The Way Back Home

by Alecia Whitaker

  “Should we go?” Colton asks, looking at his Rolex. “I should probably get to the club.”

  “I can’t believe we’re VIP at Club COLT,” Stella gushes. “Didn’t Zooey Deschanel just throw a party there?”

  “Indeed,” Colton says as he stands and buttons his jacket. “Has anyone ever told you that you favor her?”

  Stella beams at him. “Thank you, Colton. I adore her style.”

  Colton pulls out my chair as we all stand to go. “If Zooey saw you tonight, I’m sure she’d say the same of you.”

  “Give me a break,” Dylan mutters, but luckily Colton gets a call and turns his attention to a situation at his club. I glare at my brother, who glares back until Stella cuts the tension by asking him if she’s got anything in her teeth.

  I knew Dylan wouldn’t be happy about going on a double date with his little sister, but I didn’t realize he’d be this obnoxious. Ever since I introduced them, Dylan has been the most caveman version of himself, grunting his responses to anything Colton asks and snorting in disgust at Colton’s jokes. My brother has always been overprotective, but Colton’s playboy image has put him on high alert. I guess I worried about that a little, too, at first. The tabloids paint Colton as a party boy, but he’s been a total gentleman so far. As someone who has been on the ugly end of tabloid rumors, I’m going to give Colton the benefit of the doubt.

  “Thank you,” he says into his phone now. “We’ll be there within the hour.”

  I look around for our server.

  “If you’re waiting for the bill, it’s been taken care of,” he tells me softly.

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “Oh no, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I wanted to,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I was looking at a very boring evening until I ran into you.”

  Dylan rolls his eyes yet again, but Stella and I exchange an excited look. As Colton offers me his arm, I almost can’t believe the way my birthday is turning out. While celebrity has made it hard to have a private life, perks like these make it all worthwhile.

  5

  “TWENTY-ONE!” EVERYBODY AT the blackjack table hollers.

  “Bird, you’re on fire!” Stella says next to me.

  After dinner, we hit up Colton’s gorgeous nightclub. He escorted us right to the VIP area, where we had an overhead view of the entire club and unlimited bottle service. We danced hard, took lots of pics with random people, and I let loose in a way that I don’t think I ever have.

  Now it is way past midnight, and we are hitting up the casinos, making our rounds through the games. With Colton by my side, it’s like the whole resort is our playground: Nobody has carded us and nobody has asked me for an autograph. He has consistently led me to the calmest tables with the fewest tourists, and we’ve played roulette, been on the slot machines, and even shot craps. It’s been so unbelievably nice to have a real night out, especially since I get to spend it with a hot guy who can relate to the insanity of living life in the public eye.

  “Bird, after this, Hold’em?” Dylan asks, his eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, good idea! We’ll clean house.” We high-five, reminiscing about the many hours we spent playing poker growing up on the RV.

  Dylan has really loosened up since dinner, partly because he’s been a lucky gambler tonight and partly because the free beer keeps coming. As for Stella and me, we’ve discovered that while we don’t care for beer or champagne, strawberry daiquiris are delicious. I can’t even taste the alcohol. And they just keep coming, like magic.

  I like that I’ve been able to impress Colton Holley. He has been right at my side, or like now, standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders, at every table. He whispers encouragement and continues to tell me what a “shrewd” gambler I am. He’s five years older than me, but I feel like I’m holding my own, like the age difference doesn’t matter.

  “You are a timeless beauty, Miss Barrett,” Colton mumbles into the nape of my neck. Involuntarily, I lean into him. My body feels loose and alive all at once.

  “You have to hit that,” I hear Dylan tell Stella.

  “No, mate, you have to hit that,” a tipsy Colton jokes, nudging Dylan’s upper arm. He laughs heartily at his own joke, but I cringe. Dylan shoots him a death stare.

  “Colton, what time is it?” I ask, trying to diffuse the tension. The round continues as he pulls out his cell phone.

  “Three.”

