With the Band

by Jean Haus

Unfortunately, when I emerge from the postcard-covered bathroom, I find my remaining two Jell-O shots empty and Bryce gone from the couch area where we’re sitting.

  Sam looks up from whatever he was saying to Gabe and laughs at my expression as I hold up the little plastic cups. “He got mine too,” says Sam.

  I look around. “Where is he?”

  Sam points to the far end of the bar. “At the jukebox, socializing with the locals.” He wiggles his eyebrows as if I should be jealous and pissed.

  I glare at him before following the direction of his pointed finger. Hunched over the jukebox, Bryce stands in between two women. The women are bopping to the music. Bryce is swaying off beat. I mentally do alcohol math. In the past three hours, he has had at least five beers, five vodka shots, and now at least five Jell-O shots. If not wasted yet, any minute he’s going to be blind drunk.

  I’m not close to jealous, though I’m beyond irritated. I make my way over to the jukebox.

  “Hey, Peyton,” Bryce slurs, then points above one of the girl’s heads. “Kimmy and—um, Braily.”

  “Bailey,” the second girl says, correcting him with a laugh.

  “Nice meeting you both,” I say. “But Bryce here really needs to go sit down.”

  “I’m picking all your favorite songs, baby,” Bryce slurs.

  I almost laugh. As if Bryce would know my favorite songs. His music taste is whatever is popular at the moment. We’ve never connected over bands. In fact, so far as I know, he thinks my interest in music, especially punk rock, is peculiar.

  “Great,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go sit down and listen.”

  Kimmy frowns at me. “He has five songs left to pick.”

  I yank Bryce toward the couches in the corner. “How about you pick them?” I say over my shoulder.

  The girls give me sour looks, as if I’m being a bitch. Whatever. Fortunately, Bryce lets me lead him back to the little seating arrangement. He bumps into stools and people along the way. I murmur “Sorry” about ten times.

  Once we get to our couch, which now has several girls sitting and keeping Sam and Gabe company, Bryce decides he needs another beer.

  Grinning, Sam looks around for a waitress.

  Standing, I decide it’s time to go.

  “We’re leaving,” I say loudly.

  “What?” Gabe says, cutting off whatever the girl next to him was saying. He lifts up his phone. “It’s only one thirty. The bars stay open until four here.”

  I hold out a hand for Bryce. There is no way in hell I’m babysitting Bryce for hours at the bar. “You can stay. We’ll get a taxi.”

  Sam looks indecisive.

  Bryce slobbers near my ear. “We should go dancing, baby.”

  If he says “baby” one more time, I will scream. “Sure,” I say, knowing not to argue with the inebriated. “Let’s go.”

  At last he allows me to drag him from the bar. Completely intent on getting Bryce out of there, I’m surprised when I find Sam is on the sidewalk next to us. “Go back inside, Sam,” I snap as Bryce leans on me and murmurs incoherent babble that definitely involves saying “baby” repeatedly.

  With a remorseful expression, Sam says, “Let me help you find a cab at least.”

  It takes Sam ten minutes to hail a cab. The entire time, Bryce slobbers on me and tries to grind on me as if dancing. After we get him into the backseat of the cab, Sam holds the door open. “You sure you don’t want me to come along and help?”

  “I’m sure,” I say heatedly, tugging the door out of his grasp. “You’ve ‘helped’ enough already.”

  His expression turns contrite.

  I resist giving him the finger.

  Finally, the cab takes off, so I don’t have to see his guilt-stricken face any longer.

  Chapter 21

  You’re sho seshey in these pantsh, baby,” Bryce says, running his hands up my thighs and over my butt. He slobbers on the skin below my ear. “I want you sho mush.”

  Drunk off his ass, he’s like a wasted, slurring Energizer Bunny who won’t fucking run down. He mauled me in the taxi and groped me during the never-ending hike across the lobby and the ride up in the elevator. Getting him to stay focused enough to walk was a chore. Of course, as soon as we get into the room he goes in for the kill. But his drunken seduction ain’t happening.

  I rub my palms over his chest. “Why don’t you lie down?”

  Swaying, he grips my hips. “You too?”

