the tour. After I change the post, I upload it and then post some pictures from the concert to Facebook and Twitter.
I’m finishing everything when we pull up in front of the hotel in Austin, Texas. Half of the long drive was while we slept, but even half a day on a bus was too much. The bus space felt huge yesterday, but after being in it for two days straight, it has gotten smaller by the hour. I’ve never been so excited about the prospect of a shower in my life. After the unsatisfying experience of rinsing off in the shower for no more than two minutes last night, standing under a steady stream of hot water sounds awesome.
After check-in, my excitement about the shower dims when it becomes apparent that my rollaway is going in Sam and Justin’s room—apparently Justin and Gabe don’t get along, and Romeo wants a break from Justin, his roommate at school. Not sure how it was decided, but unless I want to bring up That Which Shall Not Be Spoken, I’m stuck in a room with Sam the Asshat. Great. Along with the fact he’s always an asshat, I’m now living with my freshly recovered and incredibly hot memories of sex with him. Awkward? Yes. And then some.
Of course, the two more famous bands on the tour, Griff and Brookfield, get suites for each of their members.
As Justin, Sam, and I take the elevator up and head down the hall to our room, we’re all quiet. It’s strange how traveling wears a person out. We’ve hardly stepped into our standard-sized double when Justin heads for the shower. Double great. I’m rooming with asshat and selfish. We have to be at a local radio station’s party for the tour in less than thirty minutes. I bite back the urge to yell after him, “Hey, jackass, girls take longer to get ready!”
Instead, I unzip my suitcase to search for an outfit. I’m concentrating so hard on trying to find something clean that I almost jump when Sam says quietly, “I’m sorry about last night, Peyton.”
My suitcase, along with my jaw, almost falls to the floor as I turn around. I push down the intimate memories that have been trying to bubble up all day. The slob is still wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a tank top. I meet his light blue eyes. A rush of heat sizzles through me before I lock down the thoughts and get myself under control.
I draw in a short breath. “Um, okay. Thanks for apologizing.”
Sam plops on the end of a bed and tosses the book in his hand onto the nightstand. “It’s—well, between the alcohol and the . . . I got pissed for no reason.” He runs a hand through his dark curls. “I don’t know why I brought up our past. I’ll try to stop being a jerk, okay?”
I want to chastise him, and question what he was going to add after “alcohol,” but his offer is too good to turn down. And maybe it’s enough to help us move on past that crazy night. “I would appreciate the effort,” I say in the lightest tone I can muster.
“It’s not really you.” He sighs. “It’s more me. I just—just have a lot of shit to deal with.”
Like the night at my apartment, I’m getting the sense there’s something I’m missing. Yet once again I’m clueless. Staring at his striking profile, I push my hands into the back pockets of my shorts and rock on my cheap flip-flops. “Is it your girlfriend? The one who calls you all the time?”
“Huh?” His eyes crinkle in the corners as he looks up at me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
A blush flushes my cheeks. “The calls you got during breakfast and when watching TV. I—I wasn’t trying to listen. You were just so loud.”
He stares at me in confusion, then laughs sadly. “Yeah, my crazy girlfriend. She drives me nuts.”
Feeling lucky that I have Bryce, I say, “That’s too bad.”
He sighs. “Yeah, it sucks sometimes.”
Justin comes out of the bathroom dressed in only boxers. He’s not my type, but fan girls would be swooning right now at his wet hair and perfect, tattooed pecs. The intricate black designs remind me of his girlfriend, Allie. He told me she owns a tattoo parlor back home and that’s where they met. I wonder how much of his tribal body art was done by her.
“Hey, bitch,” Sam says to Justin, leaning back with his palms on the bed. “Don’t be a gentleman and let the lady go first or anything.”
Justin looks at me, surprised. “Shit, Peyton. I’m sorry. It’s usually just me and dickhead here,” he says, jerking his chin in Sam’s direction.
“It’s okay,” I say politely.
