by Jean Haus
Now our hips are moving to the slow, lush beat. Together. In perfect rhythm.
Fever escalating.
I try to cool down the lust rushing through my body, but . . .
Moving with Sam to the hypnotic beat and listening to the woman’s sumptuous voice—maybe under the influence of too much alcohol—hurls me into a sensual stupor. Everything except the music and the press of our bodies fades to the background. Our dancing has me drunker than all the alcohol I’ve consumed. I’m suddenly intoxicated by lust.
The song ends. It takes me a few seconds to stop moving, to wake up. The loud thunder of clapping wrenches me from the sensual haze, and I nearly jump away from Sam, who’s watching me. His gaze makes my memories of our night together feel all too real. Memories I thought I’d buried. I turn away from him and stumble to our table. After gulping the rest of my beer, I smack my empty glass on the table and point to the exit.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He taps the side of his glass, reminding me he’s not done with his drink, and starts to sit.
“Take it with you,” I say, pushing my chair under the table. “We’re in New Orleans, baby.”
I’m grateful they allow people to walk around with alcohol in the Big Easy, because I know Sam hates to leave a drink behind. But after that sensual dance, I’m determined that we are leaving. As in now. I don’t wait for Sam to follow me. I make way through the tables to the sidewalk outside.
He catches up with me halfway down the block. “What’s your rush?”
“It’s after ten. You have a photo shoot tomorrow and a concert.”
“Oh, I can hang.”
“Well, I guess I’m a lightweight, because I can’t.”
He rolls his eyes. I march toward the hotel. Well, what I assume to be the direction of the hotel, anyway. I’m rather buzzed. Realizing I may be wandering aimlessly, Sam removes the map from his back pocket to make sure we’re headed the right way. Once he is done studying the map—and he guides us to the right path—a song title comes whipping out of his mouth. I counter each time with a title that has him grinning. Though our walk probably lasts over a half hour, it feels like we arrive back at the hotel in mere minutes.
After checking in at the reception desk for our room keys, we sneak through the lobby quickly, afraid someone might drag us to the dinner probably still going on. Besides being slightly too loaded to deal with a roomful of rockers, the day of sightseeing and drinking in the heavy humidity has left us sweaty and exhausted. I have no idea if Sam has been affected by the strange roller coaster of emotions the day has produced. But I know that I, for one, need a breather.
We race up to our room, and Sam goes directly to the little fridge filled with booze.
He lifts two small bottles. “Nightcap?”
The man is trying to kill me. “On ice. No shots. And give me something that won’t make hair grow on my chest.”
Sam smirks. “Now that’s something I’d like to see.”
I reach into the ice bin on the table next to me and chuck a cube at him.
Bending to duck from the icy missile, he pulls out a tiny bottle of amaretto.
“Perfect,” I say, flicking off my flip-flops and falling to the end of one bed. Because of a breakup during our sophomore year of college, Jill once tried to get wasted on amaretto while watching sappy movies. There wasn’t enough alcohol content in the stuff to put her out of her misery, so I know it’s not too potent.
After handing me the amaretto, Sam pours a whiskey in a glass, then sits down next to me.
“I had a great time today, Peyton,” he says, before taking a sip of booze.
“It wasn’t too bad.”
His head snaps toward me. “What? It was great and you know it.”
“I didn’t get to go in the miniature store,” I say in a sad tone.
“Well, I didn’t get to see strippers.”
“You made me sing karaoke.”
“You were awesome.”
“Yeah, I’m a virtuoso.”
“Maybe not that good but better than I thought you were going to be.”
“Your song choice was awful.”
“That song is a classic. And I know your taste in music is as eclectic as mine. So I’m sure you liked it. You just don’t have the balls to admit it.”
I give him a narrowed glare. “The jazz band was totally commercial. Kind of lame.”
“Who cares? They did ‘Fever.’ ”
“It was hot and muggy all day.”
“We partied from noon until now.”
“It was exhausting.”
Bending over, he sets his drink down on the floor. “Admit you had a good time.”
