Chapter 12
The morning after my night out with Sam in New Orleans, my head is pounding like a package of lit firecrackers. As usual, I slipped from our room quietly, but it had more to do with not wanting to face Sam instead of waking him and Gabe up. Tired and hungover, I don’t have the energy to cope with my guilt. In desperate need of coffee, I head to a café down the block. I don’t even want to know how much coffee might cost in a hotel as fancy as this one.
At the counter, I order a beignet and an egg-croissant sandwich too. My head is dealing with an artillery attack, but my stomach is grumbling in need. I find a little table to the side of the café, in the shade of a small tree, and start sucking down coffee. I ordered the biggest one they offered.
I’m lifting the egg sandwich when someone plops down next to me.
“Hello. Peyton, right?” Allie asks, peeling back the tab of her coffee cup. Dressed in a blue tank top that matches her tattoo sleeve, she’s a bit too bright for my pounding head.
“Hi,” I murmur, my sandwich pausing between my lips.
“Mornin’,” Riley says, plopping her food, then herself, down on the other side of me. She is in all black, but sporting a grin, and with her ponytail swinging behind her, she’s also too bright and chipper.
I nod hello and then take a bite of fortifying, flaky croissant goodness.
Allie pours sugar into her coffee and grins at me. “So, who are you ready to murder? Justin? Romeo? Gabe? All of them?”
“Dang, Al,” Riley says with a laugh, “let the girl finish chewing before bombarding her with questions.”
Allie stirs her coffee and peers at Riley with a level look. “It was really just one question.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s Romeo.” Riley breaks open a cala, a doughnut or rice fritter–type breakfast thing that I almost ordered, and slathers half of it with raspberry jam. “He can be such a bossy jerk when it comes to the band. When I was in it, I wanted to drum on his head during every practice.”
I’m about to say he keeps everyone in line as Allie shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’d rather deal with him than Justin and Gabe at each other’s throats.” She laughs lightly and leans toward me in a conspiratorial manner. “They’re better now. A couple months ago they hated each other like two bratty boys on the playground.” She shakes her head and takes a sip of coffee.
They haven’t been too bad but before I can explain, Riley says, “True. Sam’s probably the only one who you don’t want to head-butt. Other than smartass comments, he’s the least annoying.”
I smile weakly and reach for my coffee.
Both women stare at me in bewilderment, then say together, “Sam?” They both draw his name out in a long questioning tone.
Since I told Sam I wouldn’t say anything, I shrug. “We kind of started off on the wrong foot. But he’s a, um, good guy, I guess.”
They both continue to stare at me in confusion.
Allie’s brows knit together. “Thought you two hung out yesterday . . .”
Knowing I suddenly look obvious as all fuck, I stuff a huge bite of sandwich in my mouth. I may look like an idiot, but I will keep my promise.
Their confused gazes turn skeptical before they both look away—Riley at her plate of calas as she spreads more jam; Allie across the street, as if Justin stands naked on the other side. The artillery in my head had subsided a bit after I’d eaten, but now the cannons are back and roaring full tilt. Forcing myself not to go into the long explanation of the past that wants to escape my lips, I take a big swig of coffee.
“So-o-o,” Allie says. “How has everything else been going?”
I pull off a fluffy piece of sugarcoated beignet and savor the rare indulgence. “Good.”
Riley taps a plastic knife on the edge of her plate. “How are they doing onstage?”
“Great. Awesome. I’m more impressed each time.”
Allie uses her stirrer to spear a chunk of cala swathed in jam from Riley’s plate. “Was the radio-sponsored meet and greet in Austin a madhouse?”
“Yeah, pretty much, and I think they gained quite a few fans,” I say, waiting for questions about groupies chasing after their boyfriends. Yet after several more inquiries that relate only to the tour, I realize these two aren’t going to ask. Maybe Riley and Allie, who are both beautiful and incredibly down-to-earth, trust their men. From what I’ve seen, they should. Neither Justin nor Romeo seems interested in any of the women constantly hanging around backstage.
After explaining the past ten days in detail while nibbling on my beignet, I absently ask, “Where are the guys?”
“Wardrobe and makeup prior to their photo shoot,” Allie answers.
“Oh crap,” I say, standing up awkwardly and scraping my chair across the cement loudly in the process. How could I have forgotten that the tour manager asked me to take backup pictures? He’d even offered to pay me if any of my snapshots ended up on the cards he’s having made for signings. Apparently, he charges ten bucks a pop for them at the autograph tables after concerts.
Chewing on a fritter, Riley frowns at me with confusion.
I wrap up my trash in a rush. “I’m supposed to be there.”
“Go to ballroom C.” Allie glances at her phone. “You have about ten minutes.
“Thanks,” I say with a quick wave. I rush down the block toward the hotel. In our empty room, I grab my camera, change the lens, and then head to the ballroom. I stand at the edge of the room as the photographer directs the band in front of a white screen. He has Romeo and Justin standing in the center, Gabe and Sam a foot back. They’re all dressed in stage clothes: dark jeans, boots, black shirts, and silver-studded belts. When a woman with a comb steps up to Gabe and tries to rearrange his hair, he gives her a look of death. I can tell they haven’t allowed the makeup people and hairstylists to do much. All four of them look exactly like they do onstage every night.
