“Good, I think, but I don’t have much to compare it to.”
“First tour?”
“Yeah. My brother’s the singer,” I feel compelled to add.
“Threat Alert?”
“No, FMK.”
“Ah. Adam Rees’s band. They’re good.”
“You know him? Adam, I mean.”
Scott’s mouth quirks up knowingly. “Got a crush on Adam? They all do.”
All? I hide my wince by taking another sip of water. “No. You’ve seen these musicians. They’re all little boys once they put their instruments down.” I lift one shoulder. “Once you’ve been on tour with them, all the magic is gone. The music scene really isn’t my thing. I’m more into the guys wearing suits and ties than ripped jeans and T-shirts.”
Scott straightens, his warm face growing noticeably cooler.
Okay, I took it way too far. I try to salvage things. “I mean, he’s like a brother to me.”
“Who’s like a brother to you?” Adam says from over my shoulder.
“You,” Scott says. “We’ve found one girl who hasn’t fallen for the infamous Rees charm. She says she prefers businessmen to rockers. She must not know about the size of your wallet, Rees.”
Adam cocks his head. “She’s got plenty of her own cash, Scott.” It’s a mild rebuke but enough of one that Scott tosses his rag down and pretends someone else needs his attention down the bar.
“Was he hassling you?” Adam says quietly after Scott moves away.
“No. Not at all. I was…caught off guard and said some dumb stuff.” I can’t look at Adam. I’m too embarrassed.
“I doubt that.” He shifts slightly, as if he’s about to run down Scott and demand an apology.
I reach out to grab his wrist and then back off at the last minute. “No. Seriously. I was asking questions about you and he said I must have a crush. I told him no and then decided to add an asinine bit about how I prefer the office types over the band types.”
Adam’s face is impassive. Unlike Davis, whose every emotion is readable from a mile away, Adam’s expressions are hard for me to decipher. Is he offended I
“And is that true?” he says.
“No. I don’t have a type. I—” I break off because my entire experience with the opposite sex was two awkward attempts at dating with the Marrow episode sandwiched in between. I know that none of those experiences give me a healthy outlook on relationships, men, dating, or romance in general.
“Because of Marrow?” Adam guesses.
He’s too damn intuitive for his own good. I scrub my finger against the lacquered bar top for a second before answering. “In part. But even before then, I’ve never been good with guys.” My finger pops up to adjust my glasses. “Marrow only made it harder.”
“He’s not here now. You don’t have to be afraid.”
“I’m not. Actually, I—”
“Afraid of what?” A new guy pops up. “Hey, Scott, grab me whatever you got on tap. The good stuff, though. Not any of that watered-down shit.”
Scott waves a hand of acknowledgement. The new guy is one of the musicians in Threat Alert’s band. He plays the same kind of guitar that Rudd does. The guitarist turns around and leans his elbows against the bar top. I’ve heard them call him Albie, short for Fat Albert. I had to look that up on Wikipedia and I still don’t know where the connection comes from. Albie is short, thin, and mayonnaise white.
Adam’s normal poker face holds a mild hint of annoyance.
“Rees,” Albie says, tipping his thin chin up. “Landry, right?”
I nod and stick out my hand. He gives it a dismissive look before addressing Adam. “Hollister thinks we should play a joint song. Kind of ease from one band to another. You guys can play ‘Fine Games’ with us.”
“We can, can we?” Adam says. The chill in his tone is enough to send goosebumps skittering up my arms.
Albie doesn’t even notice. “Yeah. After all, the crowds are coming to hear us. They’ll want you to play one of our songs.” He spins around. “Where’s my drink? Scott, buddy.” The bassist tips his hand toward his mouth. “Need my beer. Shit,” he shakes his head. “The wait staff here sucks.” He stomps down to the end of the bar to confront Scott directly.
Adam slides his hand under my elbow and helps me off the stool. “Not all musicians are assholes like Albie, Landry.”
“I know,” I say in surprise.
He sighs. “Do you?”
