“What the hell are you looking at?” Jill snapped.
“Nothing,” he said with an air of indifference while his eyes burned into me. He then turned and walked into the house.
The sound of one of the guys going into the bus bathroom pulls me back into the present. My entire body is shivering and I pull the blankets up. What in the world made me think I’d processed that night and gotten over it? I still feel awful that I cheated on Seth, with his brother no less, but I wasn’t playing the temptress. I wasn’t using Sam. I was hardly aware of what I was doing. We both played a part. I cringe a little when I think how I dismissed him right after—I now realize that probably came across as totally bitchy—but did he actually expect something else? Why would he?
We were just friends.
At least that’s what I’ve always thought.
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.