Sam flips him off, then falls back on the bed. “I’ll be the gentleman. Shower’s all yours, Peyton.”
“Thanks,” I say as Justin whips a pillow at Sam’s head.
Of course, Sam and I are late getting to the limos. Gabe comes out the hotel doors the moment we’re about to leave, so the three of us share the last limo. Gabe and I sit on either end of the backseat, my camera case between us, and Sam sprawls across the opposite seat. They’re both dressed as rockers in black jeans, shirts half buttoned with tanks underneath, and boots. I feel lucky since I imagine the other limos must have been stuffed full of rockers. I’m in capris and a sequined tank top, maybe a little beachy for the occasion but the best I could pull off.
As soon as we’re on the road, Sam reaches for the glass container on the bar next to him. Lifting it, he says, “Gabe?”
“Yeah, make that shit a double,” Gabe says, watching the passing scenery.
“Peyton?” Sam asks, opening the ice chest.
My nose wrinkles at the amber liquid. “Ah, straight liquor? No.”
He removes a beer from the ice and holds it up in a question.
I nod and he hands it to me. After opening the beer, I sip at it and, like Gabe, watch the scenery fly by as night begins to fall. Austin is brown and barren compared to the lush green of Michigan. I take in the faded yellow grass and sun-bleached houses as the sound of clinking ice echoes in the limo.
We turn a sharp corner and I slide toward Gabe. With my chest pressed against his arm and my camera case digging into my stomach, I quickly push away and mumble, “Excuse me.”
As I scoot back to my side of the leather seat, Sam stares at Gabe with narrowed, angry eyes. Gabe laughs. Sam hits the button to lower the glass partition between us and the driver.
“Watch the fuck how you’re driving,” Sam says, then hits the button to send the partition up again. He takes a swig of whiskey then says lazily, staring at me, “?‘Sunday Bloody Sunday.’ U2.”
Startled, I can only return his stare as memories of the game fill my head. His expression is calm and solemn, even patient. After dipping a toe into the past last night, and being overwhelmed by the memory of our passion, I suddenly flash on our moments of friendship—the extensive conversations about music and lyrics, long hours spent playing our game.
In burying that night, did I submerge everything that happened between us? How much is my brain capable of almost erasing? As our gazes stay locked, I’m starting to wonder.
“You high again?” Gabe asks.
Sam shakes his head. “Well?” he says, looking at me. He pours another glass of whiskey from the glass container, this time for Gabe.
I blink at him. This comment, I’m aware, is an offering of peace even more potent than his sincere apology. I force myself to link the song to another while he stares at me expectantly. “?‘Zombie.’ Cranberries.”
His full lips form a slow, authentic grin.
I’m caught in the beauty of that grin until Gabe’s voice disrupts the moment. “Cranberries? You have to be joking!” He leans forward and snatches the glass of whiskey and ice from Sam. “Something from Coldplay would be closer to U2 than the * Cranberries.”
Still grinning, Sam raises his glass to me. “?‘Zombie’ is a perfect match.”
Gabe’s brows lower. “How?”
Sam tilts his head toward me, taking a long, slow drink of whiskey.
I consider how to explain our long-forgotten little game. “The match is about the feel and meaning of the song. It’s more complicated than just choosing two bands that sound alike. Both songs are angry about war.”
Gabe still looks confused. “Give me another one.”
“All right.” Sam lowers his drink to one knee as his fingers drum on his other knee. “‘Rush.’ Big Audio Dynamite.”
“That’s too easy,” I say.
“Huh,” Gabe says, swirling the ice in his drink by rotating the glass. “Nothing goes with that weird shit.”
I take a sip of beer and wait, but when Gabe continues to appear lost, I say, “?‘Story of My Life.’ Social Distortion.”
Sam grins again. “Perfect.”
Gabe’s glance at me is cynical. “What are you, a fucking walking music library?”
