With the Band

by Jean Haus

  I only walked a few blocks to get here, yet it’s like I traveled miles. I suppose emotionally I have. Yet, confronting this sea of unknown faces is immediately sending me to the edge of doubt. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

  After several minutes of looking, I’m about to give up and get down when a hand on the other side of the glass forms to mine. Pressing to the glass, the bigger hand overlaps mine, and pushes on the window as if wanting to melt through the glass and touch me. I slowly raise my gaze from the hand to a muscular tattooed arm and the clear blue eyes above it.

  My doubt begins to fade at the longing in his stare.

  I smile softly and lean forward, pressing both of my hands to the glass. He matches me with both hands. We stand, staring at each other, face-to-face, hand-to-hand. Understanding and acceptance flows between us.

  Sam starts moving. I follow him, our hands still matching on the glass as we walk, our gazes locked. My confusion floats away into the night sky, little by little with each step. Our connection feels natural, inevitable, and adrenaline charged.

  When we reach the end of the glass, Sam disappears. Lost in the moment, I stand on the sidewalk, blinking in confusion and wondering why he would leave me just as everything suddenly feels right.

  Then he comes out the door and strides over the ropes that keep out the people waiting in line to get into the bar. Eyes only on me, he steps so close I have to look up to keep our gazes locked. We stare at each other, and everything clicks into place. Sam and I belong together. Though both of us are strong and determined to carry on, life has left us each a bit damaged. But we fill in each other’s cracks and make the other whole.

  Leaning down, he gently grasps my jaw, fingers caressing my skin, and gives me a fierce, sweet kiss. His mouth claims me, declares I’m his, and my lips respond as my body agrees. I’m lightheaded from his kiss as he takes my hand and we start walking. After crossing a busy street, we turn onto a walkway along the river. The lights on the bridge in the distance appear violet, spreading a ghostly purplish glow on the water. Lit-up buildings rise behind the bridge. Trees edge the walkway, hiding it from the adjacent busy street. Benches and bright lampposts line the path.

  He glances down at me. “I remember seeing you the first time on campus. Somehow, with everything that Seth was dealing with, I’d forgotten you were going there too.”

  “You hated me,” I say sadly.

  He shakes his head. “It was never hate, just hurt that felt so deep it made me crazy. Sometimes I think I unconsciously followed you to our college.”

  When I looked back at that night, I had guessed he might have had feelings for me, but we didn’t see each other until almost a year later. Surely, he would have been over me by then. But following me? That blows my mind. “Why?”

  Looking over the water, Sam says, “I was crazy about you before, you know.”

  “Before?” I ask, confused. I’m still riding the high of acknowledgment between us, and the kiss in front of the bar.

  He leads me to the rail near the water. “I wanted to ask you out the first time Jill brought you to see the Bottle Rockets at that old falling-down barn. Seth beat me to it. So I tried to be content with being friends.”

  My free hand grasps the rail. “We were good friends.”

  “Until that night,” he says, looking out over the water. “When you ran back to Seth.”

  Letting go of the rail, I turn to him. “Sam, I was a young, insecure girl who thought that dating Seth was like winning the lottery. My longing to be wanted, to be loved, had me imagining there was more to that relationship than there was, but I truly thought you and I were just friends. Even after that night, I blamed what happened on alcohol and my fight with Seth.”

  He shakes his head. “Think about it, Peyton. Except for the few dates you went on, you and Seth weren’t together much. He was too busy being the life of the party. While he entertained the crowd, you and I hung out, talked music, and joked around. I never understood why Seth took you for granted. I thought you were perfect, pretty, intelligent, and funny. That you were into music was only a bonus. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t spend every second possible with you, because as we spent more time together, I wanted to spend every moment with you.”

  I stare out over the water in confusion. Although I believe his words, I’m having a hard time remembering if he’s right about how much time we spent together. Once again, my memory fails me. Or is it my denial kicking in? I do recall talking with Sam but not that much. I was usually thinking about Seth or watching Seth or waiting for Seth. I was in the grip of a girlish obsession. I shake my head slightly. “I don’t know why I was so obsessed with Seth, but my feelings died long ago.”

