With the Band

by Jean Haus

  Air is caught like a fluttering butterfly in my throat. I’m overwhelmed by the comparisons and can only stare at him opened mouthed until he adds, “Superman and Lois Lane flying in the night sky.”

  The butterfly escapes as a laugh bursts from me. “Great Expectations to comic books?”

  He smirks. “Some comics are classic too.”

  Feeling semidrunk on his words, I twist around and grasp his jaw. “Do you know how many times over the past weeks I’ve wished I would have fallen for you back then instead of Seth?”

  He stares at me for a few silent moments before asking in a hoarse voice, “How many?”

  I lean forward, my hands slipping into his curls. “Countless,” I say against his lips before kissing him long and slow. Kissing him is so right, I can’t imagine kissing anyone else ever again.

  His hands move down my back to my butt, jerking me toward him. At the touch of his hard heat between my thighs, I’m thinking forget the bed—right now, it’s about this patio chair. We need to try everything at least once.

  But a loud clunk and a voice yelling “What the fuck?” interrupts us. Someone beats on the room door and yells, “Sam!”

  Realizing Gabe’s trying to get in, I scramble off Sam’s lap, drawing the sheet with me. “What time is it?”

  Sam reaches for my waist. “Who cares?”

  I step away from him and into the room, searching for my clothes. The clock on the nightstand reads three eleven. Gabe keeps pounding on the door. I’m tugging my shorts on when Sam comes in and kisses my neck.

  “He’ll go away eventually,” he says softly, then runs his tongue over my shoulder.

  “Get dressed!” I hiss, pushing him away and trying not to laugh. “We’re not leaving Gabe in the hallway.” Gabe has opened the door a sliver and is rattling it back and forth to try and free the chain that Sam—very smartly, I think now—must have fastened before we came outside to the patio.

  “Fine.” He reaches for his shorts but pauses with one leg in as I clip my bra on. “You’re staying, right?”

  I snatch my shirt from the floor. “And sleep with you while Gabe’s in the next bed? Ah, I don’t think so.”

  He finishes pulling his shorts up. “Gabe won’t care.”

  I pull my shirt over my head. “I’ll care.”

  Before my arms are down, Sam’s wrapped around me. “Come on, Peyton. Please. Stay.”

  The feel of his arms around me tempts me to.

  “Come on!” Gabe rattles the door harder.

  I try to envision sleeping next to Sam all night with Gabe snoring a few feet away or, worse, Sam getting me hot with Gabe snoring right there. Ah, no, it’s not happening. Untangling myself from Sam, I say, “We can meet up in the morning.”

  “Morning, shmorning,” he grumbles as I toss his shirt at him.

  “Put it on,” I say, moving toward the door after slipping on my flip-flops. I hesitate before removing the chain. Gabe isn’t dumb—he knows why the chain is up, and I’m not in the mood, nor will I ever be, to hear his shit. But this is his room, so after checking that Sam put his shirt on, I reluctantly let the chain loose and open the door.

  Gabe’s fist pauses midair. “Well, hello, Peyton. Strange meeting you here,” he says with a sarcastic grin, breezing past me. “Oh look, Sam’s bed is all messy, even missing some sheets,” I hear Gabe say. His laughter follows me as I fly out the door.

  Sam catches up with me in the hallway and pins me to the wall. “Don’t I get a good-bye at least?”

  “Good-bye,” I say sweetly.

  “And a kiss?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  He raises one of his.

  “Fine,” I say, leaning toward his lips, then give him a quick peck.

  “That’s not a kiss,” he says flatly as his fingers tighten around my arms.

  “My lips touched yours,” I say wryly. “That would be the definition of a kiss.”

  He huffs in annoyance, jerks my body to his, then covers my mouth in a long, searching, hot kiss as his hands roam over my body. He breaks the kiss with a smirk, and has to untangle himself from my arms to step away. “Good night, Peyton,” he says softly.

  “Night, Sam,” I say dreamily, watching him saunter back to his room.