  “Three in the morning?” I ask. That feels impossible, but as I look around the casino, I realize that there aren’t any windows and that the vitality of this place, the constant high of winning—or determination to win back what’s been lost—keeps people going.

  “We should probably go upstairs,” I say. I stand up and stumble into him.

  Colton wraps his arms around me and murmurs in my ear, “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”

  I giggle. I meant my room, but he thinks I meant his room. That’s funny. Why is that so funny?

  “Bird, Hold’em?” Dylan asks. He and Stella have gathered their chips and are standing next to us now.

  “I don’t have to hold him,” I say slowly. I am fully in Colton’s arms now and don’t feel capable of standing on my own. “He’s holding me!” I giggle again. Stella laughs, too. “Why is that so funny?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know,” she says, tears in her eyes. “But it’s really funny.”

  “Oh-kay,” Dylan says. “It’s late. Let’s get you girls back up to the suite.” Stella reaches over to the table for our drinks, but Dylan intercepts her, putting them on the tray of a passing waiter. “I think y’all have had enough tonight,” he says. He wraps his arm firmly around her waist and motions for us to follow him toward the elevators.

  “This is why you should never party with your big brother,” I tell Colton.

  “And why you definitely shouldn’t after-party with him,” he says softly. His hand is rubbing circles on the bare skin at my neck. I feel tingly all over. “Plus, your best friend is going to want some alone time with her boyfriend.”

  “They are not together,” I say.

  He raises one eyebrow. “Yet.”

  “Ugh, don’t,” I say, worried that he’s right. I’ve been watching them tonight, how effortless they are together and how strong and obvious the chemistry is.

  “Which is why,” Colton continues, pulling me behind a slot machine, “you should come sober up with me.” He runs a hand over my shoulder and up my neck, then locks his fingers in the hair at the base of my head. And before I realize what’s happening, Colton Holley is kissing me. He kisses me hard, pinning me against the slots so that I have to reach out to steady myself.

  I have never been kissed like this, with this much urgency. With his body pressed up against mine, I feel like maybe my thoughts about romance have all been wrong. Colton Holley isn’t a sweet boy from a country song, but he is sexy as hell, and rather than back off, I hold on tight, all in.

  “Bird, let’s go,” I hear Dylan say firmly. I open my eyes, but Colton doesn’t stop kissing me. “Bird, now!”

  “Listen, mate,” Colton sneers, pulling away with a stormy look on his face. “The girl is eighteen years old. She doesn’t need her big brother telling her what to do.”

  “Oh yeah, mate?” Dylan says, stepping up to him toe-to-toe. “She doesn’t need a slimy player pawing all over her, either.”

  Colton doesn’t step down, but he does look amused when he faces me. “Bird, who’s running this show? You or your roadies?”

  “That’s it,” Dylan says, pushing Colton with both hands so that his back slams against a slot machine.

  “Dylan, stop!” I shout, stumbling in between them. “I’m going to date, okay? Get over it.”

  He clenches his jaw, madder than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re drunk,” he says quietly.

  “I’m not drunk,” I reply thickly. My mouth feels so dry. “I mean, I’m not wasted or anything. I know what I’m doing. And it’s my birthday, and I’ll make out if
I want to.”

  Dylan turns around and runs his hands through his hair, on the verge of exploding.

  A very smug Colton puts his arm around my waist and kisses me on the forehead. “Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles.

  I look at his handsome face and nod.

  “Bird,” Stella interrupts softly. “I don’t want to tell you what to do or anything, but some of these people could have cameras and…”

  She trails off, gesturing to a couple eyeing us from the Wheel of Fortune Slots, and as tipsy as I am, I get her meaning: I am in public, therefore I am still on the clock. It’s my night off, but in public I will always be Bird Barrett: Role Model. Everybody else on the planet can have a little fun once in a while, but not me. Oh no. And I don’t know why, but suddenly I get mad. Really mad. At everybody. At everything.

  “Fine!” I say, pushing Colton away. I wag my finger between my brother and my best friend. “You guys go ahead and be really happy and enjoy the vacation, oh, I mean, tour, and I’ll just be alone for the rest of my life.”

