by Jean Haus
“Huh, I can’t imagine my parents taking off for the winter, and I’ve been eighteen since September.” I glanced at the fifth sitting on the desk. To avoid extra calories, I normally only allowed myself two drinks at any party—and I’d already had those inside—yet something about the fight with Seth made me want to ignore my usual limits. “Can I have a drink?”
“It’s tequila.”
I shrugged.
“I brought it to pass around, but sure, let’s have our own party.” Sam leaned over me and grabbed the bottle. The sensation of his body sliding across mine made my breath hitch for a second, which seemed strange. After shucking our coats, we passed the bottle back and forth—the first couple of sips were tough to hold down—and talked music, laughing as we argued about whose taste in bands was better. Flipping pages, he read some lines from the book he’d brought with him, which was called High Fidelity and set in London. From what I was hearing, the novel sounded like a mix of music and heartache. I didn’t get all the sarcastic humor, but Sam’s lame British accent made me laugh as hard as the quotes. I felt strangely calm and free, until half the fifth was gone and the conversation led back to the Bottle Rockets and Seth.
“You guys going to keep the band going at Michigan?” I asked, my voice breaking at “guys” because it included Seth.
Sam lifted my chin with a finger. “Hey, Peyton. He’ll come around. He always does.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do it anymore,” I said in a raw whisper.
“Do you want to do it anymore?” Sam whispered back.
“No. No, I don’t,” I said, truly believing it in that buzzed moment.
The whispering somehow made the moment intimate, created a connection that wasn’t there or made me aware of one that I’d previously ignored. My breath hitched again.
Sam leaned closer, his eyes searching mine. “Seth and you are truly over?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said softly, feeling caught in Sam’s gaze. “I told him so.”
Before I realized what was happening, his arms were around me, and his lips were on mine. More startling than his kiss was my reaction to it. The soft demanding pulse of his mouth set me on fire. His slow searching tongue was a driving burn that made me want to explore. I locked my hands behind his neck and kissed him back. The kiss was long and hot and air draining, and drew me into a cocoon of lust.
Warm and languid, I floated through sensations that I hoped would never stop. Soft lips gliding across the contours of my neck. Calloused fingers easing under my shirt and caressing my waist, gliding up to my ribs. The silky whisper of a tongue following the curve of my ear. Palms, so searing that I felt their heat through the silk of my bra, cupping my breasts. A warm, wet mouth trailing across my cheek.
Breathless, yearning for more, I felt free of the inhibition and apprehension that had so often marred my intimacy with Seth. Though I’d lost weight, I was still extremely conscious of my body. Jill had always told me that any man was lucky to be with me, no matter what my size, but I always worried about not being good or beautiful enough for him. In theory, I knew Jill was right, but I could just never relax enough to let things go further. Yet everything about being with Sam on the couch felt so fluid and natural that self-consciousness about my figure was the last thing on my mind.
Unable to stop myself, I turned my head and caught that mouth with mine, aching to lose myself in the sensations Sam was creating.
After the heated meeting of our mouths, I lay back, pulling him closer. My need turned frantic with his weight on me. I clutched his arms. He slid his hands down to my hips. We each tugged the other closer. As our tongues knotted together, his erection pressed between my spread legs, and I just about incinerated at the feel of him against me.
I whimpered into his mouth.
He pulled away slightly, propping himself up on one arm and looking down at me. He was raised above me, his harsh breath fanning and warming my skin.
Suspended in a haze of lust that I didn’t know was possible, I watched him with heavy-lidded eyes. I refused to contemplate the confusion in his gaze. Instead, I wrapped a leg around him and reached my hand to the back of his neck, then yanked him down to me.
He came down with a groan, covering my lips with his. Mouths locked together, we rocked against each other. We both panted at the delicious friction. Rocked. Panted. Rocked. Groaned. The mounting desire had us mindlessly tugging and hauling down each other’s jeans and underwear until there was nothing between us but the hard feel of him against my skin.
I felt him press into me. Just a bit.
“Peyton?” he panted, rising up on his elbows.
My body didn’t want his question. It didn’t want any distractions from the lustful cocoon we had weaved. It wanted to forge ahead with a fierceness I didn’t know was possible. Letting need take over, I lifted my hips and brought him farther into me.
We both gasped. We both trembled. We both moved closer.
There was a sharp burn, but even that didn’t deter me from wrapping my legs around him and sinking him fully in.
Sam drew his head back, the muscles of his neck straining. I quivered at the beautiful masculine sight above me as heat burned below. Then his head dropped, his mouth covered mine, and he started moving.