  Once the door closes, I stumble like a drunk to my room.

  Neither Romeo nor Justin wakes up when I enter the room. Still in a daze, I wouldn’t care if they did.

  Chapter 30

  The next night, as soon as I get to the green room, Sam catches my gaze and nods toward the exit. After doing an interview for a local radio station, he and the rest of the band are surrounded by fans. Most of them are female. Pretending not to notice him and his gestures, I fill a plate with mini sandwiches, a heap of fruit, and a few chips, then I go sit in the back, where the roadies are coming and going as usual. Sam keeps moving around the fans, trying to get my attention as I listen to TJ and Chris bitch about their day.

  Finishing off my chips, I almost spit them out in laughter when Sam’s text comes in.

  Either get me a crowbar to remove these women, or meet me in the bus.

  After wiping my hands on a napkin, I text back, One of the roadies should be able to find a crowbar.

  Chris and I talk music for a bit after TJ leaves.

  PEYTON! pops up on the screen of my phone.

  I respond, Crowbar incoming in two seconds.

  Chris leaves and I’m packing up my trash when Sam texts. First you leave me with Gabe and now you’re ignoring me for roadies.

  I dump my trash in a bin before typing, You shouldn’t have tried to molest me in the laundry room this morning.

  Sam’s eyes narrow at me from across the room as a girl wraps her arm around him and her friend takes a picture. I smile wide and wink.

  I’m loading my bag with bottled waters—I started snagging waters at each event so we never run out anymore—when another text comes through.

  I’m going to molest you in this room. Presently.

  Suspecting he’s not kidding, I race out of the green room and head to the bus.

  Gary is sleeping on the couch. We’ll be leaving tonight, starting the last run of concerts. I tiptoe past him, deposit the water bottles in the fridge, and go to my little cave in the back.

  It doesn’t take too long before Sam comes into the room quietly and tugs the curtain shut. The only light is from the computer screen as I load pictures from my camera. His eyes gleam at me in the near darkness. He dives at me and I slap a hand across my mouth, stopping a laugh from escaping as I scoot across the couch. He lands over me, the leather of the couch squeaking under his spread knees, his hands braced on either side of me. I’m caught sitting up with his body like a gorgeous cage around me.

  Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against my ear. “Playing games, Peyton?” he asks, and the rush of hot breath into my ear sends lust tingling over my skin.

  I push at his hard chest. “Trying to order me around by text?”

  He nibbles at my ear. “No need now. We’re on a couch.”

  A laugh does escape me. Obviously, he has thought about couches and us too.

  “Shh,” he whispers near my mouth. “Can’t wake Gary.”

  His lips hover millimeters from mine, and Gary, games, and everything but sensations are forgotten.

  After dragging his lips across mine, he kisses the corner of my mouth, tracing a thumb along the line of my neck. He nips at my lower lip, then sucks on it before kissing the other corner of my mouth as his fingers follow the line of my collarbone.

  The touch of both his lips and fingers fills me with breathless anticipation. My hands twine in his curls and grasp his head as I try to catch his lips for a full kiss. He chuckles, then traces my upper lip with his tongue.

  “Sam,” I groan in frustration. I’ve never wanted a kiss so bad. I’m practically salivating with want, aching for his mouth to cover mine.

  “Thought you liked games?” he murmurs, then runs his lips
along the curve of my chin as he tips my jaw back with his thumbs. His wet mouth traces a path down my neck. I gasp. He chuckles. The hand holding my jaw shifts and his thumb rubs across my bottom lip in a soft, teasing caress. “Paybacks are hell, right?” he asks against the skin of my neck before he gently sucks.

  Recalling saying those words to him in his apartment, I release his curls, push at his chest, and twist my body until he flops over.

  Grinning, he wriggles his eyebrows.

  I smile wickedly. Now that we’ve switched positions, he has no idea what he’s in for. I’m a dessert maker. I know how to wait and let things rise. “Oh, I like games,” I say, grabbing the hands on my thighs and holding them to his chest.