I shake my head slightly, taking another sip. When I’m done, he snatches the glass from my hand. “Admit it was great hanging out with me all day.”
I shrug. “It was okay.”
“Okay? What about my dancing?”
“You dance . . . all right.”
“All right?” he screeches.
I blink at him innocently. My lashes flutter like an idiot’s.
He stares at me with hooded eyes, then lunges. We slide across the bed, and he lands on top of me. His hands find my stomach, and he begins to viciously tickle me.
“Admit I can dance.”
I can’t admit anything. I’m too busy laughing.
“Admit it!” he hollers, his fingers pausing for the slightest moment.
I gasp out, “You can dance!”
He attacks again.
“Admit you liked singing.”
I try not to give in to this demand, but his fingers on my ribs soon have me shouting, “Loved the singing!”
“Admit you had a good time.”
“Good,” I gasp, then laugh loudly. “Good time!”
His fingers dig into my sides more furiously. “The best time?”
“Best time ever!” I yell.
Sam finally stops tickling me, and I can breathe. He’s hovering above me, his knees on either side of my hips. Very little of his weight rests on me. He stares down at me with those pretty blue eyes. I try to catch my breath and contain the mixed emotions stirring inside of me. He leans the tiniest bit forward, his lips slightly parted, desire etched on his face. And lust hits me like a tsunami, crashing into me and fucking up everything.
The space between our locked gazes crackles with longing. He leans closer to me, brushing my waist with his thumbs, as if slowly asking . . . I don’t move. Want courses through me. I should move. Put a hand up for him to stop. Something. But I’m rendered immobile by the desire for his lips to meet mine. The promise of his muscled weight pressing against me causes those lush bottled-up memories to surface. The hot touch of fingers on my skin. A soft sigh above me. A harsh pant in my ear. The quick flashes of recollection nearly have me reaching for him.
We stare at each other, the desire between us obvious.
The swish of someone slipping a key card into the lock on the other side of the door breaks the silence, and our glued gazes jerk apart. At the turn of the handle, I frantically buck Sam off me. He moves away, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. Ignoring his expression, I roll off the bed and reach for my bag—which, luckily, is on the chair next to the bed—then disappear into the bathroom as Gabe strolls into the room.
The hot shower washes away my guilty tears—it feels like history is repeating itself. I take my time brushing my teeth, flossing, applying moisturizer, brushing my hair, and waiting for the redness to subside from my eyes. Fortunately, when I step out of the bathroom, the hotel room is empty. Sam and Gabe must have gone out.
I turn off the lights and crawl into the smallest damn rollaway on earth. It seems the more expensive the hotel, the tinier the roll-away. My fingers grip the edge of the sheet. I feel awful. I almost kissed Sam and cheated on Bryce. Maybe I would have stopped. I hope I would have stopped it. Or did I just get lucky that Gabe walked in when he did? I’m guessing the latter.
Ug
h.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Too much booze? Away from my boyfriend too long? Sam is too appealing?
No. No. Sorta.
I’ve never once thought about cheating on Bryce. Drunk or not. Apart for a while or not.
Apparently, I need to stay away from Sam. Being with him brings up too many old memories and confusing feelings. Because that has to be what’s screwing with me. It’s like reliving memories that I should have never let loose.
I tug the sheet up and roll over toward the wall. I’ve always hated recalling the heartache of my memories with Seth. But recalling the scorching heat of Sam is starting to feel even more painful.
It feels like he can still burn me.
Chapter 12
The morning after my night out with Sam in New Orleans, my head is pounding like a package of lit firecrackers. As usual, I slipped from our room quietly, but it had more to do with not wanting to face Sam instead of waking him and Gabe up. Tired and hungover, I don’t have the energy to cope with my guilt. In desperate need of coffee, I head to a café down the block. I don’t even want to know how much coffee might cost in a hotel as fancy as this one.
