To Be Your Last

by Rae Kennedy

  Logan is still rubbing my back. In a low voice, he says, “Sorry about that.”

  I shake my head and wave it off.

  “No, I mean it. I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything. If you don’t want something, just tell us no, or to go fuck off. And we will.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and leans away, regarding me with a lopsided grin.

  “Let’s get going—” A smooth, masculine voice calls from around the van. He steps out of the shadows and into the light.

  It’s the singer.

  He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans. The short sleeves show off the intricate puzzle of black tattoos that cover his arms and hands. I can also see more of the tats on his chest and neck than earlier when he’d been wearing the collared shirt and suit jacket. He checks something on his phone then slips it into his pocket and looks up.

  He stops dead when he sees me.

  His gaze fixes on me, his piercing eyes just as intense as when he was performing, like he can see right through me.

  He glances down the length of my body, my bare legs. Why did I choose such short shorts? He only looks for a second, and though I’m fully clothed I’ve never felt so naked.

  Apparently, it only took him that one second to assess me before he turns to Logan, whose arm is still draped around my shoulders.

  The singer’s jaw clenches and nostrils flare as he looks Logan square in the face and says, “No.”

  Logan removes his arm. “Oh, come on, dude. We have room, she’s cool—”

  The singer turns back to me, his features hard and calm, and says, “No.”

  It’s definitive.

  Deafening.

  Shattering.

  He directs his heated glare back to Logan. “Fuck no. She’s not coming.” Then he turns and walks back toward the front of the van.

  My stomach churns and I’m too hot. Of course this was a stupid idea. “I’m sorry. He’s right. This was dumb. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll call Kyla and she can come back and get me.”

  “Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ll go talk to him.” Logan flashes a reassuring smile, then chases after the singer.

  “Here.” Dean picks up my suitcase as Joey opens the back of the van and throws it in.

  “But—”

  “Don’t take what Colin said personally. He’s just in a bad mood from having to navigate around the giant stick up his ass.”

  “But he doesn’t want me here.”

  “Too bad for him, because the rest of us do want you here.” Dean shuts the door and tilts his head. “So, you still coming?”

  I climb in the van even though my heart is pounding.

  I take the middle bench seat, Joey climbs in the very back, and Dean sits in the front passenger seat. I twist my fingers into a ball on my lap, trying to quiet the thoughts in my head telling me what could go wrong. After a few minutes, Logan hops in the van with his relaxed smile and slides into the seat next to me.

  The singer—Colin, I guess—gets in the driver’s seat, a scowl set on his pretty lips. He doesn’t say a word, just starts up the van. As we roll forward, I steal a glance at him in the rear-view mirror, and his eyes are already on me. They shift back to the road immediately. So fast, in fact, I think I might have imagined it.

  We turn onto the main road, and as we accelerate, the lights of my little town become smaller and smaller, farther away in the distance until they becomes just a speck. And then I can’t see them anymore.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next hours pass quickly. Logan asks me so many questions I’m flattered and overwhelmed. It’s basically twenty questions—the Gracie edition. When he asks me my major, and I say Biology and that I’m pre-med, they’re all stunned silent. I move the subject along.

  They all seem fascinated by the fact that I’m the youngest of five siblings, and that I’d grown up on a ranch. Well, everyone but Colin, who has done nothing but look straight ahead with a bored look on his face and sigh every once in a while. Logan tells me he and Dean have an older brother, Joey has a younger sister, and Colin is an only child. Figures. They grew up in a suburb near the city. Logan and Dean lived across the street from Colin, and they started the band when they were fourteen.

  Logan recounts stories from their teenage years with fervor, practically yelling, arms flying across the seat as he dramatically acts out scenes. Joey mostly chuckles in the back, occasionally hiccupping and chiming in to say, “Hey, I was there too!” when Logan forgets to include him in the aforementioned stories.

