Just a few hundred yards to go. I can see a mass of RVs and trailers parked in the distance, heat shimmering around their tires, people scurrying around as they load up equipment. A drop of sweat falls into my eyes, and I adjust my grip on the bag so I can scrub it away.
Something nudges my shoulder. I yelp and whirl around, my heart pounding overtime, my fist clenching into a tight ball. Just as I’m about to start sprinting toward the RVs, my vision clears, and I see Jace.
He looks exhausted, like he got as much sleep as I did. But he’s standing beside me, a hesitant smile on his lips, and holding out a hand. For a moment, I think he wants me to take it, but then I realize he’s offering to carry the duffle bag. I shake my head and grip it tighter. I don’t need to be any more in his debt.
He rolls his eyes and tugs it out of my grip before tossing it onto his shoulder. Then he points to the RVs in the distance and signs, “Come on. We’re leaving earlier than I thought. We need to get back.”
I shuffle my feet a little and narrow my eyes. He didn’t have to just grab the duffle like that. “How am I going to get in your RV without anyone seeing?”
“Easy,” he replies. “My RV is on the edge of the group. The entrance is facing the back. No one will see you.”
“And the driver?” I ask.
“Arrow and I trade off, ” he signs. “We’re the only ones who drive. I don’t like other people in my home. So only Arrow will see you.”
My eyes grow wide, and I swallow hard, trying to gulp back my panic. He told Arrow about me?
Jace smiles apologetically. “All of the band knows about you. We don’t keep secrets. But it’s just the four of us who know. No one else will ever find out.”
I nod, but my stomach feels all tight again. I take a step away from Jace, hoping I don’t puke on his shoes.
He gestures to the RVs again. “Let’s go.”
I trail after him, trying not to scowl at the pavement beneath my feet. I’ve learned to hate walking on the stuff. It soaks up vibrations and leaves me clueless to approaching footsteps, which is exactly what I don’t want right now. Most of Tone Deaf’s crew is a safe distance away, hopping in and out of trailers and giving thumbs-ups as they do last-minute checks on vehicles. But these people are still strangers, and still a potential threat to my escape attempt, and my heart pounds frantically.
Surprisingly, getting into the RV is just as easy as Jace said it’d be. Jace holds open the door for me and I slip right in, no one the wiser. The RV is dark, with all the shades pulled down, and my stomach twists wildly as I step inside. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Maybe I’m just getting myself into even more trouble. Maybe—
A movement in the corner of my eye cuts into my panicked thoughts. I whirl toward the couch, where I spot the moving object. A dog. A huge mutt that looks like a cross between a pit bull and the grim reaper. I stumble back.
Jace lets the door close, cutting off the light for a long moment. Then he flicks a switch, and the overhead lights illuminate the RV. I blink against the sudden brightness and take another step away from the dog.
The massive pit bull yawns, displaying two rows of glistening white teeth. Then it lazily stretches and jumps down from the couch, landing with a thump that shakes the floor. It trots over to Jace.
“This is Cuddles,” he says, nodding toward the dog.
I take a few more steps back and frown at his words, sure that I’d read his lips wrong. “What?”
He quickly finger spells the name for me. C-u-d-d-l-e-s. Then he sighs at my confused expression and says, “Killer named her. He likes to think he’s funny.”
Jace reaches down and scratches the dog’s head. As tall as he is, he doesn’t even have to bend over to reach her, and Cuddles wags her stump of a tail and opens her mouth. I cringe, but all she does is gently lick his hand.
Jace gives her one more pat and then glances over to me. I try to smile and pretend I’m not scared, but my lips are frozen, and my face feels cold and clammy, despite the heat outside.
“You don’t like dogs?” Jace signs.
“Not big ones.”
“I’ll go put her away for a while,” he says, grabbing her collar. “You guys can get acquainted later, I guess.”
Jace walks away with Cuddles, the giant mutt trailing along obediently after him. Her pawsteps send vibrations through the thin flooring of the RV, and I shudder, backing away.