A laugh escapes me. “Kind of. I’ve been obsessed with music since my grandpa, who worked at punk clubs in Detroit in the seventies, gave me his record player and albums when I was twelve. Overnight I went from a huge fan of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys to liking the Clash, the Ramones, Devo, the Dead Kennedys . . . anything hardcore punk or rock from about the seventies and after.”
“I think music sounds like shit on old-fashioned records,” Gabe says, still swirling the ice in his glass. “At least on the ones I’ve heard.”
I shake my head. “Not at all. There’s something so raw about old vinyl. All the fast punk stuff sounds better.”
“What about your dad?” Sam asks.
“What about my dad?” I ask back.
“Why didn’t your grandpa give his music to him?”
I smile at the thought. “My dad is pure country. Hank Williams. Johnny Cash. He wouldn’t have listened to the albums. But me . . . Well, my grandpa made up his mind to pass down his taste in music. When my grandma died, he moved in with us, and the music I was playing in my bedroom drove him nuts. Incredibly irritated, he started playing his old favorites, hoping to change my tastes. And he did,” I add, suddenly wishing I were back in Michigan and visiting my family.
I love them all, but my grandfather and I have had a special connection. I know he wouldn’t love me any less if I’d continued with my boy band obsession. He’s not a music snob. He believes whatever music touches you is fine, as long as he doesn’t have to hear it.
Sam laughs, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Just what every twelve-year-old should be listening to.”
“What?” I ask.
“?‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ by the Dead Kennedys.”
I shrug and smile. “The language may have been part of the allure.”
Sam smiles back at me. “Exactly what I thought.”
The limo slows along the side of a huge building. A huge crowd waits in front of it to get inside. As we pull into the back lot, to an area that is fenced off with orange construction mesh, I set my half-full beer in a cup holder and haul the camera over my head as Sam and Gabe drain their glasses. The driver opens the door and we emerge to see a girl in the shortest shorts in the world—paired with the highest heels—waiting next to a rusted metal door.
She glances over the clipboard in her hand as we step closer. “The last two members of Luminescent Juliet, the indie band?” Her sultry black-lined eyes roam over Sam and Gabe. When Gabe nods, she looks to me. “And you are?”
“She’s our promoter,” Sam says levelly.
“Oh,” she says with a slight frown. “I didn’t know indie bands had those. Well, I’m Kayla from WZIK Rock.” She holds her hand out in a dainty manner. Both Sam and Gabe stare at the hand like it’s a foreign object. The indie comment may have hit a few nerves.
Holding in an offensive giggle, I shake her hand and introduce myself and the guys.
She lets out a small huff. “Okay, follow me. We’re going in the back.”
Sam and Gabe give each other a look, then follow Kayla as she opens the door. We step into a long, dark hall. Kayla’s heels echo on the tile until she stops and opens another door. As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blasts at us, Kayla shouts, “This is the VIP area! You have about a half hour before signings and pictures start. Drinks and food are complimentary. The radio station is footing the bill.” Her expression is smug.
Sam and Gabe breeze past her without a glance.
Even though she has a bug up her ass, I say, “Thanks,” as I enter the bar. The decor includes steer horns mounted all over the walls and strange lighting from a mix of disco balls and spotlights. Western chic? More like the seventies on crack on a ranch. The VIP area, located in the back and raised a few steps higher than the front, is half full of people. I recognize some of the other bands’ members and a few roadies. The bar beyond the wooden rail that separates the VIP area is packed. People lean over the rail and point at band members like they’re watching animals at the zoo.
Sam and Gabe are already at the bar. Instead of joining them for a drink or filling a plate with food, I pull out my camera and wander around taking pictures. I catch Romeo talking to a guy dressed in a suit, who I’m guessing is the tour manager, and Justin talking with some of Griff’s members. Then I turn and capture Sam and Gabe doing shots with a couple of scantily clad girls.
Maybe Sam’s girlfriend has a reason to be bitchy.