  “I’ve slowly realized that. It’s not easy for me to let it go. Your rejection, Seth’s anger at me, then his disease . . . It’s all wrapped up together in a ball of hurt that I couldn’t get rid of. When you showed up at my apartment to tell me you were coming on tour with us, it ripped open those old wounds.” He brushes at a strand of hair that the breeze blew across my face. “Then I started to get to know you again, and in many ways, you’re the same Peyton, the same amazing girl who drew me in years ago.”

  I look at him incredulously. If anything, I’ve gone from naive and bitchy to just bitchy. “After the way I treated you? You thought I was amazing?”

  He smiles faintly. “You’ve gained an edge of toughness, but inside you still have that soft heart. You have basically taken care of the band this whole tour without once complaining. And you were absolutely livid at the idea that I’d abandoned Seth. And you’re still unbelievably lovely.” He pushes a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “A week into the tour, although I tried to avoid it, I found myself becoming obsessed with you all over again.”

  I reach up and catch his hand, press it to my cheek as I shake my head. “I was in crazy denial back then,” I say, pushing up on my tiptoes so my lips are inches from his. “I’m not that blind self-absorbed girl anymore. This time around, all my attention is on you.”

  His fingers cup my face and he kisses me again. Long and slow until we’re pressed against each other. Gently pulling away, Sam grasps my hand. “Come on, Gabe won’t be back for hours.”

  We step out onto the street, and I’m startled to see the hotel across the way. My sense of direction isn’t usually so bad, but then again, paying attention to my surroundings is my last concern at the moment. I’m preoccupied with Sam.

  On the sidewalk in front of the hotel, I teasingly say, “Why does it matter if Gabe won’t be back for hours?”

  In a whirl of movement, I quickly find myself pressed against the building. “Because ever since I’ve been with you, you’re the only woman I truly want,” he growls into my ear.

  “It was just last week,” I gasp as he rubs against me and drags his lips across the skin of my jaw.

  He steps back, his gaze burning into me. “It’s been years.”

  I nearly gasp again, shocked that he’s wanted me for so long. I’m suddenly warm all over; my knees have the consistency of pudding, as wobbly as the zabaglione I make at the restaurant.

  He grabs my hand again and we rush through the lobby to the elevator. Sam glances with evident irritation at the other couple going up as we’re forced to wait as they slowly exit at their floor with suitcases. When the doors slide open again, we make it down the hall in seconds. He quickly slips the card into the lock, pulls me inside, hooks the chain, and pushes me against the back of the door.

  His hands hold mine, pressing them to the door above my head. His mouth on mine is slow, his tongue languid as he seductively explores my mouth. His hold on my hands keeps me up, keeps me from sliding down the door and collapsing onto the carpet.

  He breaks away, continuing to grasp one of my hands. “We’re going to do this right for once.”

  I blink innocently and let him gently pull me along. He backs up, leading me farther into the room, which is lit only by the lamp on the desk. As
we move, I step out of my flip-flops. “We’ve been doing it wrong?” I run my fingers along the low-riding waistband of his shorts. “Because it felt pretty damn right. Both times,” I add with a naughty grin.

  After placing a condom on the bed, he grins back at me and reaches for the bottom of my shirt. “It’s going to feel more right naked.” He pulls the shirt off over my head. With the tank top hanging from his fingertips, he stares at my lacy bra. “Very pretty.”

  He drops the shirt, then starts to slowly run his fingertips from my belly button to the clasp in between my breasts. His touch on my skin drives me wild but I try to stay still. He unhooks the bra with slightly shaking fingers. While he watches, his hands millimeters from my skin, I tug the straps from my shoulders and the bra drops to the floor.

  “Even prettier,” he says from a throat that sounds dry.

  Between his stare and his tone, I’m already flushed. It’s so easy being with him, so natural, we may not make it to fully naked for the third time. But I’m really, really liking this naked thing. I tug on his T-shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. I’m utterly, totally, unconscious about being naked in front of him. I trust him. I feel safe, accepted, and desired. Every time his hot blue gaze lingers on me, I feel like the sexiest woman on earth.