Jace heads down the RV’s small hallway, into a room that I assume is his bedroom. I stand there anxiously tapping my foot and taking in my surroundings. I’ve never been in an RV before—we always traveled by plane when I was younger—but I imagine this RV is about as luxurious as they come. It’s way larger on the inside than I expected—from here, I can see a bathroom, a small living area with an office space tacked next to it, and an entrance to the kitchen. A short hall leads toward the back of the RV, where Jace has just disappeared to.
The furniture looks like it was all plucked straight from a magazine—sharp and modern designs, and fabrics in dramatic shades of blue. I think it should look stylish, but knowing that a nineteen-year-old guy lives here, it just gives the RV a hotel vibe, like it’s a home that’s never really been lived in.
The only personalized touches are the posters of bands on the pastel-blue walls. I read the titles one by one: Fall Out Boy, AWOLNATION, Forever the Sickest Kids. There are at least five more littering the walls, and I try not to look too surprised as I trail a finger over the glossy paper of the nearest one. Who would have guessed rock stars could get all fanatic about other bands?
I follow the posters into the living area, which has two couches facing each other and a giant flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. There’s a small mound of pillows and blankets on one of the couches, and I can practically hear it calling to me. I glance down the hall where Jace disappeared. I don’t want to look like I’m getting comfortable too quickly, but my feet are seriously about to drop off. I shake my head, deciding I don’t care what he thinks, and fall back into the pile of blankets.
There’s a thrashing movement from under me, and I shriek, the sound scraping my throat as it escapes. Jumping off the couch, I whirl around. What the heck is hiding under the blankets? Another dog? Dammit, I hope I didn’t just squish anything.
The blankets flop back, and staring up at me with bloodshot eyes is a young guy who I instantly recognize as a member of Tone Deaf. His name is Killer, I think. He was the one playing the keyboard at their concert the other night.
Avery’s always babbling about how adorable Killer is, but he doesn’t look like that right now. He’s squinting at me with an expression that screams of pain. I stumble back, gasping for breath and trying to assess the damage.
Killer takes one look at me and then groans and lets his head drop back into the pillows. He glares through half-closed eyes and doesn’t say anything, which just makes the whole thing more awkward. But he doesn’t seem to be in distress. So that’s good, right?
“Darling,” he finally says, his lips moving in a soft way that tells me he has a British accent, “it’s generally considered impolite to sit on someone with a hangover. Screaming is also rather rude.”
I stutter out a couple of incomprehensible words, unsure how to reply. Then I feel a hand tap my shoulder. It’s warm and gentle, and I immediately recognize the touch as Jace’s. I mumble an apology as I turn toward him.
Jace pulls away his hand and signs, “It’s going to be hard to hide you if you scream every time you see one of the band.”
“Sorry,” I sign lamely. “I’m a little on edge.”
“Yeah. I can tell.”
He glances over to the guy on the couch, who has taken the last few moments to fling the blanket back over his head. “That’s Killer,” Jace says to me, and then he finger spells the strange name to make sure I get it.
I nod and hesitantly say out loud, “Hi.”
Killer fishes a hand out of the blankets and gives me a limp wave.
Jace rolls his eyes. “Killer had a little too much to drink last night. You’ll have to excuse him. He’s a bit of a lightweight.”
Killer’s hand thrashes around, like he’s trying to find someone to smack. But Jace expertly backs away, and Killer withdraws back under the blankets. I smile a little, not bothering to hide it.
Jace gestures to the other couch. “You can sit over there.”
I nod and obey, sitting on the cushion right across from Killer. I force in a shuddering breath and do my best to actually relax. But I can’t get my muscles to loosen, and my hands are shaking a little. I fist them into balls to try to hide their shaking, and then quickly unclench them, realizing that it’s just making me look even more like a nervous wreck.