  I walk away fast, feel myself veering, feel the instability in my steps, and wonder if I actually am drunk. Drunk, like, bombed. I bump into a few people and finally make it to the elevators, but when I look through my purse for the VIP card, I’m so angry that I can’t see straight. This place is spinning. When the others catch up, Dylan uses his own card to magically open up the portal to the upper floors and I march in, pulling off my high heels.

  Ooooh, the cold floor feels good. I grin. Why is that funny?

  Colton stands next to me in the back, quiet but still determined. His hand slides up the underside of my arm and then down my spine, grazing the top of my butt.

  “It’s not gonna happen, Colton,” I say, annoyed.

  I hear Stella laugh, but it sounds like she’s in a tunnel.

  The door opens and I lurch out, leaning against the wall until Dylan takes my hand and leads me toward the right room. Colton follows us down the hall, but I’m pretty sure my brother slams the door in his face. Once inside, I throw my arm around Stella and glare at Dylan. “She’s sleeping in my bedroom, got it? If I can’t make out with somebody tonight, then you can’t, either.”

  He opens his mouth but shuts it again, at a complete loss for words. We all just stand there, glaring back and forth at one another like some kind of stare down, until Dylan finally busts out laughing. Stella joins in, falling to the floor as she hoots, and then I flop back onto the sitting room sofa, laughing so hard I feel like I could throw up.

  Uh-oh.

  And then, I throw up.

  “I’m dying,” I croak the next morning. “Or no, I’m dead, I think. My skull was crushed, and the pieces are piercing my brain. I’m definitely dead. And I didn’t go to heaven. Which sucks.”

  “Oh, terrific. Not only are you an angry drunk but you also have dramatic hangovers,” Dylan says from somewhere. He must’ve died, too. Our parents will be so sad. “Bird, take this.”

  I open my eyes and everything looks blurry. A person who resembles my brother is sitting in front of me on the coffee table with a glass of water and two aspirin. “This helps,” he assures me. He places his hand under my head and lifts me a little so I can take the pill and wash it down. Water never tasted so good. “And for some reason, McDonald’s does, too.”

  I feel my stomach lurch and clap my hand over my mouth, slamming my eyes shut again and lying back on the couch. Did I sleep on the couch?

  “Don’t you dare throw up again,” Dylan commands.

  Again?

  “I’m dying,” I hear Stella moan.

  I turn my head and barely open my eyes as my best friend stumbles into the room. She folds herself into a giant armchair, looking worse than I’ve ever seen her, which is saying something since I’ve seen that girl with the flu. “Stella, your hair,” I manage. Her thick bangs are sticking out everywhere, like a sign giving conflicting directions, and it looks like there are pieces of something matted in her shoulder-length tresses.

  “Oh my gross!” she shouts when she notices it. “Bird, I’m going to kill you!”

  She stumbles out of the room, and I hear a door slam. Then I hear water running from the bathroom and assume she’s in the shower.

  “What’d I do?” I ask.

  “Stella helped you last night,” he explains. “When you got sick. We cleaned it up, but she was pretty hammered, too, and I guess she missed some spots.”

  Mortified, I realize my puke is in her hair. “I’m a terrible friend,” I whisper, closing my eyes again. For some reason, I feel my eyes well up with tears.

  “We’ve all been there,” he says, which is weird because I’m waiting for the Dylan Barrett holier-than-thou speech about being responsible and making good decisions. “Consider this your first semester in college. Just… pace yourself next time, okay?”

  I nod. He pats me on the shoulder, and I wince. I ache all over.

  “I am never drinking again,” I say from the backseat of Dylan’s rental car as I chow down on a Quarter Pounder with Cheese on our way back to the resort for rehearsal.

  “I am never ever drinking again,” Stella says. “But this Big Mac really is making me feel better.”

  “Told ya,” Dylan says. “The first time I got drunk was at a kegger off campus, and I felt like y’all did this morning. But a buddy swore to me that greasy food and a sugary soda would turn things around, and he was right.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s turned things around,” I respond. “I still feel like tiny elves are chiseling my eyeballs and worms are eating my innards—”

  “Bird!” Stella protests. “Weak stomach up here.”