  His grin dwindles and his eyelids lower as I settle myself on his lap.

  I drop kisses along the line of his jaw and the strained cord of his neck while my free hand slips under his shirt. My palm traces the hard curve of his chest as my tongue traces the curve of his ear. His taste is like the best dessert, fresh out of the oven.

  His chest rises in a deep breath, and it’s very, very hard not to kiss him. Instead, I kiss along the curve of his cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose to the other cheek while my palm rubs circles across his ridged abdomen. When my hand gets to the waistband of his jeans, I trail a finger across the skin above at the same time my tongue trails across the seam of his lips.

  A moaning sound comes out of Sam, from deep within, and before I can blink, I’m on my back, his body pressing mine into the couch. The kiss is explosive, his mouth demanding against mine, his tongue delving. My fingers pull him closer.

  When the main door bangs, Sam lifts his head. Our breath is heavy as we both listen.

  “Screw you!” Justin says, laughing from the other room, and my hands instantly let go of Sam’s curls and start pushing at his chest.

  He smirks at me.

  “Sam!” I whisper, shoving harder.

  He slowly pulls himself away, and once I’m free, I scoot to the end of the couch.

  And just in time too, because a second later, the vinyl curtain opens and Gabe pokes his head into the room. “Thought you two might be in here,” he says, grinning. “Romeo’s still looking for you guys inside.” He pulls out his phone and starts tapping on it, doubtlessly texting Romeo. “I told him you were probably on the bus.” He glances up. “I expected you to be sucking face or something else,” he says with a smirk.

  Lucky for me and my burning cheeks, the room is shadowed except for the soft glow of the computer screen.

  Sam whips a pillow at Gabe. “Go away, asshole!”

  Lifting an arm to deflect the pillow, Gabe asks in an incredulous tone, “You’re not playing?” He’s referring to their habitual after-show video games when we’re on the bus.

  Sam shakes his head. “Nope. I’m hanging back here.”

  “Of course you are.” Gabe rolls his eyes at us and takes off.

  “I don’t mind if you want to go play,” I say nonchalantly.

  Sam looks at me like I’ve lost my mind as he scoots closer. “I’ve been playing stupid video games for weeks, imagining you back here in various stages of seminakedness.” He grips the bottom of my shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  My hands cover his. “They’ll be no stages of nakedness.” I push his hand away. “Not with three other guys roaming free on the bus.”

  Sam stares at me for a long moment, then looks around the small room. “All right, how about some TV?”

  “Sure,” I say, leaning back into the couch cushions. But once he turns on the TV, he unfolds the blankets, throws the pillows on the far end of the couch, yanks me to his chest, and wraps us up—then we lie down together.

  “Sam,” I say, trying to disentangle myself, fearful of Gabe popping in again.

  He holds me tight. “Forget it, Peyton. If we can’t do the sucking stuff—” He pauses at the elbow jab I give his ribs. He catches my earlobe and sucks on it. “Unless you want to do the sucking stuff?” he asks, his teeth lightly scraping my skin.

  “Stop it,” I say, trying to elbow him again as he pulls me closer.

  His lips release my earlobe. “Then let me hold you.”

  “Gabe’s going to come back here again.”

  “Who gives a shit about Gabe?”

  Blinking up at him, I realize he has a point. Though it’s a bit weird cuddling with him while the guys are up front playing video games, I let him tuck me against his chest. He just holds me and within seconds, I relax.

  He flicks through channels and nuzzles my neck intermittently, which is quite nice. The bus starts rolling, and my eyelids grow heavy.

  Warm and content, I realize I could happily fall asleep like this every night.

  Chapter 31

  The next afternoon, Sam’s head lies on a pillow next to my thighs. I’m hunched over the computer on the couch, typing in a post. If I weren’t working, my lap would be Sam’s pillow. My elbow knocks into the book he’s reading. Instead of bitching, he adjusts the book from above his face to over his chest.