Jace stands between the couches, a safe distance between both me and Killer. I wait for him to take a seat on one of them, but he just stays there, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a thin black T-shirt, which does a nice job of showing off his defined muscles, and a ripped pair of dark skinny jeans. Usually, I don’t like it when guys wear skinny jeans, but Jace pulls them off. Hell, he could wear a kilt and pull it off.
He shuffles his feet, and his throat bobs as he clears it. “So . . . do you want a drink, or something?”
I flinch at his words. Me? Drink? After all the times I’ve been punched by a drunk? “I don’t drink.”
Jace grimaces a little. “I’m not talking about alcohol. I would not offer you alcohol.”
Then he looks at me expectantly, raising one eyebrow. It always annoys me when people do that. I mean, if you’re going to raise an eyebrow, why not go all-in and raise them both? People always look awkward when they only raise one.
Except for Jace. He doesn’t look at all awkward. This seems to be a recurring theme with him; he can get away with anything—dirty Vans, quirked eyebrows, overactive middle fingers—and still look hot.
My god. I’m starting to sound like Avery.
“Well?” he signs. “What do you want?”
I blush deeper and deeper until I’m pretty sure my face looks like a lobster’s. That’s right; he’s been waiting for me to tell him what I want to drink. Damn, I really need some sleep. When I wake up, maybe I’ll actually be able to carry a non-awkward conversation.
“Water,” I reply. “Um, please.”
He walks into the adjoining kitchen without saying anything else, and my heart starts pounding again, making my head ache from the racing pulse. Was that the right thing to do? Should I have insisted on getting my own water, instead of having Jace get it? I mean, he’s a celebrity. I don’t think he usually spends his time fetching water for girls. Especially not for sweaty, shaking, sunburned girls.
Killer flops the blankets off of his face and squints at me. “Darling, if you’re gonna tag along, you need to learn the Jace Rules.”
I frown. “The Jace Rules?”
He holds up a hand and starts counting them off: “One—don’t lie while you’re near him. Two—don’t touch him. Three—don’t bring anything with carbs or refined sugar into his RV. Four—don’t ask about his feelings. And five—don’t even mention drugs or alcohol.”
I’m pretty sure rock stars are supposed to want all those things. Well, maybe not the carbs, but still. It seems like Jace missed the memo that famous musicians are supposed to live on the edge. Not that I’m complaining—if his rules mean that I don’t have to put up with anyone drunk, I’ll gladly follow along.
I nod uncertainly to Killer. “But aren’t you kind of . . . ?”
“Completely hungover,” Killer supplies, rubbing his temples with a wince. “Yeah. About that. Jace will make exceptions to his rules for the band, because we’re stubborn and he trusts us not to screw him over. But you’d do best to just follow them. If someone outside of the band annoys Jace, he has no problem shoving them out of his life.” Killer rolls his eyes. “He’s finicky.”
Even though Killer doesn’t directly say it, I get the message: if I piss off Jace too badly, he’ll just tell me to leave, and my chance at freedom will disappear. My stomach starts churning again at the thought.
I glance over to the small kitchen. Jace stands at the counter, gripping the edge of the granite like his life depends on it, but he’s not moving and seems to just be staring out the window. I don’t stick around to find out what he’s looking at. Instead, I head back toward the entrance of the RV, looking for the bathroom I spotted earlier. I want a few moments alone to splash some water on my face and clear my thoughts.
As I pass by the RV’s entrance, I spot my duffle where Jace dropped it by the door. I pick it up and stare at the door uncertainly. If I leave now, I could probably get back to my house before my dad realizes I ever left. I could go back home, to where things are miserable, but at least predictable. As soon as he figures out I’ve run away, I really don’t know what my dad will do. He’ll try to get me back, that’s for sure. He has so little control left in his life, and he’s not going to give up the power he has over me without a fight. But I have no idea what lengths he’ll take to get me back, and I’m scared to find out.
