Sam shrugs, then yawns. “Not sure, but there’s not much we can do now, is there?”
Ignoring his nonchalance, I do the math. We left Michigan yesterday at one. Even with a long stop for gas, we must have done ten hours yesterday. The trip to Denver takes eighteen hours. We were supposed to get there at four o’clock, which would have given the band three hours to do sound checks and get ready before going onstage at seven. I glance at the time on my phone. Three o’clock. Denver has to be hours away, because the landscape around us is rolling hills. Out the front window, the mountains are visible in the distance, but getting to them might take forever.
Romeo glances out the window and swears. I shut my laptop. I’m guessing he’s not going to be interested in checking the post right now. Sam goes back to his book. Justin continues pacing. Feeling a little anxious, I head to the back room and put away my computer. The bus comes to a complete stop and someone up front yells out, “Fuck!”
Sitting on the couch, I use my phone to check our distance from Denver. According to the map, the journey there should take a little less than two hours. I glance out the window. The horrendous traffic could easily eat up the next two hours. Whoever made this schedule is an idiot. It doesn’t allow much time for error.
The bus doesn’t move. I look at my phone again, glance out the window, and then clench and unclench my hands repeatedly. There’s nothing else to do.
Sam comes into the back room. He nods toward the TV and puts his book on the table. “Mind if I watch? Gabe’s couch drumming and the nonstop bitching up front is getting on my nerves.”
“Be my guest,” I say, shaking my head. How can he be so calm? This is their first show. “This really isn’t fazing you?”
“Nothing I can do. I can’t worry about everything in life,” he says absently, grabbing the remote and starting to flick through channels. He props his feet on the table, next to his book. I glance at the cover: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It must be funny, because I faintly recall that Sam used to carry around books, even at parties, and they were always humorous. He would read lines to me from them. Sometimes I would get the humor; other times I just laughed at the goofy way he read the lines. I’m suddenly annoyed that the only side of him I ever see is the grumpy one. The fun-loving side of him seems to be gone.
“What do you have to worry about?” I ask, ticking off the options in my head. Getting laid? Partying? Maybe grades?
“You still interviewing, Ms. Couric?” he asks snidely.
Yup. He’s nothing but a total jerk when he’s around me. Twisting away from him, I check my phone. We haven’t moved much.
Sam keeps flicking through channels.
I watch too. Well, kind of. Mainly I’m trying to understand his indifference. I’m betting his demanding girlfriend sucks all the energy for worrying out of him.
An hour passes with me checking my phone and glancing at the latest channel Sam has landed on. The bus alternates between a stop and a crawl, once in a while rolling forward suddenly in a spurt. As it nears five o’clock, we’re a little less than an hour away. We could make it. Like minutes prior to seven.
Sam gets a call and within seconds, he’s arguing again about trust.
Feeling as if I’m unintentionally eavesdropping on his dysfunctional relationship, I decide to get ready for the show. My suitcase is under the bus, and my backpack has a limited wardrobe, but there’s not going to be enough time to unload the suitcases, which are behind the instruments, before showtime. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.
In the bathroom, I drag on a pair of low-riding jeans and a Clash T-shirt emblazoned with the cover of London Calling, which I usually use for sleeping. The shirt is big, so I tie it at one corner, leaving a slice of my stomach showing, which I never do, even though Jill is constantly telling me to show off my abs. They’re quite toned because I’ve been working out three times a week since senior year of high school. After sliding my flip-flops back on, I wash my face with as little water as possible and then apply some makeup. Lastly, I scrunch my hair and add gel. Without electricity, there’s not much else I can do with it.
When I head out to the front room, the guys are still despondent about the traffic jam. Justin now sits on the couch across from Gabe, whose sticks continue thudding on leather. Romeo’s still on the phone. Since there’s no sign of Sam, I’m guessing he’s still watching TV in the back room.
I see mountains surrounding us when I look out the window.
I check my phone for the time and the distance. Ten after six and only twenty-two miles left.
“You should get ready,” I announce to no one in particular.
Justin’s expression is mocking. “Our clothes are underneath the bus.”
“You don’t have anything up here?”
Gabe hits his sticks together with a loud thwap. “No stage clothes.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my backpack to my shoulder, “maybe you’ll have to go for the college student look tonight.” I glance at my phone. “We should make it. We have a little over twenty miles left, and we’re moving now.” I look again at the traffic outside. It’s not fast, but it’s moving.
Romeo puts down his phone. “She’s right. Get dressed.”
“What about a shower?” Justin asks.
Turning toward the front window, Romeo says, “There’s enough water for everyone to have just one. Pick before or after.”
Frowning, Gabe says, “Definitely after playing the drums.”
In the back room, I find Sam dozing, legs propped on the table, his hands folded across his lap. Seeing his face so tranquil startles me for a moment. With his long, dark lashes and his full, chiseled mouth, he’s all male but somehow sweet.
Using my foot, I tap his foot resting on the table. His eyes flutter open, then his gaze turns hard as it focuses on me.
Sweet? Please. What was I thinking?
“You have about forty minutes to get ready. Forty-five minutes until you’ll be onstage.”
His eyebrows shoot up in a question.
I gesture to the pajama bottoms he’s still wearing. “What I’m saying is, you might want to change.”
I move to the corner where my stuff is piled, but stop just short of bending down when I sense his gaze on me. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes are roaming my body.
My gaze turns pointed. “You need something?”
His eyes continue to travel over me slowly—too slowly. My arms itch to wrap around my body for cover because his deliberate gaze is starting a flutter in my stomach, butterfly wings gone crazy . . . I resist tugging my shirt down over the inch of skin showing above my belt and glare at him.
“Nice shirt,” he says with a grin.
Though I know he’s a Clash fan too, it’s completely obvious that my shirt is not what he’s checking out. “Thanks,” I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.
His gaze sweeps over me again. “You’ve filled out since high school, huh?”
When he met me during my senior year, I was living on carrots and celery. My goal now is to eat reasonably and maintain a healthy weight, not to look as skinny as a teenage model. But he’d better not say I’m bigger or something. My body image issues from high school still linger, and they can creep up on me.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “You’ve finally got an ass.”
My jaw drops and I grab the remote from the tabletop to throw at him, but he’s up and off the couch before I can toss it.
“A seriously hot ass,” he says under his breath, then steps through the door.
Shocked, I drop the remote, which lands on the floor with a thud.