At the counter, I order a beignet and an egg-croissant sandwich too. My head is dealing with an artillery attack, but my stomach is grumbling in need. I find a little table to the side of the café, in the shade of a small tree, and start sucking down coffee. I ordered the biggest one they offered.
I’m lifting the egg sandwich when someone plops down next to me.
“Hello. Peyton, right?” Allie asks, peeling back the tab of her coffee cup. Dressed in a blue tank top that matches her tattoo sleeve, she’s a bit too bright for my pounding head.
“Hi,” I murmur, my sandwich pausing between my lips.
“Mornin’,” Riley says, plopping her food, then herself, down on the other side of me. She is in all black, but sporting a grin, and with her ponytail swinging behind her, she’s also too bright and chipper.
I nod hello and then take a bite of fortifying, flaky croissant goodness.
Allie pours sugar into her coffee and grins at me. “So, who are you ready to murder? Justin? Romeo? Gabe? All of them?”
“Dang, Al,” Riley says with a laugh, “let the girl finish chewing before bombarding her with questions.”
Allie stirs her coffee and peers at Riley with a level look. “It was really just one question.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s Romeo.” Riley breaks open a cala, a doughnut or rice fritter–type breakfast thing that I almost ordered, and slathers half of it with raspberry jam. “He can be such a bossy jerk when it comes to the band. When I was in it, I wanted to drum on his head during every practice.”
I’m about to say he keeps everyone in line as Allie shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’d rather deal with him than Justin and Gabe at each other’s throats.” She laughs lightly and leans toward me in a conspiratorial manner. “They’re better now. A couple months ago they hated each other like two bratty boys on the playground.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of coffee.
They haven’t been too bad but before I can explain, Riley says, “True. Sam’s probably the only one who you don’t want to head-butt. Other than smartass comments, he’s the least annoying.”
I smile weakly and reach for my coffee.
Both women stare at me in bewilderment, then say together, “Sam?” They both draw his name out in a long questioning tone.
Since I told Sam I wouldn’t say anything, I shrug. “We kind of started off on the wrong foot. But he’s a, um, good guy, I guess.”
They both continue to stare at me in confusion.
Allie’s brows knit together. “Thought you two hung out yesterday . . .”
Knowing I suddenly look obvious as all fuck, I stuff a huge bite of sandwich in my mouth. I may look like an idiot, but I will keep my promise.
Their confused gazes turn skeptical before they both look away—Riley at her plate of calas as she spreads more jam; Allie across the street, as if Justin stands naked on the other side. The artillery in my head had subsided a bit after I’d eaten, but now the cannons are back and roaring full tilt. Forcing myself not to go into the long explanation of the past that wants to escape my lips, I take a big swig of coffee.
“So-o-o,” Allie says. “How has everything else been going?”
I pull off a fluffy piece of sugarcoated beignet and savor the rare indulgence. “Good.”
Riley taps a plastic knife on the edge of her plate. “How are they doing onstage?”
“Great. Awesome. I’m more impressed each time.”
Allie uses her stirrer to spear a chunk of cala swathed in jam from Riley’s plate. “Was the radio-sponsored meet and greet in Austin a madhouse?”
“Yeah, pretty much, and I think they gained quite a few fans,” I say, waiting for questions about groupies chasing after their boyfriends. Yet after several more inquiries that relate only to the tour, I realize these two aren’t going to ask. Maybe Riley and Allie, who are both beautiful and incredibly down-to-earth, trust their men. From what I’ve seen, they should. Neither Justin nor Romeo seems interested in any of the women constantly hanging around backstage.
After explaining the past ten days in detail while nibbling on my beignet, I absently ask, “Where are the guys?”
“Wardrobe and makeup prior to their photo shoot,” Allie answers.
“Oh crap,” I say, standing up awkwardly and scraping my chair across the cement loudly in the process. How could I have forgotten that the tour manager asked me to take backup pictures? He’d even offered to pay me if any of my snapshots ended up on the cards he’s having made for signings. Apparently, he charges ten bucks a pop for them at the autograph tables after concerts.