  “Yeah, give me a minute to slip into something sexier.” Using my hands on his chest, I push him toward the bed. The back of his legs hit the end of the bed and he falls onto it with a plop.

  With heavy-lidded eyes, he grins at me and grabs my butt again. “More seshy than these pantsh?”

  “Way more,” I say, stepping out of his embrace and pushing him back. I unbutton his dress khakis and his lopsided grin grows, causing me to tear them off with an irritated tug.

  He keeps grinning. Almost drools.

  Going to the side of the bed, I tug his arm. “Lay on the pillows. You’ll be more comfortable while you wait for me.”

  “Wait for you,” he says dreamily, scooting toward the headboard.

  Once his blond head hits the pillow, I say, “I’ll be a minute.”

  He looks up at me. “Thish ish going be sho good.”

  I resist the urge to smother him with a pillow and just about run to the bathroom. Inside, I take my time washing the makeup from my face and applying moisturizer. I even decide to file my nails, then paint them.

  Blowing on my fingertips, I exit the bathroom and can’t help but smile. As planned, Bryce is passed out on the bed in his boxers and shirt. After waving my hands around to dry my nails for a few minutes, I rummage in my suitcase, looking for a tank and sleep shorts.

  The tank in my hand drops to the floor when a knock sounds at the door. I glance at Bryce but he keeps snoring. Another knock, louder this time, has me rushing to unhook the chain. If whoever is out there wakes up Bryce, there will be hell to pay. I open it a crack to see Sam standing in the hallway.

  “I need to talk to you,” he says loudly.

  “Go away!” I hiss and shut the door.

  He knocks again.

  I crack the door open again. “Go away, Sam!” I vehemently whisper.

  His brows lower. “Not until I talk to you,” he says, louder than before.

  About to blow up, I step into the hallway and quietly shut the door behind me, knowing my card key is in my back pocket.

  Sam blinks at me, then smiles wide. “You’re still dressed.”

  Ignoring whatever that is supposed to mean, I snap, “What is so damn important that you need to talk to me at three in the morning?”

  The door across from us cracks open and a woman hisses, “Can you shut the hell up? We’re trying to sleep.”

  The door slams shut. Tapping my foot, I gesture to the closed door and give an irritated shrug that says, See?

  With a sigh, Sam grabs my arm and drags me to the end of the hall and through the door into the fire escape stairwell. He stands there holding my arm and staring at me.

  I tug my arm out of his grasp. “Okay, spill it, because I’ve got about this”—my extended index finger and thumb signal the length of a centimeter in front of his nose—“much patience left.”

  He shuffles his feet, looking sort of nervous. “I’m sorry your boyfriend got wasted.”

  Our voices echo in the stairwell.

  I cross my arms and give him a level look. “You’re admitting to having something to do with it?”

  He nods sideways, as if not wanting to admit it.

  “So what was the purpose of outdrinking him?”

  Leaning on the rail, he glances down the stairs, refusing to meet my gaze, as a sheepish smirk overtakes his face.

  “All right,” I say, reaching for the door. “Thanks for the apology. I can totally see why it couldn’t wait until morning.”

  Suddenly, he grabs me, pushes me agai
nst the door. His hands grip my upper arms and I feel an unwelcome rush of heat as his hard, muscled torso presses against me. “The thought of you two alone—the thought of you two fucking, especially after waking up in your bed this morning . . .” Not finishing his thought, he draws in a deep breath. “It was either beat his ass or get him drunk.”

  For several long moments, I can only stare at him. Then something in me snaps. “Really? You’re jealous?” His jaw tightens as I continue. “Why would you be jealous?” I ask, my tone incredulous, my heart thumping.

  His grip on my arms intensifies. “I can’t stand the thought of him touching you, much less the two of you having sex.”

  His words cause a rush of anger. Instead of admitting he may have feelings for me, he’s skirting the issue to focus on jealousy. “We’re hardly friends, you and me,” I snarl. “Who I sleep with, much less what I do with my boyfriend, is none of your business.”

  “Friends?” he repeats, ignoring my anger. He leans down, and one of his hands releases my arm and begins sliding up to my shoulder. His heated gaze, more than his touch, pins me to the door. “We’re friends, Peyton. I care about you. You seem to care about me.”