I don’t know how to respond to that so I keep my lips zipped shut.
Adam only sighs again.
* * *
Two days later, we’re on the road speeding toward Charlotte. The guys are sleeping. May’s somewhere in eastern Mongolia. An unfortunate number of places there do not have any internet access.
I’d go talk to the bus driver, but I don’t want to bother the guys. They need their sleep. The last couple of shows haven’t gone as well. Albie keeps bugging Adam about doing some cross-band stuff. Adam keeps putting him off.
There’s also a weird tension in the air between Adam and Davis. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it makes me nervous.I find myself watching Davis more closely. The post-show parties in the buses are getting wilder. Last night, while Adam was talking to the bar owner, I trailed Davis into TA’s bus. I don’t know what the capacity of that thing is, but there were wall-to-wall people.
I suppose that explained why so many of the partiers were various stages of nudity. Girls were down to their bras. Guys had their shirts off. A couple were having sex in the corner of the bunk where Ian and Rudd were sitting, sharing a joint.
Davis kept himself occupied by drinking. A lot. But that was better than him joining the crew in the front that were snorting lines of coke, passing out Molly, and chasing the pills down with shots of Jägermeister.
Davis was stiff and unhappy that I was there watching him, but I couldn’t leave. It didn’t get better when Adam showed up and the half-dressed girls tried to press up against him. To his credit, he ignored all the offers and spent the rest of the night by Davis and me. He probably felt the waves of tension and wanted to make sure the Olsen siblings didn’t get into a fight in front of all the fans.
When we finally left, Davis was drunk and I was weak from anxiety. As for Adam, I think he was confused. He tried to talk to me, but I didn’t have any energy for him. I stumbled into the back and threw myself on the bed.
On the positive side, I’m not stressing about Marrow any longer. Instead I’m filled with worry about Davis, about the band, and about my inconvenient attraction to Adam.
There’s a knock on the door. “Landry? You awake?” Adam says softly.
I shove my laptop to the side and hurry to the door. With a press of a button, the door slides open to reveal a sleepy Adam, wearing sweatpants and one of those tanks that are open on either side. Slices of his golden skin flash enticingly at me as he walks in.
He’s carrying a mat under his arms. “Do you mind if I do a few stretching exercises? I haven’t lifted in a couple of days and I think my muscles are atrophying.”
I stare at his biceps. “I hadn’t noticed,” I reply dumbly.
He flexes. I clench my jaw so it doesn’t drop open in lusty appreciation.
“Well, I can feel it. I’d do it between the bunks but I don’t want to wake anyone up.”
I step aside and wave a hand toward the couches. “Be my guest.”
I hurry over to grab my laptop off the table. He tosses the mat to the side and presses a button and the table slowly lowers to level with the floor.
The muscles in his back bunch as he flicks the mat open.
“You can sit on the couch if you want,” he offers. “Won’t bother me.”
I crawl onto the cushion and scoot over to the corner.
“You managing the boredom okay?” he says as he lowers himself to the ground. He places his hands in a diamond shape and begins a series of pushups. This is stretching?
“Yeah, I have my wo
rk.” I pat my laptop absently. I can’t take my eyes off his body. Since he’s face-down, I don’t have to. I take the opportunity to catalogue every muscle, every inch of exposed skin. Everything about him is impressive.
My tongue creeps out to lick a slow path along my lower lip. I’d give my entire seven-figure bank account to be able to touch him. Just once. My fingers curl against the top of my laptop.
Desire unfurls, heating my blood, quickening my heartbeat.
Beneath me, just inches away from my fingers, Adam’s body moves in one smooth and steady motion. Up and down. Up and down. I fantasize about my own frame—smaller, lighter, softer—positioned under his. I imagine that he touches me as he does his guitar—with reverence and knowing. I dream about him kissing me, his beautiful mouth forming my name instead of lyrics.
Need throbs at my neck, my wrists, between my legs. I draw a hand down my throat, pressing my fingertips against the wildly beating pulse point. I feel the echo of that pulse in my core. God, it’s been so long.