  “Sorry,” I say, clicking open a picture file from the previous night.

  He shrugs and keeps reading.

  I’ve noticed Sam can block out the world when he reads. Like totally. The guys could be next to him shouting and playing video games, or Gabe and Justin could be in a heated argument, or a volcano could erupt. Sam would keep reading.

  I look him over as he reads with his curly head on the pillow. He’s in one of his plain white T-shirts, baggy worn shorts, and a flip-flop teeters from his foot at the end of the couch. His chest rises with a slight shake. He does this often. Obviously, he’s reading another “funny” book.

  An obnoxious thought enters my head as I watch him read. Don’t do it, Peyton! my conscience yells. If he ignores me, my ego might read too much into his dismissal, but my wayward fingers have already dug into his curls. My thumb brushes at his temple. My other hand moves to his jaw and caresses his scruff.

  For several seconds, he continues to read, until he finally glances up, his lips forming a soft smile. “You bored?”

  I shake my head.

  “You done?”

  I shake my head.

  “You need a little attention?”

  I smile slightly.

  He carefully sets the book on the couch and lifts up on an elbow, reaching up behind my neck. He pulls me down gently. The kiss is soft, sweet, and filled with longing.

  “Damn,” he whispers against my lips, “I’m starting to hate this bus.”

  I nod, brushing my nose against his, then he lets go of my neck, settles back onto the pillow, and picks up his book.

  I start clicking through pictures. Low music and snippets of conversation vibrate from the front of the bus but not loud enough to drown out the occasional turn of a page. I get back to typing again.

  My little cave has become a place of contentment.

  I wake up in the middle of the night to the rhythm of the bus moving and a tightly muscled body holding me. Gazing into the darkness, I recall falling asleep on the bus while the guys were stuck in interview after interview in Kansas City. Apparently, Sam skipped his bunk and came right to me.

  For a nanosecond, I wonder what the guys thought of that.

  Then Sam’s warm breath rushes over my cheek, and I realize I don’t give a shit.

  I wrap my arms around the ones holding me and fall back asleep.

  “So what magazine is your dream job?” Sam asks, bumping his elbow into mine as we stare out the window, gawking at the mountains on our way to Salt Lake City. After that, it’s back to California, where the tour had started before Luminescent Juliet even joined up, for the last concert in Fresno. “Vibe? Alternative Press? Or Rolling Stone?

  I break my gaze from the view of endless mountains—the part of Michigan where we grew up is pretty much flat—to look at him kneeling next to me on the couch. “Any of those would be awesome. I mean, maybe if I land a job and build a big enough rep
utation to be picky, I’d probably go for something like Alternative Press, but with the way the Internet is screwing journalists at the moment, I’m not sure being picky will ever be an option.”

  “Ah, the joys of technology,” he says, then grins. “I knew you’d give the Press special treatment, punk fan that you are.”

  I roll my eyes. “What about you?”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “What do you plan on doing with that English degree?”

  “Maybe add a teaching certificate? Maybe write?” He gives me a pointed look. “Maybe edit you?”

  Edit me? Please! I return his pointed look.

  “Maybe I won’t need my degree.” He glances out the window. “Maybe I’m going to ‘Beverly Hills,’ ” he sings, his pitch perfectly matching the song by Weezer.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “To play music? Write songs? And party until I’m fifty? Stop cutting lawns from April to October? Hell yeah.”

  “Party until you’re fifty? Okay. I didn’t know Keith Richards Jr. was the type to run to the back of the bus to snuggle instead of hanging in the green room to party.” He laughs but my expression turns hard. “Unless you haven’t given that shit up.”

  The lines of his expression smooth out as he becomes serious. “I didn’t lie to you, Peyton. I would never lie to you about that. I’ve been clean since that night.” He shakes his head as my features soften. “And you’re right, it’s not about the partying. But just like you, I love music, and I dream of being able to make it my real career. To be able to write songs and play onstage for years . . .”