As Sam leans down and whispers something to one of the girls, a burst of annoyance shoots through me. Perplexed, I lower my camera and let it hang from my neck. What’s my deal? I try to think logically. My frustration has to be confusion. Of course it’s hard to know how to feel now that he’s gone from being a dick to being a nice guy—and back again, judging by the way he’s about to cheat on his girlfriend.
I scan the crowd until the irritation passes, then glance at a clock and realize the half hour warm-up is over. All the band members are rounded up—the phrase is a perfect pun, given our surroundings—and seated at tables in the front of the VIP area. Lines have already formed, with people waiting to get pictures, autographs, and meet the musicians.
After taking a few out-of-focus shots of the crowd, I decide it’s time to get a drink and a plate of food.
The night drags as I sip Diet Coke and watch Kayla direct the madhouse. The crowd of girls in front of Luminescent Juliet’s table grows by the minute. The band might not be well-known, but the guys’ hotness creates a draw that soon enough makes their line longer than the others.
The guys sometimes take breaks and join me at the bar to bitch about how dumb the event is, but I’m mostly alone and horribly bored. I do meet several members of the other bands as they come up for breaks. Most of the guys in Brookfield seem reserved and almost businesslike compared to the guys in Griff, who dress and act like rockers.
Near the end of the event, I head for the back door to get away from the noise and to call Bryce from the parking lot. When I step outside, the smell of weed is unmistakable. Spotting Kayla and Sam amid a haze of smoke a few yards from the building, I nearly drop my phone as I step back, stunned by the sight of them together. I feel a burst of annoyance like the one from earlier. I immediately justify it as shock that they’re getting high in the middle of a promotional event.
Kayla giggles at my look of surprise.
Sam pinches off the joint’s red, burning cherry and stalks toward me. “Go inside,” he orders Kayla, stepping up to me and tossing the butt onto the cement.
Her bottom lip juts out in a pout, but she does what he asks.
Though I haven’t seen him smoke since the day we left, Sam digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Don’t say anything to Romeo.”
He is not asking. He is telling me. I clench the phone in my fist. “So you’re assuming I’d go and tattle? I’m not like that, Sam.”
He taps a cigarette on the side of his wrist. “Peyton, I’m not trying to start an argument or be a dick. Romeo gets in my business too much, and I don’t want to deal with it. I didn’t expect you to run to him, just maybe to say something in passing.”
“I wouldn’t say anything.” Obviously, Sam must smoke pot somewhat regularly for him to be this adamant about Romeo not finding out about it. Still, I’m surprised. From what I recall, he never used to. He didn’t drink much when we’d hung out in the past either. Sam and I had usually been the most sober ones at high school parties. Fear of too many empty calories had always kept me from overindulging. I’d never been sure why he’d steered clear of partying. But it’s clear he doesn’t anymore. Really, though, his partying habits are none of my business.
“Thanks,” he says, lifting his lighter. A flame brightens his face as he lights his cigarette. His eyes are glazed and red.
I cock an eyebrow. “You don’t think Romeo’s going to notice?”
He blows out smoke, then laughs. “This tour has him wound tighter than a coke fiend. He doesn’t pay attention much anymore.”
The bass line of “Higher Ground” rings out of Sam’s pants.
He digs his phone from a pocket and sighs at the screen. “Yeah?” he answers in an irritated tone.
Even before he starts talking, the pained look on his face tells me his psycho girlfriend is on the other end of the line. Not wanting to eavesdrop again, I rush to the back door as he says, “Stop it. That shit isn’t true.”
Though I’m annoyed with him right now, a surge of protectiveness hits me. He needs to break up with this woman. Constant arguing isn’t a relationship. Been there. Done that. It sucks. As I step into the hallway, I wonder if this girl is the reason Sam drinks more now and smokes pot. Or why with other people he pretends to be the happy-go lucky-guy I used to know, when I can see that guy is mostly gone.