I take a deep breath and then head into the bathroom. No. I’m not going to give up this opportunity Jace is offering. Although, judging by how awkward and uncertain he’s acting this morning, I’m afraid his pity for me isn’t going to last very long. Musical background or not, I don’t fit in here. Jace’s whole life revolves around playing music and being in the spotlight, whereas my only goal is to stay quiet and hidden.
I open my bag, touching the cash and the check at the bottom just to reassure myself they’re there. All I need is to get away from this city, to a place where I can’t be recognized, and then I can safely branch off from Jace. That way I won’t have to keep depending on his pity, and I can make sure he won’t be harmed by anything my dad does.
I’ll wait just a few days. That’s all the time I need to spend with Jace. Then I can travel the rest of the way to New York on my own.
13
JACE
I STARE OUT the tiny kitchen window and watch as the last trailer is bolted shut, ready for travel. Earlier, I pulled the shades down on all the windows so no one could peer in and spot Ali. But I left the shades open on this window, since it’s taller than the others and impossible to snoop through. If all the trailers are packed, we should be leaving any minute. Although driving is the last thing I want to do. Anxiety and uncertainty keep stabbing at my mind, and I want to play some music, drown out my thoughts in chords and notes and riffs.
“Dude,” Killer calls from the living room. “How hard is it to fetch a glass of water? You’ve been in there for five minutes.”
Right. Water. That’s what I’d gone in the kitchen for.
I quickly grab a glass and fill it, then head back to the couches. My stomach drops when I see that Ali’s gone. She didn’t leave, did she? She’s been pale and jittery, but I didn’t think she was freaked out enough to ditch her plans of escape.
Killer squints at my worried expression, yawning as he runs a hand through his hair. “She didn’t leave,” he says. “She’s just in the bathroom.”
The RV door slams open, and Arrow comes striding inside a moment later.
“Hey,” I say to him. I set the water down on the small end table and sit on the couch across from Killer, moving so Arrow has room on the other end.
“Hey, Jace,” Arrow says. He sits on the couch, careful to leave a few feet between us, reminding me why I like him so much. Then he turns toward Killer and says in a way-too-bright voice, “And, hello, my darling sweetie. Are you having a lovely morning?”
Killer grunts and mumbles something before burying his face back into his cocoon of blankets. Arrow turns to me, a wry smile on his lips. “Someone wouldn’t listen when I said he couldn’t handle another shot last night.”
“Someone is going to hit you if you keep rubbing this in,” Killer mutters.
Arrow chuckles, but I can’t bring myself to laugh. I don’t like that the r
est of the band drinks. I don’t like it at all. Sure, they don’t do drugs, but only because they know I’d leave the band if they did. But they insist on drinking, and even though they rarely do it in front of me, it freaks me out every time I see one of them nursing a hangover.
Arrow ignores my frown and stands from the couch, moving to the other one. “Scooch,” he says to Killer. Killer curls up into a tighter ball, and Arrow sits beside him. He drags Killer halfway onto his lap and gently smooths his hair. “You want some Tylenol or something, babe?”
“Can Jace get it?” Killer mumbles.
“Nope,” I say. “I’m not your servant.”
Killer ignores me and says to Arrow, “Just stay here, ’kay?”
Arrow rolls his eyes at me, but I catch the small smile on his lips. It’s a happy little expression, the kind he always wears around Killer. When those two are together, they’re always acting like the world is made of rainbows and butterflies, as if everything is perfect and nothing could ever go wrong.
But I can’t resent Arrow for it. Like practically every member of my family, the dude had a shitty childhood. His dad OD’d by the time he was eight, and his mom was sent to prison pretty soon after for dealing. Arrow drifted through the foster system like a ghost for a long time after that, too skinny, too scared, too traumatized to have much of a life.
Killer changed that. The dude might be annoying as hell, but I can’t help but like him. Without Killer, my cousin would probably still be in that ghost state.
Arrow strokes Killer’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Promise not to drink so much next time?” he murmurs.
“Promise. Swear. Cross my heart, hope to die,” Killer groans. “Never, never drinking that much again.”
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