  “You’re drunk,” I whisper with a tremble, evidently affected by his lips hovering near mine, by the soft stroke of his hand skimming up my neck that freezes me in his grasp, and by the intensity of his stare.

  “No. Yet I’m not entirely sober,” he says as his hand comes to my jaw. His fingers brush the tender skin behind my ear. His lips come nearer. “But as far as being ‘hardly friends’ . . . maybe you’re right. I don’t want to fuck my friends.”

  I gasp and he drinks in the breath with his mouth. His lips move over mine gently as both of his hands cup my jaw. His tongue is a soft caress that lures me into the kiss and arouses a passion that drains my thoughts.

  Giving in, I slide my hands up his shoulders as my tongue twists with his.

  The slow, intoxicating kiss steals both my breath and my mind. I’m immersed in the sensations of his full lips, the soft glide of his tongue, the gentle stroke of his fingers along my neck. I inhale the clean scent of him. The dizzying press of his growing need on my stomach. The desperate longing his mouth and touch convey.

  When Sam pulls back to look down at me with a smoky half-lidded look, my hands grip his neck, my fingers dig into his skin, and I try to bring his mouth back to mine.

  His eyes bore into me. “Does it feel like that when you kiss him?”

  I’m frozen for one long moment. Bryce, my boyfriend, is passed out less than a hundred feet from us as my lips, my body, scream for more attention from Sam. Angry with him but more angry with myself, I push him away.

  “You’ve made your point.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m guessing that was the point,” I say in a miserable tone as I open the door to the stairwell.

  “Peyton,” Sam says, his hand on my shoulder.

  I shake his hand off. “Leave me alone,” I say vehemently. I rush to the door to our room. Though he softly calls my name again, I slide the key card into the lock without looking back and slip inside as quickly as possible.

  Leaning against the back of the door, I’m about to burst into tears. What the hell just happened? Why does it feel so familiar to the past?

  A loud retch echoes from the bathroom, followed by the splash of spewing liquid. The threat of tears ceases as I thump my head once, twice against the door before I turn toward the bathroom. I suppose that after kissing Sam, not helping my drunken, puking boyfriend would be pure evil.

  Chapter 22

  It’s late afternoon, and Central Park is full of people: bicyclists, joggers, walkers, walkers with dogs, and tourists. The day is bright and sunny. The trees green and lush. Using the camera hanging around my neck, I randomly take pictures of sculptures, plants, and bridges, but I have a particular destination in mind. “Come on, Bryce!” I call over my shoulder.

  Hungover, he has parked his butt on a bench yet again. Wearing shorts that hang low, untied high-tops, and a rumpled T-shirt, he looks like a slob. With a look of irritation at me, he pushes off the bench and slowly follows.

  I had a long list of places I wanted to visit today. However, Bryce didn’t get out of bed until after eleven. Trying to be a good girlfriend—instead of the bad one I was last night, who sucked face with Sam—I’ve kept the pace easy for him all day. We went to lunch, then to the top deck of the Empire State Building. Now we’re in the park, and I have a little more than an hour before I have to report to the booth. The concert is in the park, so to save time I’m already dressed in a Luminescent T-shirt, my cowboy boots, and a jean skirt—the shorts are getting a bit too raggedy, even for concerts.

  I round a bend and the sign STRAWBERRY FIELDS comes into view. I pause and take several pictures of it. Bryce is behind me, moving at a turtle’s pace. I keep strolling along the walkway and taking photographs. Eventually, I come to the famous mosaic, a stone flower of geometric shapes that contain just one word in the middle: IMAGINE. Giddy to finally be seeing it, I move around it slowly, taking picture after picture. Other tourists are gathered around it too, snapping shots.

  Bryce catches up and stands with his hands on his hips next to me. “This is it? This is what we had to trek across the damn park for?”

  “It’s a tribute to John Lennon.” I snap another picture. “You know, the Beatles?”

  His lip curls as he looks down at the mosaic. “It’s stupid.”

  I lower the camera. “He was shot over there.” I point to what I think is the location of his apartment building, The Dakota. “He used to walk through this park right along here.”

  Bryce shrugs.

  “His music has inspired millions of people. He sang about peace.”