And the cocoon spun shut. His mouth, his hands holding my jaw, his moans, his movement inside me, left me mindless. We arched and grasped and clutched each other, senseless as the cocoon burst open, and pleasure like a newly born butterfly soaring in the bright sunshine floated through me. He fell against me, his face on my chest, his body warm and heavy on mine.
As the moments ticked past, reality slowly began to set in. What the hell did you just do, Peyton? Before I could collect my thoughts, before I could comprehend what had happened, the door flew open.
Seth stood there, tall and lean. His long hair practically hid his eyes as they traveled the length of our bodies sprawled on the couch. His expression conveyed a look of hurt as his mouth twisted into a snarl. “I knew it. I knew you were just some dumb slut holding out on me.”
“Seth . . .” Sam said in a warning tone as he tugged the afghan under us.
Every trace of lust seeped out of me, and I felt instantly, dreadfully sober. Sam’s weight on me was an anvil of regret. Tugging the blanket around me, he pulled himself up, yet regret still pressed heavily on my chest. “Leave her alone,” Sam said, his tone hostile, dragging up his pants.
“Seriously?” Seth shouted. “What the fuck? How can you defend the bitch?” He spun around and flew out the door, kicking it with a combat boot as he left.
Shame and guilt twisted inside me as the door banged shut. His look of hurt hammered regret through me. I’d been angry with Seth, but I’d never, ever wanted to hurt him.
“Seth!” I yelled, pushing Sam away. “Wait! This was a mistake! A crazy mistake!” I jerked my pants up, grabbed my coat, and ran after him. Outside, I yelled his name again, but he was already entering the house.
Tears started falling as I rushed across the wide driveway of gravel and burst into the house. I didn’t care about being embarrassed by tears. I had to talk to Seth, had to explain. More people had arrived. I was shoving my way through the crowd in the kitchen when the music was cut off and I heard vicious shouting that included the words “slut,” “bitch,” “fuck you,” and “asshole.” By the time I muscled my way into the living room, Jill and Seth were standing a few feet apart, glaring at each other.
Seth flicked his head toward me. “Ask the cunt who she just fucked five minutes ago.”
“You’re nuts!” Jill yelled, turning toward me. “Tell this asswad he’s out of his mind!”
People moved away from me, and it was as if I were standing on an island instead of at the edge of the living room. When I saw Seth’s cold, angry face, my bottom lip started to quiver.
Jill’s angry expression softened as worry lined her face. “Peyton?”
Everyone’s eyes were now on me.
“She’s been fucking my brother,” Seth snarled, crossing his arms over his black T-shirt. “And I’m betting it’s been going on behind my back the whole time. They’re always together. Constantly hiding and fucking in corners.”
I violently shook my head as more tears escaped. “No. It was never like that.”
His upper lip curled at me. “Screw off, Peyton. You’re a lying cum-sucking slut.”
“Shut your sick mouth!” Jill shouted in his face, and several people gasped. She marched over to me. Putting an arm around my shoulders, she said, “Let’s go. The shit is getting too deep in here.”
The crowd parted like we were on script in some stupid teenage movie.
Jill hauled me toward the kitchen, yet I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder at Seth.
Standing with his arms still crossed, Seth smiled cruelly at me. “Ever heard the saying, Don’t look back? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Come on,” Jill growled near my ear. “Before I turn around and bitch-slap his face.”
Though I wanted to plead with him, I allowed Jill to lead me out of the house. Sam stood outside the door. His gaze tore from the bright full moon and narrowed as he watched us pass.
“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, may
be 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.
We turn a sharp corner and I slide toward Gabe. With my chest pressed against his arm and my camera case digging into my stomach, I quickly push away and mumble, “Excuse me.”
As I scoot back to my side of the leather seat, Sam stares at Gabe with narrowed, angry eyes. Gabe laughs. Sam hits the button to lower the glass partition between us and the driver.
“Watch the fuck how you’re driving,” Sam says, then hits the button to send the partition up again. He takes a swig of whiskey then says lazily, staring at me, “ ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday.’ U2.”
Startled, I can only return his stare as memories of the game fill my head. His expression is calm and solemn, even patient. After dipping a toe into the past last night, and being overwhelmed by the memory of our passion, I suddenly flash on our moments of friendship—the extensive conversations about music and lyrics, long hours spent playing our game.
In burying that night, did I submerge everything that happened between us? How much is my brain capable of almost erasing? As our gazes stay locked, I’m starting to wonder.
“You high again?” Gabe asks.
Sam shakes his head. “Well?” he says, looking at me. He pours another glass of whiskey from the glass container, this time for Gabe.