  “Right, sorry,” I say, my mouth full of fries. “But I’m seriously never ever ever drinking again.”

  I roll the back windows down and let the cool desert air whip through my hair. Cool desert air, except deserts are hot. That’s funny.

  “Uh-oh,” I say, leaning forward between the front two seats. “Can you be drunk the day after you were drunk?”

  Rehearsal is actually a blast. If you’d have asked me this morning, I’d have told you there was no way in the world I’d be able to perform tonight, let alone rehearse. But I guess I caught a second wind because I feel okay, even if I have missed a few cues.

  “I drag the sleep from my bed, I shake myself in my head,” I sing, then start laughing when I realize I goofed the lyrics to “Sing Anyway.” “Oh my gosh, y’all, sorry, sorry,” I say as the band stops playing. “Let’s go back. Sorry. I’m a little tired. Sorry.”

  I see my fiddle player and drummer exchange an exasperated look when the music starts up again, which is so lame. I messed up a few lyrics in rehearsal, big deal. Ignoring them, I start the number again, dancing with a few of the guys in the band and even walking through the crew in the wings, giving this sound check a fun vibe for once as I sing through this song for the bazillionth time.

  “Bird, are you going to mark the quick change?” Monty asks a few minutes later. I turn around and realize that the band is offstage, mocking their costume changes, and I’m still standing at the front of the T, zoning out at a spot in the upper decks.

  “My bad,” I say, running back to the main stage and then to the wings, where Stella waits.

  “Rip off,” she says, pantomiming pulling off my dress from the previous number.

  I gasp and cover myself as if I’m really naked. “Excuse me, miss, but you have to at least buy me dinner first.”

  Stella laughs and rocks back on her heels. Then she grabs the imaginary shirt I’m wearing next and tosses it at my face. I swat my hands around and say, “I can’t see! I can’t see anything!”

  My flailing is making her laugh so hard that she’s shaking and people are starting to stare. I can barely control myself, either. “Step in,” she commands. I mime one foot stepping into the leg hole. “Other leg,” she says. “And up!” She jerks the imaginary shorts up, and I grab my crotch and bend over, crossing my eyes. At this
point, she falls back against what she thinks is a wall but is actually a curtain, and she lands flat on her butt.

  “Stella!”

  She is laughing so hard now that she’s not even making any sounds. “I can’t get up, Bird,” she barely ekes out. “Can’t. Get. Up.”

  “Bird!” Dylan shouts. Everyone near me backstage looks up as he storms toward us. “Are y’all done goofing off over here? Some of us actually want to practice before playing in front of a sold-out venue, if you don’t mind.”

  I look at him like he’s crazy and say, “Sor-ry,” with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

  “Oh yeah, you sound real sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You think you’re so grown-up, but if you want to be treated like an adult, you have to act like one.”

  I roll my eyes. “Good point, Dad. I’ll take that to heart, I truly will, just as soon as this young lady down here zips me up.”

  I reach my arm out to a giggling Stella and pull her up, but Dylan explodes. “Zips you up?! It’s not a real costume change! Just fake it like the rest of us and let’s play some music already!”

  Now all eyes are on us. Everybody, from the catering team to the grips, is staring holes through us, and I feel my face flame. “Listen, Dylan. This is my tour, and if I want to have a little fun once in a while, I don’t need one of my band members coming down on me. Got it?”

  He looks like I slapped him in the face, and then I see his nostrils flare. But before he can respond, Monty steps between us and suggests we all take five. Dylan storms off, and I turn toward the onlookers and say, “Sorry you had to see that, folks. Just a little sibling spat. Let’s all take five.”

  And true to my word, I turn to my best friend and say, “Zip me up?”

  Which she does. “Ow.” She pouts playfully. “My pinkie got caught in the zipper.”

  Grinning, I kiss it. Then we throw our arms around each other and head for Craft Services, where we each pound a Gatorade before getting on with the show.