  Dean is content to listen to Logan talk, a cool smirk on his lips, and only interrupts to correct him on the details, which Logan likes to exaggerate. For instance, he didn’t break both arms and four ribs jumping off a bridge—it was a sprained wrist and bruised ribs. Also, the band wasn’t almost broken up by a girl named Yoko who had kissed Logan and Colin on the same night, resulting in an all-out fist fight between the two sixteen-year-olds—her name was Megan, and Logan had only gotten a bloody lip from one elbow, which Colin maintains was an accident.

  Colin remains, of course, silent on the subject.

  I can’t believe they all have so much energy. It’s almost five a.m. and I can’t stop yawning.

  “Do you guys always stay up this late?”

  “When we’re on tour, we travel during the day and work at night, so yeah. We basically sleep all day and stay up all night,” Logan says.

  “Better get used to it,” Dean adds.

  “Yeah.” I yawn again. “I can totally get used to it.”

  I lay my head back against the seat—just to rest my eyes, just for a minute. It’s not comfortable and I don’t know if I’ll even be able to fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake up with the sun shining through the windows, bright against the tan cloth seats. My cheek rests against something hard and warm—Logan’s shoulder. I sit up, stretching my back. My neck is a bit stiff, but it was probably more comfortable than my head being smashed between the seat and window.

  Logan’s head is back, his neck arched, lips slightly parted as he breathes softly in his sleep. Joey is curled up in a ball in the back and Dean has gone with the head-against-the-window method in the front. Only Colin is still awake. Still driving. Still brooding.

  I pull out my phone and see it’s almost noon. I also have five texts and two missed calls from Kyla.

  Kyla: How’s it going, are you good?

  Kyla: ???

  Kyla: Update me already!!!

  Kyla: Where are you? I’m about to send a search party.

  Kyla: Srsly about to freak out right now you better call or text me in the next five minutes or I swear to God

  Luckily, that last one was only ten minutes ago.

  Me: Hey sorry, I was asleep. I’m fine, having fun so far

  Kyla: Oh thank fuck. How are the guys? Are they nice? Have you made out with the hot one yet?

  Me: Yes they’re nice. No making out.

  Kyla: Boo. I’ll need to know immediately when it happens

  I send her the eye roll emoji and she sends me the kissy emoji.

  I look out the window to the nondescript landscape of middle America. It’s mostly flat with the sporadic patch of trees and a few land formations so far in the distance I can’t tell if they’re hills or mountains. Occasionally, we’ll pass a farm or random outbuilding, but other than the infrequent fellow drivers and big rigs, no sign of life. Just the straight stretch of highway and an endless blue sky. I have no idea where we are. I could be one or three states over from home, for all I know.

  I. Have. No. Idea. Where. I. Am. The familiar panic creeps up. Heart racing. The voice that tells me I have no control.

  “You all right?”

  He startles me and somehow brings me back. In the mirror, I meet Colin’s eyes. His face is calm, his driving steady, and he doesn’t break eye contact. I no longer feel the pull of anxiety, no longer slipping into darkness.

  “I’m fine.” My voice cracks. I probably don’t so
und fine. But I am. I’m fine. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I chose to come along. I’m not here against my will. I can leave if I want. I am in control.

  My heartbeat quiets, and I realize that’s the first thing Colin has said the whole trip so far, and he was expressing concern...for me. Should I say thank you?

  I hate this feeling of not knowing what to do, the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. High school Gracie never second-guessed herself. Eighteen-year-old Gracie was confident, popular, and excelled at everything she tried. Perhaps I was too confident. My first experience as a small fish in a big pond and I’d fallen spectacularly on my face. That’s when the stress started, the fear, the anxiety, the failure.

  “Where are we?” I ask when I feel steadier.

  “Nebraska. More than a third of the way there.”

  Okay. That feels better.

  The soft click-click click-click of the blinker sounds as Colin pulls off the highway. We come up to a little rest stop and I’m suddenly grateful as I realize I have to pee so bad.

  As the van rolls to a stop, the guys stir and groan awake.

  “It’s too early,” Logan grumbles.

  We jump out and it feels nice to move and stretch my legs. The sun is hot on my back. The air is heavy and dry and there is no cool breeze like back home.

