Time. He had time. For now he could push his fixation into a corner of his mind, lock it away until the time was right. On this leg of Route 66, the two of them could just be.
“I’m still waiting,” she said with exaggerated impatience. “And I promise not to jeopardize our safety. I’m not going to risk my life after conquering the Arch.”
A self-satisfied smile spread across her face, and he decided to let her bask. He could mention her bursting into tears when the capsule reached the ground again, but he was proud of her and wanted her to have her moment.
“And I’m still thinking,” he mused, dragging out the seconds just to annoy her. “Fine. Dare.”
Jamie allowed himself a quick glance before settling his gaze back on the road. Brynn’s brows shot up before she went all contemplative. She tapped her finger against her pursed lips, and he just kept driving, his smile lingering. Whatever she had to throw at him was better than opening himself up to questions he had to answer 100 percent truthfully.
“Sing me the chorus to your favorite Monkees song.”
Jamie let his head thud against the headrest, eyes rolling in time with the movement.
“Seriously?” he said. “You have favorite Monkees songs. I’m just the guy who humors your strange musical fixation. One, I might add, that I kept a secret all through high school for you.”
Brynn blew out a breath and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, though he wasn’t sure what she was defying other than good taste in music.
“You chose dare, James Kingston. I don’t remember there being any sort of request for personal insult. This is the reason for going underground with my Monkees love after middle school, you know. Reactions like yours. Well, guess what? I’m out of the musical closet now, so you can’t bring me down, mister. Now stop stalling. You’ve heard all the songs. There has to be one you like better than the rest.”
He had heard all the songs, over and over again. It’s not like Brynn didn’t listen to any other music, but the Monkees were always the go-to when she needed something to make her smile. He couldn’t argue with that, and because he chose dare, he also couldn’t argue with the request. Though he promised no guarantee the act would not endanger their lives or the lives of others.
“I didn’t mean to insult…” he started, but she cut him off.
“Still stalling,” she said, her tone haughty. “Come on, James. I’ve heard you sing. You’re not too bad. Now just prove to me you know the words, and we can both put this behind us.”
So he did it—belted it, actually. Jamie Kingston didn’t just sing the chorus to “I’m a Believer.” He sang the whole damn song, finishing just as they came to their exit in Galena, Kansas. He pulled into town and then into the parking lot of the historic Cars on the Route service station.
“I gotta piss,” he said, throwing the truck into park and holding back a smirk. Brynn sat, mouth agape, silent through his whole performance and silent still. When he opened his door and hopped out, he heard her clear her throat behind him.
“That was…um…good,” she said. “I didn’t know you could sing like that,” she added softly. But he didn’t turn back. The disbelief in her voice was enough. Plus, he didn’t want her to see how much he beamed with satisfaction as he strode toward the station.
Let’s see Spencer Matthews do that, he thought.
Then he hummed what he supposed was his favorite Monkees song the rest of the walk to the door.
He’d make a believer out of her yet.
…
What the hell was that?
Brynn braced her hands on the side of the sink, uncommonly clean for a gas station bathroom. The white porcelain sparkled, and the end of the toilet paper was folded into a triangle like they do at fancy hotels. Chalk it up to the place being a historic landmark or to the tourism in general, but the Cars on the Route bathroom was one of the cleanest public restrooms she’d ever seen. Hands-on-the-sink clean.
Brynn blinked, her dry eyes already irritated. So she pulled her contact case and solution from her purse and decided to give her lenses a little rinse.
Her mind went back to the question at hand. What. The hell. Was that?
She’d expected Jamie to scoff at her dare request. She’d expected him to comply, begrudgingly, of course. What she hadn’t expected was the entire song, or how freaking good he sounded singing it. He didn’t sound like Mickey Dolenz or Davy Jones. He didn’t sound like a Monkee at all.
He sounded good. Better. Sexy.
When had he learned how to sing like that? Or was that another part of her friend she’d never been privy to before?