So long since I’ve felt the tender, intimate touch of anyone. I want Adam. I want him so much I’m afraid that it’s going to be the ruin of me.
I jump up and race out of the room.
“Landry?” he calls in bewilderment.
I slam the door to the bathroom shut and shove a hand down my pants. I lean against the bathroom door and touch myself, imagining that it’s Adam’s long, talented fingers instead of my own, working me until I have to bite my forearm to keep from crying out.
Shit. This is no good.
No good at all.
Chapter Ten
Adam
“Come over and sit your sweet ass next to mine, honey.” Rudd pats the cushion beside him and gives Landry a devilish grin.
After our fifteen-minute rest stop, we’re back in the bus with only a few more hours to go. A few more endless hours given how close Landry is to Rudd. An inch to her right and she’d be sitting on his hand.
“So it’s honey now?” she teases as she nudges Rudd’s shoulder with her own. Her glasses slip down her nose. “What happened to darling and sweetheart?”
“You didn’t seem to like those, so I’m trying a new one out. How’s it working?”
She pretends to consider it while pushing her frames back into place. “Honey’s not bad, but I don’t think it fits. Keep trying.”
Don’t encourage him! I want to growl. I glance over at Davis to see if he’s going to put a stop to this, but his nose is buried in the sheet music I handed out earlier.
Ian also appears completely unconcerned that Rudd and Landry are a few seconds from mashing their lips against each other.
“Hey, buddy, you might want to ease up on your fret or you’re going to lose a few fingers,” Ian murmurs beside me.
I look at my left hand with surprise and realize I’m gripping the strings so tightly that they’re leaving marks. Get it together, I order myself.
Then I hear a giggle. I slap my hand against the guitar and glare at the two snuggled in the curve of the U-shaped sofa. “You going to practice, Rudd, or make moves on your singer’s sister?”
Rudd’s head jerks around, an innocent look on his face. “Dude, just trying to make Landry comfortable. No reason to get your panties in a bunch.”
He reaches between his legs to pick up his guitar. I watch in satisfaction as Landry is forced to move closer to her brother to avoid the neck of Rudd’s instrument.
Ignoring my drummer’s look of speculation, I start playing the first song in the set that we’re performing tonight. Rudd, for all his faults, is a total professional and immediately joins in, although he does wink one last time at Landry, who responds by rolling her eyes.
Does she know that her hard-to-get attitude is exactly the right way to play it with Rudd? He’s got women throwing themselves at him all the time. We all do. It’s one of the very real, albeit clichéd, perks of being in a band. There’s something about music and instruments and stage lights that make panties drop—literally.
My dad’s band used to keep a drawer in the tour bus full of panties and bras they’d been given. At the end of a tour, Moet, the drummer, took it back to his house. I don’t know if he still has it. I prefer to leave that as one of the mysteries of the universe.
There hasn’t been a girl I’ve met or fucked whose underwear I wanted to keep—or even see, for that matter. I’ve always subscribed to the theory that underwear looks best on the floor, not the body. But I can’t help but wonder what Landry’s looks like. Does she have frilly lacy panties or is she more of a boyshorts kind of gal? Is there a thong covering her sweet pussy or maybe she’s going commando?
It’s shit like this that keeps me up at night or makes me do stupid things like a bunch of pushups in the back of the bus. Sure, I need to stay fit. Tours are long and physically exhausting, but did I need to do them in front of her? Damn me, but that was juvenile. An act thirteen year-old me would’ve cringed at.
But I wanted—scratch that—I needed a response from her. Any kind of glimmer that the pull between us still existed. I know she’s not ready to act on it, but, I’m not prepared to beat my friend and bandmate into a pulp if she’s moved on to him.
I examine the two of them. They’re friends, I decide for my own sanity. She flirts with him because Rudd’s safe. And she runs away from me because she knows I’m not.