  “Fuck, why is it stupid hot already?” Joey wipes his forehead, which is already pink and perspiring.

  After the much-needed bathroom break, we all pile back in. Logan takes the same spot next to me and whispers with a devious smirk that he likes being my seat-buddy. Dean takes the driver’s seat this time and Colin lays his head to the side as soon as he lands in the front passenger seat.

  It’s only minutes before Logan is passed out again. I think Colin is asleep too even though he looks uncomfortable. I can’t help but linger on his face—peaceful yet somber. The thick, black lashes fanned across his chiseled cheekbones are beautiful. I’ve never thought the word beautiful as many times about a man as I have about Colin.

  I should stop staring at him.

  I slide out my phone.

  Me: We’re in Nebraska

  Kyla: That’s not very specific, you realize that’s a whole fucking state, right? Any update on the makeout sitch?

  Me: It’s been an hour

  Kyla: So?

  Me: Nothing new to report. Promise you’ll be the first to know if it happens

  Kyla: *when it happens

  As the lulling sounds of languid breathing fills the van, I lay my head back against Logan’s welcoming shoulder. He smells like sunshine and fresh-cracked pepper, and I close my eyes.

  * * *

  “Wake up, sleepy-head.”

  My eyes flutter open to Logan smiling dreamily down at me. My head is still pressed into his white cotton shirt.

  “Hey.” I sit up yawning, not feeling embarrassed Logan caught me sleeping on him. Everyone else is already awake. I roll my head to stretch out my neck. “How do you guys sleep sitting up without being stiff all over?”

  “We’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years.” Logan reaches over and starts rubbing the back of my neck, his strong fingers digging into my skin and massaging out the ache. “But, this tour, we’re getting a bus.”

  “It’s going to be so cool,” Joey pipes up. “We get a driver and everything.”

  “That’ll be better,” I say, savoring the massage. “That feels nice.”

  “I’m at your service.” Logan gives me a wink.

  Heat rises to my cheeks.

  Colin is sitting up front, looking straight ahead, but it feels like he’s still watching me, aware of everything.

  “Thanks.” I shift slightly, and Logan eases off the massage, finally releasing my neck and laying his arm across the back of the seat.

  We’re off the highway now, on a side street in some unnamed town, the expanses of concrete and asphalt just as nondescript as the landscape around it.

  We pull into a gas station and Joey instantly sits up.

  “Yes, dinnertime!”

  We’re having dinner at a gas station?

  “We need to restock the cooler, too.” Dean puts the van in park.

  Logan gives me his hand and helps me step down. Joey lumbers out after me, clapping and rubbing his hands together. “Jackpot,” he says with a grin.

  Jackpot? I look up at the building—it’s a little fancier than the gas stations I’m used to, and the word market is on the front, but still, I was hoping we’d eat at a restaurant.

  Joey bolts for the glass doors with Logan and Dean following. I glance back to the van. Colin is standing in the shadow of the van, filling the tank with gas. I can barely make out his profile, but he looks lean and tall, and I notice how his black shirt is stretched taut between his broad shoulders and the way his short sleeves strain against the curve of his tattooed biceps.

  “Blondie—”

  I snap back toward the door, thinking the voice is Logan’s, but it’s Dean standing there, regarding me with an amused smile.

  “He’s pretty to look at, huh?”

  “Uh...” Shit, I’m blushing again. I swallow thickly.

  “It’s okay,” he says in a hushed tone. “I won’t tell.”

  We walk inside, and Joey immediately pulls me over to the small grocery section. He declares himself a connoisseur of gas station fare and proceeds to impart his knowledge on me. I'm impressed, as it seems like he’s actually put quite a lot of thought into the subject. His various pointers include to avoid the hot dogs and sushi, burritos are good, nachos are too messy. Look in the refrigerated section for healthier options and get some snacks that are good at room temperature that have a lid or are in a resealable package, avoid anything that requires utensils. It’s a lot.