Chewing on a fritter, Riley frowns at me with confusion.
I wrap up my trash in a rush. “I’m supposed to be there.”
“Go to ballroom C.” Allie glances at her phone. “You have about ten minutes.
“Thanks,” I say with a quick wave. I rush down the block toward the hotel. In our empty room, I grab my camera, change the lens, and then head to the ballroom. I stand at the edge of the room as the photographer directs the band in front of a white screen. He has Romeo and Justin standing in the center, Gabe and Sam a foot back. They’re all dressed in stage clothes: dark jeans, boots, black shirts, and silver-studded belts. When a woman with a comb steps up to Gabe and tries to rearrange his hair, he gives her a look of death. I can tell they haven’t allowed the makeup people and hairstylists to do much. All four of them look exactly like they do onstage every night.
I lean against the wall next to the door and wait for everyone to take their places. A warm rush of embarrassment flows through me along with memories when Sam looks up and notices me. I shove my feelings of awkwardness aside and force a slight smile.
He smirks at me.
I push away from the wall. Okay, I can do this even with a pounding head and confused feelings. I step farther into the room and the tour manager spots me. He quickly introduces me to the photographer, who looks irritated at us but doesn’t comment.
The hour passes with the photographer taking pictures and rearranging the band members in various poses, with his assistants rearranging the lights. I take pictures of the actual shoot, a documentary sort of thing, but also squeeze in shots of the band each time the photographer pauses to look at his screen or rearrange lighting. I don’t want him to have to wait for me. Obviously, the photographer is costing a pretty penny, but I can’t say the guys look in awe of him. If anything, they look irritated. Sexy but a little angry. Luckily for them, their expressions kind of go with the whole rocker thing.
During the individual photo sessions, Sam’s actually, the bass line from “Higher Ground” rings over the murmured conversations in the room. Sam stands up and whips his phone out. Frowning, Romeo shakes his head at him. Ignoring him, Sam stalks out of the room, the low growl of his murmur fading as he exits.
>
Ugh. It has to be his girlfriend.
The photographer, clearly irritated, calls Gabe over to pose. I step back as the guilt I’ve kept contained washes over me. Sam has a girlfriend.
And, of course, I have a boyfriend. Bryce and I might not be the most committed couple ever, but we are in a relationship. Not that I was thinking about Bryce last night. Obviously, there is a strong physical connection between Sam and me—one that would have taken us down a very wrong path if Gabe hadn’t walked into the room and interrupted the moment.
I take another deep breath, lift my camera, and take several pictures of Gabe, his hazel eyes intense under the flash of the lights. Then Sam is back in the chair. The photographer has him lean forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands slightly crossed. He looks forward, his lids lowered, his eyes pools of anger. After the photographer takes several shots, he moves over and lets me get some.
With Sam staring at me, taking the pictures is very uncomfortable. I’m guessing his current mood is because of the call from his girlfriend. For some reason his indignant expression reminds me of the text he sent me a week after we’d slept together all those years ago. It simply said, You need to call me if you’re pregnant. I’d been shocked because I hadn’t thought of the possibility—I’d been too consumed by my heartbreak over Seth. At the time, I’d texted him back that I wanted to talk. His reply was I’m not interested in anything else you have to say. That line had caused me to spend the rest of the day hiding in my room with eyes red from crying.
A few days later, I texted him a negative on the possibility of pregnancy—I’d never been so happy to have a period. Though that particular worry was over, the fallout from that night was just beginning. Rumors followed me the rest of my senior year. From Facebook to the old-fashioned rumor mill, it seemed like practically every teenager in the thumb of Michigan had heard something nasty about me. I saw one post about a sex tape with twin brothers; another one claimed that I’d slept with every member of the Bottle Rockets. All the rumors painted me as a desperate, lying slut. People who didn’t even know me that well treated me like a pariah. Within months, my self-esteem was lower than it had ever been, even when I’d been at my heaviest. I tried to turn to Sam, who knew the truth, with a text. He ignored me.