  He bends down and catches a breast in his mouth, and without thinking, I jump toward him. He holds me by one hip as his mouth moves to my other breast. His free hand lightly caresses my ribs, spreading more fire. As his tongue and teeth wreak havoc on my breasts, my hands wind through his curls and grip his head.

  When he releases a nipple, I reach for the bottom of his shirt again.

  “My turn,” I say, yanking his shirt. He lifts his arms, bending forward and letting me pull the fabric up and over his curls. I step back and take him in. Smooth skin over defined muscles. All male. All hot. “Very pretty,” I say, copying him. I’m not surprised my voice sounds as dry as his did.

  Sam’s eyes become heavy lidded. His gaze burns into mine as my hands roam over him. His skin is as hot as his stare. After exploring the contours of his chest, my fingers trail over the ledges of his abs and reach for the button of his shorts. His stomach muscles ripple, but he doesn’t move as I push his shorts and boxers down.

  He kicks off his shoes, then steps out of the clothes around his ankles and stands naked before me.

  I break our locked gazes to get a look at him. Damn. He’s gorgeous. All muscle and obvious ridged desire for me. Naked is good. Real good. Awesomely good. I reach for him, but he grabs me, his hands diving for my waistband.

  “My turn,” he says, unbuttoning my shorts. Like me, he pushes both my shorts and underwear down. Unlike me, he kneels on the floor, his gaze slowly moving up my body, as I stand naked, basking in his admiring stare.

  “Beautiful,” he says, looking up at me, and my breath catches. Standing, he slides his hands from my ankles up to my thighs. His thumbs brush my mound, and the jolt of desire hits me like the blast of music when I come around the stage. His thumbs tease me. I begin to quiver and sway. Then his hands settle on my hips, and I can halfway think again. He gently pushes me until the back of my knees hit the bed.

  Grinning, he wraps his hands around my waist. He gives me a wet hot kiss, then twists me around. He falls back onto the bed, dragging me with him. Gasping at the contact of his warm skin on mine, I sprawl on top of him. I push up on my palms, but he grips my head and pulls me down again until our lips are inches apart.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time imagining this. Your luscious body on mine,” he says hotly against my lips. “But being skin to skin with you is even better than I imagined.” He catches my lower lip and sucks on it for a moment until we’re joined in a full, deep kiss.

  Lost in the sensation of his mouth, I groan slightly as his hands slide over my back to cup my butt, causing my skin to burn with desire. With a slight shift of my hips, he fits me to him, and we both groan at the contact. We kiss and pant and rub until, with shaky fingers, he slides on the condom, then slides into me.

  With me above him, I try to move slowly but a building pressure quickens our motion. Like before, I’m mindless, with the needs of our bodies having us following and answering each other without thought. When he rolls us over and rises above me, his arms cradling my head, his gaze boring into mine, my lust-crazed mind not only reads but accepts what his eyes are telling me. I’m his.

  I’ve always been his.

  Chapter 29

  I stare at the dark skyline speckled with the lights of Pittsburgh as Sam runs his fingers through my hair. Sitting on a patio chair on the balcony, we’re wrapped in a sheet. I’m in his lap with my back pressed to his chest and my head on his shoulder. Both content, we’ve been sharing the view in silence.

  Sam digs his nose into my hair and breathes in the scent. “You know you’re perfect, right?” he asks, breaking the silence.

  A deep, self-deprecating laugh escapes me. “I don’t think so.”

  He pulls me closer, places his warm hand on my breast, and gently squeezes. “Perfect.”

  “Breasts do not make a woman perfect,” I say with a nervous laugh, and push his hand away.

  “They’re the first of many perfect things.” He kisses me behind my ear.

  Though we’re in shadows from the light coming from the lamp inside the room, I twist my head and look up at him. “Don’t put me on some crazy-ass pedestal. I’m so not perfect. We both know I can be a bitch.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “I like a woman with spunk.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m stubborn.”

  “I’d call it principled, strong,” he says, grinning.

  “I’m oblivious and totally dense sometimes.”