  I get a pre-made sandwich and a banana. That should be safe. A gas station banana is still just a banana, right?

  “Don’t forget snacks!” Joey calls from three aisles over.

  “Hey!” Logan sidles up next to me, his arm brushing against my shoulder. “Let’s get Slurpees.”

  It’s the most intense Slurpee machine I’ve ever seen. There are sixteen different flavors. Sixteen. I walk up and down the aisle with my sandwich and banana smashed to my body in one arm, the other holding the giant empty cup as I peruse the flavors. Cherry, blue raspberry, mango bango, piña colada, sour apple, dragon fruit... I finally decide on watermelon. Meanwhile, Logan is running up and down, giggling and filling his cup until it’s overflowing. He sips it down, but it spills over again when he tries to put on a lid and stick in the straw. I grab some napkins, and we clean up his sticky hands as he licks the side of the cup. We unsuccessfully try to stifle our laughs so as not to draw attention to ourselves, but the cashier, a middle-aged woman with a crew cut, keeps glaring our way.

  “I’ll get this for you.” Logan takes my cup and reaches for my sandwich.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Blondie, we need your help.” Dean is waving to us from across the store.

  “You go help him. I got this,” Logan insists and heads to the register with our food.

  I wander over to Dean and Joey, who are studying the beer case intently.

  “I want to make sure we get something you like. Any preferences?” Dean asks.

  I look through the glass and metal doors, clueless. Joey has half-disappeared into a fridge to retrieve a thirty-pack from the back of the cooler when I lean over to Dean.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Shoot. I’m a vault.”

  “I don’t really drink. I have no idea what I would like.”

  His face remains neutral. “Do you want to drink? You don’t have to.”

  “It might be fun,” I say quietly.

  “Okay.” He walks over to an area where the beers have pictures of fruit on the labels and there are brightly colored hard lemonades. “Fuzzy navels?” He points to a blue six-pack with peaches on it.

  “Sure.” Sounds as good
as anything.

  “Cool.”

  Joey comes back with a huge, awkward box of beer under each beefy arm. “Ready?”

  “Yep.” Dean grabs the pack of fuzzy navels, glass clinking inside. “Hey, since you’re not twenty-one—”

  “Yeah, I’ll just head out to the van. Logan’s got my food, anyway.”

  I exit the store. Heat radiates from the pavement, and the station’s lights are buzzing overhead. Logan is standing by the van across the lot, a plastic bag in his hand, our Slurpee cups on the roof of the vehicle.

  His back is turned and as I get closer, it’s obvious he’s talking to someone hidden from view. I slow, then freeze when I hear the disembodied voice from around the van.

  “There’s plenty of groupie pussy on tour. You didn’t need to bring your own personal toy.”

  “I didn’t bring her for that.”

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “And she’s not a groupie.”

  “I can see that. She’s a toddler.”

  “Col, you’re such an asshole.”

  “I don’t care what the fuck you do with her, but you invited her along, so it’s your job to babysit her.”

  Colin’s cold words sink through me.

  He doesn’t want you here. You shouldn’t have come.

  Dean and Joey are heading for us, boisterously conversing and laughing, arms full of alcohol and, not surprisingly, many snacks. They’re unaware of my embarrassment as they walk up to me, yelling my name, bringing me to attention. Logan turns to me as Colin appears, both men looking directly at me, and I wonder if they know I heard their conversation.

  I manage to drink most of my Slurpee but I don’t feel much like eating as we drive. The landscape morphs from flat plains to rocky mountains as we travel through Colorado. I notice that Joey likes to constantly tap the steering wheel as he drives.

  He called me a toddler. A toddler in need of babysitting.

  There’s a loud popping sound quickly followed by another as Joey says, “Whoa, holy shit!” And the van jerks and sputters as he grips the wheel, swerving out of control. The van starts to spin. I clutch at my seat and Logan throws his arm across my torso. The crunch and grind of gravel is deafening as we drift off the road and then sand and pebbles are pinging the sides of the van. We finally bump and skid to a stop several feet off the highway.