It’s a good thing that the song we’re playing is a fan favorite and that I know it so well, I could play it drunk, stoned, high, or maybe even comatose. Because right now, I can’t concentrate on anything but Landry. My jeans have shrunk a size and I’m grateful I have a guitar in my lap, although Ian, who’s next to me slapping his hands against his thighs, could probably see my hard-on if he glanced my way.
I ponder how serious Davis was with his threat of leaving the band if any of us make a move on his sister.
The song ends, and before I can start the next one, Davis clears his throat.
“What is it?” I snap, more harshly than I intend.
He hesitates, tapping a finger against the sheet music. “We’re playing this song a little fast, don’t you think?”
“And maybe a mite too angry,” Ian adds with a smirk.
Goddammit. He did look my way.
I shift the guitar. “I hadn’t noticed.” I was so wrapped up in speculating about Landry that I hadn’t been paying attention to the beat.
“I’m concerned if we start the set out too fast that we won’t be able to keep up the intensity of that first song throughout, but maybe we could do it a half beat faster.” Davis taps out the rhythm and starts to sing again. Rudd joins in and soon Ian’s hands are slapping against his knees.
It’s slightly faster than I have it written, but I like it. For the next twenty minutes, I force myself to keep my attention off Landry and on the band. It’s not easy, though, as a stray bit of sunlight streams over her shoulder, highlighting her creamy skin. I manage not to screw up too badly, and after the fifth song, I call for a break.
“You going to make it until she leaves?” Ian asks under his breath. “Because if being around her for a few hours turns you inside out, I’d hate to see what you’re going to be like in two months.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter back.
He rolls his eyes. “If that’s the way you want to play it.”
“Are you all hungry?” Landry asks, drawing my attention away from Ian. She couldn’t hear us, I hope, but she senses a bit of tension and is instinctively trying to dispel it. “I could make dinner for us. Something light before you go onstage.”
“No way.” Davis jumps to his feet. “I’ll make it.”
“Seriously, Davis, I can make a salad or something.” Scowling, she hurries after Davis.
Rudd makes a gagging sound. I’m in full agreement. Lettuce isn’t my thing, either. But I set the guitar aside and follow the two siblings down to the tiny galley kitchen. My body doesn’t care what it eats if Landry’s cook
ing.
“What’s the problem? We’re not going to force Landry to cook if she doesn’t want to,” I say. She’s here to escape a bad situation, not to do chores for us assholes.
“She’s a terrible cook. If you want to miss our next show, then by all means, let her at the stove,” Davis says.
“Davis, I’m not that bad.” Landry punches her brother in the arm.
“You poisoned the family.”
Poison? I can’t help grinning. She gives an exasperated huff, blowing a lock of hair away from her face. Fuck, she’s adorable. “It was an accident.”
Davis looks over her head at me. “She nearly overdosed us on sodium. She put like half a bottle of table salt in a pan of water, forgot it and boiled it until it was nothing but a few drops of water and a hunk of salt. Then she dumped tomato sauce in it.” He shakes his head. “Face it, Landry, you’re too easily distracted to cook. I’ll make us something.”
The look she sends her brother’s way is murderous. I smother a chuckle behind the back of my hand.
“What’s so funny?” she asks indignantly, hands on her hips.
“I’ve heard of the saying ‘She doesn’t know how to boil water,’ but didn’t realize it could actually be true.” As she continues to glower at me, I add, “We’ve all got flaws.”
She purses her lips, the juicy lower one forming a very suckable bit of flesh. “Well, let’s hear yours.”
“How much time do we have?” I lean against the fridge.
“Two months,” she fires back.
“Not nearly enough time.”
“Now you’re stalling.”
No, I’m enjoying the hell out of sparring with you.
A bang of a pot against the stove has me straightening up. I’d forgotten that Davis was here. Hell, I think I forgot anyone else was here but me and Landry. She looks just as disconcerted, jerking away from the counter and backing up to sit in the banquette just beyond the stove.
Davis looks over his shoulder at me. I give him a bland smile. Just making friendly with the sister. Nothing to see here, I try to convey.
Unwritten Page 8