  His teeth shine white as he smiles down at me. “That’s just plain cute.”

  I shake my head. No, it’s not. Being oblivious to everyone’s feelings except my own is partly why I unknowingly hurt him in the past. As he grins at me again, I realize I want him to know everything about me, even the self-absorbed parts of me. Being with Bryce was just about having someone around to have a good time with. Being with Sam is all or nothing.

  “It’s not, Sam. You of all people should know I can be obsessively selfish.”

  The grin on Sam’s mouth disappears, and I’m suddenly a bundle of nerves. Does he really view me as perfect?

  “Peyton, you’re one of the least selfish people I know.”

  I shake my head again. “No, I’m not. Look at the way I treated you.”

  He shrugs. “You were just a high school girl thrilled by the idea of the most sought-after band member wanting you.”

  “Yeah, and nothing else mattered in my little world.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  I sigh and look out over the city. “Sam, sometimes I’m obsessed with myself to the point of being completely superficial. I worry about my future, my grades, my weight . . . to the point of ridiculousness. Other people get cancer or have to mourn the death of a loved one or have a brother with schizophrenia.” I turn, looking at him gently, then point to myself. “And me? I’m worried about the size of my ass. Not exactly humanitarian of the year.”

  He grabs my hand and holds it. His thumb draws circles over my knuckles as his gaze searches mine. “If you were actually superficial, you wouldn’t have these worries,” he says. “Everybody worries about the future and getting good grades. There’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, you care even though you haven’t gone through any of those awful things. And you do care. Do you remember chasing after my brother in Charlotte, Peyton? You never for one second thought about not coming with me. You care about Seth and about me, and look how we’ve treated you. You’re even nice to the guys in the band. You do our laundry, cook for us, and even pick up after us. But as far as your ass . . .” He slides a hand under the said body part. “It is definitely perfection.”

  My brows rise. “And when it gets bigger?”

  He squeezes. “More perfection.”

>   “Yeah, that’s not what all the guys in my high school thought,” I say before I can stop the self-deprecating comment.

  “Like I said before, blind fools. Thirty pounds more would never take away your beauty.”

  “Well, wow.” I groan and fall back on his shoulder. “Now I’m sure I don’t deserve you.”

  He snorts against the skin of my neck. “Like I haven’t been a dick. We’re here together. Finally. And all your imperfections are perfect to me. I was crazy about you then, and I’m even crazier about you now.” Sam pulls me closer with the hand on my butt and kisses my bare shoulder. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  There is another imperfection I can’t help bringing up—especially since guilt over the way I broke up with Bryce has been lingering. After a nervous dry swallow, I say, “And what about the cheating? I heartlessly cheated on two of my three boyfriends.”

  Sam’s gaze whips to mine. “Who was the third boyfriend?”

  “Just a guy from my journalism class who I went out for about three months during sophomore year. But are you listening to me?”

  “Well-l-l,” Sam says, “since both times you cheated were with me, I’m not going to complain.”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Aren’t you—you worried that I’ll cheat again? On you?” The last question comes out in a squeak.

  He shrugs. “No. Not really.” When I pull away from his shoulder to give him an incredulous look, he asks, “Do you know why?”

  Truly bewildered, I shake my head.

  His hands follow the curve of my hips to my thighs. “You. Me. We’re meant to be together. I’ve felt it from the beginning.”

  My expression turns skeptical but he ignores it.

  His head tilts in thought. “Being an English major, I’ve read just about every kind of love story there is, from Shakespeare to Fitzgerald. Some end happily, others in heartache, and most in tragedy. But I’ve connected with each one, even the sappiest”—his hands tighten on my thighs—“because you’re my star-crossed lover, Juliet. Because I’ve been cold, proud Mr. Darcy pining in torment for you. Because you’ve been Estella Havisham, blindly refusing your feelings. Because, like Jay Gatsby, I’ve been obsessed with my former lover.” He lowers his head until his gaze is even with mine. “But together we’re Buttercup and Westley riding off into the sunset on white horses. We’re Lucy and George whispering from their room with a view. Jane and Mr. Rochester reuniting amid the burned ruins of his estate.”