“I’m betting they don’t want to search in a tank of chemicals, piss, and shit for it.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “That was quite a lot of drugs, Sam,” I grumble.
He tugs his bag on his shoulder. “Do not say anything. To anyone.”
I shake my head at him. “Sam—”
“I mean it, Peyton,” he says, grabbing the door handle. “It’s none of your business,” he adds over his shoulder. Then I’m alone again in the tiny bathroom.
I absentmindedly pack my cosmetic bag back up. I’m shocked. I obviously knew he did drugs, but I didn’t imagine the extent. Although I’m ignorant of the actual cost, he must have flushed hundreds of dollars down the toilet.
I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom.
Justin, Gabe, and Sam sit on the front couches, playing video games. I quickly assume Romeo’s outside with Gary and the policeman. Or men?
Leaning on the small kitchen counter, I ask no one in particular, “What’s going on?”
Justin shrugs. “No idea. Cop pulled us over. Couldn’t be speeding. Gary never drives over sixty in this beast.”
“Beast is right.” Sam’s gaze stays glued to the screen.
Gabe glances at Sam, then me. “Better hide your pot, Peyton.”
I snort, “Yeah, I’ll go do that.”
Gabe laughs. Sam’s appearance remains smooth and calm. Justin yawns.
I head to the back room and put my stuff away. Nervous and fidgety, I sit on the couch and peer out the little window. All I can see out there in the dark are the lights of passing cars and the faint blue swirling lights of the police car, which must be parked ahead of us.
A rush of nervous air escapes me as I fall back against the couch. Sam is sitting up front like a calm zombie and I’m the one freaking out, thinking of all the horrible outcomes if he gets caught. Sam sitting in jail. Sam ruining the tour. Sam getting kicked out of school. I sit up. Can they do that? Is his entire future at stake at the moment?
Finally, the bus lurches back onto the road. I head to the front. Except for Romeo hunched over a notebook at the small table, the guys are still playing video games.
“What happened?” I ask Romeo.
He looks up from whatever he is writing. “The bus has a taillight out. Gary’s going to get it fixed in Charlotte, and the tour will take care of the ticket.”
“Oh,” I say, as the thudding of my heart at last slows. Sam glances at me with a smirk before his attention goes back to the onscreen fighting—and suddenly I’m angry. The dumbass is acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world while I’m stressing out. Over his future. Over his stupidity.
I stomp back past the bunk beds, grab a blanket, and fall onto the couch.
Sam a nice guy?
Yeah, right.
I smack my pillow.
More like a major asshole. Grass-smoking, coke-snorting asshole.
Chapter 15
I sleep in the next morning and wake up to an empty hotel room. I should do some laundry, but I decide to hit the treadmill and maybe lift some weights. Though the guys seem to find time to work out in the hotel gyms whenever we stop, I’ve found time for the treadmill only once since we left. But when I push open the door of the hotel’s exercise room, I almost close it and run away. Sam’s in the far corner lifting weights. I’m still angry with him about his toilet-pouring drug spree, and still shocked that he’s so much more of a druggie than I realized. But as I take the slightest step back, he looks up and smirks.
That smirk hits me in the gut.
Screw leaving. I’m not letting that loser control any aspect of my life. I ignored him last night when we got into the room. I ignored him at breakfast. And I’ll ignore him now. Yet I do decide to skip weights and just do cardio. It’s a little harder to ignore him since he’s only wearing running shorts, and pumping iron with his muscles flexing every-fucking-where.
I go to the treadmill on the other side of the room and turn it on. I do stretches against the machine, pop my earbuds in and find a loud, angry, punk rock playlist, then start running.
About ten minutes later, when I’ve got him pushed from my mind, a sweaty Sam stands in front of the treadmill, his eyes purposely roaming my body. I’m too shocked to be self-conscious. Holy hell, Sam’s body is as rocking as his music.
Loud lyrics, sharp guitar chords, and fast drums pound in my ears as I take in his killer physique. He is all rippling muscle. A fine sheen covers his sculpted chest. His eight-pack gleams under the florescent light. His abs look like they belong to a frickin’ comic book character. Seriously, he’s like six weeks and twenty protein shakes away from being a bodybuilder. But bodybuilders are usually on the side of too muscular. Sam, on the other hand, is perfection. The way I’m gulping for air has nothing to do with jogging, and everything to do with the sight of him.
I force myself to look away, above his head.
“Still not talking to me?” he says loud enough for me to hear over the music in my ears.
I continue running and looking above his head.
The treadmill slows and then stops. His finger hovers over the controls.
I glare at him and keep running on the motionless treadmill.
“Come on, Peyton. You’ve seen me toking before.”
I turn around and run facing the other way.
“Nice view.”
“Perv,” I say. I jump off the treadmill, and he catches my hand, drawing me around toward him until we’re inches apart.
“I only use when I party. It’s not like a daily thing.”
I finally lose it, ripping my earbuds out and hitting stop on the phone attached to my hip. “What about the illegal part? You could have gotten in serious trouble! You could have gotten any one of us on the bus in trouble! Do you think about anyone except yourself? And why the hell would you have that much coke?”
He lets my hand go and runs his own through his curls. “I’m sorry, okay. I just . . . Sometimes it’s hard to get into a party mood.”
“Party mood? In the middle of a tour that your indie band somehow landed, that’s important to you?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I need to unwind.”
My eyes narrow on him. “If you can’t unwind without drugs, you’ve got a problem, Sam.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. I’m not depressed or anything. I—things in my life just feel a little too deep sometimes.”
“I don’t want to hear your denial.” Unbelievable. I turn around to leave, and suddenly I’m surrounded by his warm, muscled arms. His hard chest presses against my back. He rubs his sweaty face on the side of mine.
“Come on. I’m sorry. That shit was supposed to last all tour. Six weeks. I’m not an addict or anything.”
“Get off me! You’re all sweaty!” But the truth is, he feels divine, even with the sheen of sweat. He is all hard, slippery muscle.
His arms tighten around me. “You’re right. I should have thought about all the ramifications, especially for everyone else. I was, am, an ass. Forgive me?”
I can feel every inch of his sculpted form against my back. “Let me go! You sweaty pig!”
“Then forgive me?” he whispers in my ear, somehow pulling me closer.
Damn. In addition to the awesome texture of him, beyond the clean scent of soap and his fresh-scented deodorant, I can smell his sweat and it’s making me imagine hot, sweaty sex. With him. Who’s the pig here? My reaction to him overwhelms me to the point that I just give up. “You’re forgiven. Now let me go.”
Releasing me, he reaches for his T-shirt hanging from a stationary bike and grins before tugging the shirt on. “Want to go do something after sound checks?”