  Bryce grunts and pushes sweaty blond hair from his forehead. He has been sweating out alcohol all day. Very lovely. “Who cares?”

  Okay, I’m fuming. Big time. Yesterday at dinner, Bryce had stated he wanted to go to Yankee Stadium. Though I have zero interest in baseball, I had agreed. Of course, hungover and dragging ass today, he’d changed his mind, yet I wouldn’t have been bitchy if we had gone.

  “Go sit down and wait,” I snap, pointing to the benches at the edge of the walkway.

  He looks like he might snap back but instead sighs, stretches in the middle of the walkway, and finally moves to a bench. I take more pictures, even swap cameras with another tourist so we can take pictures of each other sitting at the top of the circle that says IMAGINE.

  Done, I pull a map of Central Park from my bag and search for SummerStage, where the concert will take place. With my index finger, I’m tracing possible paths to take when someone steps close to me and says, “Hello, Peyton.”

  Glancing up, I almost drop the map.

  “Guess great minds think alike,” Sam says.

  I’ve tried, somewhat successfully, to keep him out of my mind all day. But now that he’s standing in front of me—with his sky-blue eyes looking slightly mischievous, his dark curls a mess on his head—flashes of our kiss zing through me. Then I recall the words he said right before the kiss, about wanting to “fuck” me, and a sharp pang of lust hits me. I’ve been keeping that locked up tight, especially since I’ve spent the day with my boyfriend, who is edging on the line of losing that title.

  I concentrate on slowly folding up the map. “What are you doing here?”

  “Same thing as you,” he says, nodding toward the mosaic. “Came to see Lennon’s memorial.” He lifts his phone. “Thought I’d get a picture with it.” Then he gestures to my camera. “But maybe you could, with your awesome photo skills?” He smiles at me, his teeth so even and white that he looks like a model for toothpaste or something.

  I’ve always known Sam is good-looking. Right now he’s coming off as can’t-resist hot. It’s like he’s my crack. But crack is whack. And I’m not whacked.

  “Sure,” I say, and point to the line of people on the other side. “Get in line.” />
  He lifts a brow. “Wait with me?”

  “No,” I say, then glance over to the bench where Bryce is dozing. “I’ll wait here.”

  His gaze follows mine. His eyes narrow on Bryce. “He’s sleeping?” he asks incredulously.

  My eyes narrow on Sam. “He’s a bit tired.”

  Sam shakes his head sadly. “You’d think he could pull through a hangover for his girl.”

  “Go get in line,” I say through clenched teeth, irritated. “I have to get to the booth in thirty minutes.”

  He looks to Bryce one last time, shaking his head—which irritates me more, because though Bryce should have known better, his condition is partly Sam’s fault—then he goes around the mosaic to the end of the line.

  Four people are ahead of him, so I click through pictures on my camera and ignore him staring at me. But I can feel his stare and it’s doing weird things to my insides. Things that should not be happening, especially given our proximity to passed-out Bryce. At last, Sam steps up to the mosaic. He stands above the IMAGINE looking down, and I catch the shot. Him pensive, eyelids lowered. He looks up and I quickly catch the shot of him gazing at the camera, his expression a mix of openness and yearning. The sight jerks at my heart.

  “What’s he doing here?” Bryce asks from my side. Apparently, he woke up. Just in time, I suppose.

  “Same as me, he’s a fan of Lennon.”

  “You’re both musical nuts, so interested in stones in a sidewalk.”

  Ignoring Bryce, I ask Sam, “Were you going to smile?”

  He lifts a brow and I take a picture of that. I lower my camera. “Other people are waiting, and I need to get going.”

  Sam walks over to us. “Hey,” he says to Bryce before turning to me. “Time to sell the T-shirts?”

  “Yup,” I say, twisting the strap on my camera so it hangs at my side, then grabbing Bryce’s hand. “Guess we’ll catch you later.”

  Sam stares at the clasp of our hands. “Yeah, later.”

  Dragging Bryce down the path, I can feel Sam’s gaze burning into me. I don’t look back. I’m not playing his games. Even if I’m starting to question our connection, Bryce is my boyfriend. Sam is the friend/enemy/sexy rocker I can’t seem to refuse.