I lean against the wall next to the door and wait for everyone to take their places. A warm rush of embarrassment flows through me along with memories when Sam looks up and notices me. I shove my feelings of awkwardness aside and force a slight smile.
He smirks at me.
I push away from the wall. Okay, I can do this even with a pounding head and confused feelings. I step farther into the room and the tour manager spots me. He quickly introduces me to the photographer, who looks irritated at us but doesn’t comment.
The hour passes with the photographer taking pictures and rearranging the band members in various poses, with his assistants rearranging the lights. I take pictures of the actual shoot, a documentary sort of thing, but also squeeze in shots of the band each time the photographer pauses to look at his screen or rearrange lighting. I don’t want him to have to wait for me. Obviously, the photographer is costing a pretty penny, but I can’t say the guys look in awe of him. If anything, they look irritated. Sexy but a little angry. Luckily for them, their expressions kind of go with the whole rocker thing.
During the individual photo sessions, Sam’s actually, the bass line from “Higher Ground” rings over the murmured conversations in the room. Sam stands up and whips his phone out. Frowning, Romeo shakes his head at him. Ignoring him, Sam stalks out of the room, the low growl of his murmur fading as he exits.
Ugh. It has to be his girlfriend.
The photographer, clearly irritated, calls Gabe over to pose. I step back as the guilt I’ve kept contained washes over me. Sam has a girlfriend.
And, of course, I have a boyfriend. Bryce and I might not be the most committed couple ever, but we are in a relationship. Not that I was thinking about Bryce last night. Obviously, there is a strong physical connection between Sam and me—one that would have taken us down a very wrong path if Gabe hadn’t walked into the room and interrupted the moment.
I take another deep breath, lift my camera, and take several pictures of Gabe, his hazel eyes intense under the flash of the lights. Then Sam is back in the chair. The photographer has him lean forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands slightly crossed. He looks forward, his lids lowered, his eyes pools of anger. After the photographer takes several shots, he moves over and lets me get some.
With Sam staring at me, taking the pictures is very uncomfortable. I’m guessing his current mood is because of the call from his girlfriend. For some reason his indignant expression reminds me of the text he sent me a week after we’d slept together all those years ago. It simply said, You need to call me if you’re pregnant. I’d been shocked because I hadn’t thought of the possibility—I’d been too consumed by my heartbreak over Seth. At the time, I’d texted him back that I wanted to talk. His reply was I’m not interested in anything else you have to say. That line had caused me to spend the rest of the day hiding in my room with eyes red from crying.
A few days later, I texted him a negative on the possibility of pregnancy—I’d never been so happy to have a period. Though that particular worry was over, the fallout from that night was just beginning. Rumors followed me the rest of my senior year. From Facebook to the old-fashioned rumor mill, it seemed like practically every teenager in the thumb of Michigan had heard something nasty about me. I saw one post about a sex tape with twin brothers; another one claimed that I’d slept with every member of the Bottle Rockets. All the rumors painted me as a desperate, lying slut. People who didn’t even know me that well treated me like a pariah. Within months, my self-esteem was lower than it had ever been, even when I’d been at my heaviest. I tried to turn to Sam, who knew the truth, with a text. He ignored me.
Now as he stares at me with icy eyes, I’m reminded of how ruthless he can be. I’m reminded that I never want to be in that vulnerable position again. I’m reminded of the silent anger we’ve shared over the past three years when we’ve crossed paths at school. And I’m thinking maybe Sam was right. Maybe being around each other is too difficult.
The photo shoot wraps up, and the tour manager tells the band a town car is waiting outside to take the band to the venue for sound checks. I try to appear busy by looking at the pictures on my camera, but Sam comes over to me on his way out.
“Missed you this morning,” he says, standing close to me.
My body is hyperaware of him, and the heat that flashes through me triggers a mixture of uncertainty and guilt and desire. I need to distance myself from him, physically and emotionally.
Not knowing what else to do, I shrug and do my best to edge away from him while feigning calm. I continue scrolling through pictures, and say, “I needed a coffee.”
“I would have gone with you.”
“I wanted to be alone.”
He moves closer. “Is something wrong, Peyton?”
“Nope,” I say without looking up. I detest being rude or mean, but I don’t know how to deal with whatever’s going on between us. All I know is that it shouldn’t be going on.
“What’s with the bitch mode?” he asks roughly.
Refusing to look up from the blur of pictures or argue with him, I shrug and say, “Just being me.”
He leaves without saying anything more. I wait several long minutes until I’m sure he’s gone, getting a few cold looks from the photographer and his crew in the process. Once it’s safe, I hightail it up to the room.
I store my camera, then crawl into my tiny bed. I should call Bryce. It’s been three days. Overcome with shame and confusion, I just stare at the wall.