I flash him a tight-lipped smile but keep going. I noticed a sign for public showers, and figure here is better than on a bus with three men, so grab my pack and find them.
I’m head down in front of my laptop when the three of them stomp back onto the bus a short time later. I’m clean, and it feels good. I changed into new undies, a fresh bra and T-shirt, and cutoffs that aren’t stiff from caked-on dust and grime. My hair is damp, and falling around my face providing the cover I’m so desperately trying to seek right now.
A Styrofoam container slides across the table coming to a stop when it hits the back of my computer. A thick cardboard cup is next to it a moment later, and I know it’s a black coffee.
“Didn’t know what you liked, so went with pancakes. There’s some butter and syrup in there for you.” It’s Dean. Of course it is. He’s the one I need to hate the most, but doing everything he can to get under my skin, without even trying.
“Uh, thanks,” I manage to stutter out, barely hiding the shock from my response.
“Don’t want the enemy hangry when she writes about us,” he jokes, but the fact that he’s noticed I haven’t been eating isn’t missed by me.
I pull up the photos from last night’s show, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of it as a distraction. I sip on the coffee between bites of the pancakes, which are absolute heaven. I’m almost feeling back in control, but then, I pause, discovering a photo I didn’t mean to take.
Dean, in the wings, head back on his shoulders, hand on his neck, eyes closed. No pose. No performance. Just a man trying to hold himself together. I don’t breathe. The photo feels wrong. Too intimate. Naked and intrusive.
The old version of me, the one who clawed her way through war zones and riots and midnight alley concerts, she would keep it. Might even sell it. It’s one of those pictures that speak a thousand words. But the version of me sitting on this bus? Delete. Click. Gone.
“Why do you do that?”
His voice jolts through me. Dean stands in the aisle next to me, eyes unreadable. His brow is furrowed, arms crossed, shirt clinging, tattoo half-hidden in his sleeve. He nods at my laptop. “You always delete the good ones.”
“I don’t,” I try in defense, coming up short.
“You do. I’ve seen it a few times now.” His stance widens as the bus sways, but he doesn’t budge.
I exhale slowly. “Not everything belongs to the public.”
His jaw flexes. “You’re here to tell a story.”
“I’m here to tell the truth,” I correct. “But sometimes the truth isn’t mine to share.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. “What happened last night,” he says finally, “doesn’t leave this bus.”
My chest tightens thinking he would find it necessary to even say that. “Again, some things aren’t mine to share.”
His gaze drops to my hands, shaking slightly. “You cold?”
“No,” I shoot back, always on the defense with him.
“Another lie.” He steps closer. Slow. Intentional. The bus hums beneath us like a warning. “You hide a lot for someone who wants to know everyone’s secrets,” he muses.
“You seem to have more than a few,” I dare to challenge.
His mouth curves and it’s dangerous, tired, and amused all at once. “Careful, camera girl.”
“I’m always careful,” I assure him as I flash the smallest sneer.
“No,” he says softly with a shake of his head. “You’re brave. That’s worse.”
Something in me sparks, and my body stiffens, my reaction not going unnoticed by him.
He opens his mouth, but then closes it, apparently changing his mind. Instead, he reaches past me, grabs a blanket from the bench, and spreads it over my lap like a truce he’d probably deny.
“Try to get some sleep,” he mutters, walking away. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Dean.”
He stops, doesn’t turn. Just stops.
