“What the hell does that mean?” My spine stiffens.
“Not a damn fucking thing.” Mikey grins broadly before taking another swig. “Just wondering.”
We stare at each other, neither one of us saying a thing. We know everything about each other. Too much probably. Trying to hide the fact that this girl has me spinning a little, isn’t going to work with these guys. Neither will arguing about it.
Mikey breaks our staring contest, standing as he lets out a long sigh. He starts toward the bunks, stopping a few feet away from me, his voice low. “You know, it’s okay to let yourself feel something again.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, just keeps moving because he knows me well enough to know it’s the smart thing to do. I watch him go, silently thanking him as I feel my insides harden like ice, reminding my heart that it’s made of stone, and all the reasons why.
Chapter Four
Sadie
Cruel Summer
Taylor Swift
I peel one eyelid open, immediately regretting the choice because the light feels like it’s slicing a knife into my brain. My skull is a cathedral of pain. My tongue tastes like last night made a poor moral decision. I can feel the remnants of what I drank last night sloshing around in my stomach.
I’m in my bunk, fully clothed, (thank God for that small favor), and realize I have no idea how I got here. There’s a faint scent of cedar on my skin, and then a flash of the curtain sliding shut behind a wicked grin.
Then it hits me. Dean Ross. Chest bare, ass naked, cock, long and thick. Six feet of irritation and veins and muscles I really didn’t need to know he had. He already flashes me the “don’t look at me like that” glare at least three times daily.
Oh God. What did I say to him? I press my palms to my forehead, wincing when I feel a bump. What in the hell? A memory crashes through my fog. “At least now I know what I’m missing.”
I shake my head, scrunching my eyes closed hoping it will make the nightmare go away. I want to die. Dig a grave. Slide my own body in. Somehow pull the dirt over myself. How am I supposed to go out there and face them?
I know this is something that is going to be held over my head. Especially given the confidence I’ve been boasting since the moment I arrived. This makes me look like such an amateur. Getting drunk with the crew; it’s for beginners. Not for someone who’s been on the road countless times.
I take a deep breath, gagging when it ricochets off the ceiling back at me. Christ, I’m disgusted with myself. I need to just get this over with, so I pull up my big girl panties, grab the edge of the curtain, and slowly slide it open. I turn my body to slide out of the bunk, and promptly smack my knee on the frame. The universe hates me, which is probably fair. I pretty much hate myself right now.
Instead of facing the impending doom I’m sure to meet, I scurry to the back of the bus and into the blessedly empty bathroom. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink and shudder at my own reflection. I look like roadkill. Which is so entirely fitting given my current location, as well as the fact that I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.
I relieve myself and I swear to Christ, I think I pee straight tequila. I attempt to make myself look a bit more human. I wash my face, brush my teeth, run a wet brush through my hair, only to toss it back into a messy bun atop my head. I don’t do makeup unless absolutely necessary, and while this may be close to one of those times, I think I can get by without it. Looking green is in fashion, right?
I push the door open as quietly as I can and tip-toe back to my bunk. I find a clean T-shirt in my bag and switch it for the one I’m currently wearing. I slide some deodorant under my arms, knowing I can only get by doing this one more day and I’ll need to shower. For just a minute I contemplate climbing back in the bunk to hide out until the show later, but I know that option is only going to delay the inevitable firing squad waiting for me.
I tuck my tail and pad in my stocking feet down the hallway toward the front of the bus. The lounge is quietish. Mikey is hidden under his hood, sprawled lazily on one of the couches. Hayden’s sipping from the ever-present coffee mug in his hand, looking as prim and proper as the King of England. And Dean, because of course he’s probably been waiting like a cobra to strike, he’s leaning against the counter, bare feet crossed over his ankles. He’s nursing a mug of steaming coffee.
He looks up, and oh no. No, no, no. There’s a knowing in his eyes. A smugness he’s barely containing behind pursed lips fighting not to smile. He got to witness me embarrass myself last night from a front row seat. I’m sure he enjoyed every minute, and probably has cataloged every detail to torture me with either now or in the future.
“Morning, camera girl,” he says, voice rough from sleep or whiskey or the devil.
Choose your poison.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I plead, my voice hoarse. “I just want coffee.”
“Oh, we’re talking about it.” He takes a lazy sip, ignoring my request for coffee. “You tried to fight a bottle of tequila. I’m not sure who won.”
I groan and drop onto the opposite bench, burying my face in my hands. “Why didn’t you just, I don’t know, push me off the bus or something? Put me out of my misery?”
“Tempting.” His tone is dry enough to cure meat. “But Mikey dragged you back here like a feral cat, so blame him.”
Mikey, who appeared to be unconscious, but apparently isn’t, raises one limp hand in the air. “She clawed me.”
“I did not claw you,” I sputter while looking to see if he’s actually injured.
“You hissed,” he insists, a chuckle rumbling from him.
