The furniture looks like it was all plucked straight from a magazine—sharp and modern designs, and fabrics in dramatic shades of blue. I think it should look stylish, but knowing that a nineteen-year-old guy lives here, it just gives the RV a hotel vibe, like it’s a home that’s never really been lived in.
The only personalized touches are the posters of bands on the pastel-blue walls. I read the titles one by one: Fall Out Boy, AWOLNATION, Forever the Sickest Kids. There are at least five more littering the walls, and I try not to look too surprised as I trail a finger over the glossy paper of the nearest one. Who would have guessed rock stars could get all fanatic about other bands?
I follow the posters into the living area, which has two couches facing each other and a giant flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. There’s a small mound of pillows and blankets on one of the couches, and I can practically hear it calling to me. I glance down the hall where Jace disappeared. I don’t want to look like I’m getting comfortable too quickly, but my feet are seriously about to drop off. I shake my head, deciding I don’t care what he thinks, and fall back into the pile of blankets.
There’s a thrashing movement from under me, and I shriek, the sound scraping my throat as it escapes. Jumping off the couch, I whirl around. What the heck is hiding under the blankets? Another dog? Dammit, I hope I didn’t just squish anything.
The blankets flop back, and staring up at me with bloodshot eyes is a young guy who I instantly recognize as a member of Tone Deaf. His name is Killer, I think. He was the one playing the keyboard at their concert the other night.
Avery’s always babbling about how adorable Killer is, but he doesn’t look like that right now. He’s squinting at me with an expression that screams of pain. I stumble back, gasping for breath and trying to assess the damage.
Killer takes one look at me and then groans and lets his head drop back into the pillows. He glares through half-closed eyes and doesn’t say anything, which just makes the whole thing more awkward. But he doesn’t seem to be in distress. So that’s good, right?
“Darling,” he finally says, his lips moving in a soft way that tells me he has a British accent, “it’s generally considered impolite to sit on someone with a hangover. Screaming is also rather rude.”
I stutter out a couple of incomprehensible words, unsure how to reply. Then I feel a hand tap my shoulder. It’s warm and gentle, and I immediately recognize the touch as Jace’s. I mumble an apology as I turn toward him.
Jace pulls away his hand and signs, “It’s going to be hard to hide you if you scream every time you see one of the band.”
“Sorry,” I sign lamely. “I’m a little on edge.”
“Yeah. I can tell.”
He glances over to the guy on the couch, who has taken the last few moments to fling the blanket back over his head. “That’s Killer,” Jace says to me, and then he finger spells the strange name to make sure I get it.
I nod and hesitantly say out loud, “Hi.”
Killer fishes a hand out of the blankets and gives me a limp wave.
Jace rolls his eyes. “Killer had a little too much to drink last night. You’ll have to excuse him. He’s a bit of a lightweight.”
Killer’s hand thrashes around, like he’s trying to find someone to smack. But Jace expertly backs away, and Killer withdraws back under the blankets. I smile a little, not bothering to hide it.
Jace gestures to the other couch. “You can sit over there.”
I nod and obey, sitting on the cushion right across from Killer. I force in a shuddering breath and do my best to actually relax. But I can’t get my muscles to loosen, and my hands are shaking a little. I fist them into balls to try to hide their shaking, and then quickly unclench them, realizing that it’s just making me look even more like a nervous wreck.
Jace stands between the couches, a safe distance between both me and Killer. I wait for him to take a seat on one of them, but he just stays there, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a thin black T-shirt, which does a nice job of showing off his defined muscles, and a ripped pair of dark skinny jeans. Usually, I don’t like it when guys wear skinny jeans, but Jace pulls them off. Hell, he could wear a kilt and pull it off.
He shuffles his feet, and his throat bobs as he clears it. “So . . . do you want a drink, or something?”
I flinch at his words. Me? Drink? After all the times I’ve been punched by a drunk? “I don’t drink.”
Jace grimaces a little. “I’m not talking about alcohol. I would not offer you alcohol.”
Then he looks at me expectantly, raising one eyebrow. It always annoys me when people do that. I mean, if you’re going to raise an eyebrow, why not go all-in and raise them both? People always look awkward when they only raise one.
Except for Jace. He doesn’t look at all awkward. This seems to be a recurring theme with him; he can get away with anything—dirty Vans, quirked eyebrows, overactive middle fingers—and still look hot.
My god. I’m starting to sound like Avery.