And the way that hope disappeared when I agreed to leave her alone. She sees too much. And after tonight, I’m not sure I deserve to be seen at all.
Chapter Ten
Sadie
Bad Boy
Sophia Dashing
June 23rd. Six a.m. Too early for introspection, just late enough for regret. I climb the bus steps last, hurtling my bag up ahead of me. The sky is pale blue, all soft and clean this morning. Inside the bus is dim, murky, and absolutely saturated with the night before.
It smells like coffee, sweat, and the ghosts of bad decisions. Which is fitting, because I’m currently haunted by a six-foot almost-mistake with calloused fingers and green eyes that need a danger sign. Empty bottles overflow in the trash. A smudge of lipstick on a discarded napkin. A blonde hair tie looped around the base of an empty beer bottle like a trophy. My stomach tightens. Fantastic. Evidence.
Mikey is star-fished on the couch, hood up, mouth open, a light snore rattling out of him. Hayden sits at the table with a mug of coffee and his headphones in, scrolling something on his phone like the picture of quiet dignity.
And then there’s him. The perpetual thorn in my side. He’s in his usual corner, one foot propped on the cushion, a guitar balanced across his thighs. He’s not strumming, just resting his fingers on the strings like he’s holding back an explosion.
His gaze lifts the second I step inside. It’s like walking on a tightrope. One misstep to the left or right, and I’ll be plummeting into something that most definitely doesn’t have a safety net. I pretend I don’t see him. Which is ridiculous, because he’s right there, big as life and twice as irritating.
“Good morning,” Hayden offers half-yawn, half-greeting.
“Debatable,” I mutter, managing a vague wave.
I pass the tiny galley counter, my eyes snagging on the hair tie again. Little circle of yellow elastic. Proof of what I already assumed and absolutely do not care about. Nope. Not one little bit.
My jaw flexes. I peel my gaze away and shoulder past, beelining for the bench at the far end of the table, the one that puts the most space between me and Dean without me actually leaving the room. I drop my camera bag onto the seat with more force than necessary. It thumps against the cushion, and my laptop jostles inside. Oops.
The bus engine rumbles as we pull away from the curb. My entire body vibrates with it. Or maybe that’s just nerves. Or caffeine withdrawal. Or the fact that I’m trapped on this moving, tin-can of an emotional prison for the next fifteen hours with the man I most need to avoid and can’t.
I flip open my laptop, not because I’m dying to edit more photos at dawn, but because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t hurling myself at Dean to throttle him. It’s a fine line.
A soft metallic zing cuts through the low murmur of the engine. I don’t have to look up to know it’s his guitar. He’s plucking lazily at the strings, not playing a real riff, just wandering.
The sound snakes under my skin. I grit my teeth and try to drown out the sound with the click of keys. Scroll through some footage, curate, then file. I can be a robot. Robots don’t care if the guy they definitely didn’t think about in the shower this morning probably had his dick in someone else’s mouth eight hours ago.
My knee knocks into the edge of the table when we hit a bump. A sharp sting shoots up my leg. I swear under my breath. The guitar stops followed by a loud huff. Great, I apparently need to apologize for existing too loudly.
I keep my eyes locked on the screen, scrolling through shots from last night’s show. Luc mid-leap, Hayden lit from behind in a white halo, Mikey’s mouth open around a grin that looks like sin and salvation. The crowd is a living organism, arms thrown up in praise and adoration.
I can feel him looking at me. I refuse to look back. Another mile. Another bump. Another crack of my knee against the underside of the table. I growl under my breath.
“Gonna win that fight eventually?” His voice drifts across the void, low and edged, sliding straight between my shoulder blades. “You could move.”
I clench my jaw. “You could mind your own business.”
“Just trying to help.” He shrugs, like it’s no sweat off his back if I want to keep enduring the pain.
Mikey snorts in his sleep like his subconscious is enjoying the show. I press my lips together, determined not to rise to it. Determined to be mature. I am a composed professional. Yeah, right.
Another pluck of the string. Another pause. I can feel him staring again. It feels like he’s burning holes into the back of my skull it’s so intense.
The bus merges onto the highway, picking up speed. Sunlight slices in through the front windshield, cutting a path over the floor, up the table legs, across the cushions. It lands right in my eyes. I squint and shift to the side, trying to dodge the glare, but the outlet my laptop is plugged into has other ideas and yanks the cord taut.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath.
The guitar stops again. “Gonna glare all the way to Lincoln, camera girl,” he drawls, “or just until your laptop dies?”
I freeze. Slowly, I drag my gaze up from the screen to lock onto his. His green eyes are heavy-lidded but sharp, like he hasn’t slept but still notices everything.
