Chapter 4
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.
I drop my hands and glare at them both. “I hate all three of you.”
Hayden lifts his mug. “I did nothing. I was asleep.”
“You had to have heard the whole thing,” I accuse.
“I observe. Big difference.” He arches a brow with a nod of his head.
“You should thank Mikey.” Dean smirks, the bastard. “If it wasn’t for him, we can only guess where you might have ended up.”
“I would have been just fine. I’m a big girl and know how to find my way home,” I assure all of them as I look around the room.
“You also indicated you liked what you saw when I was naked last night.”
My soul leaves my body. I was so hoping this wasn’t going to come up. “No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking far too pleased. “Don’t worry. I try not to take drunk compliments seriously.”
“Doesn’t count if I don’t remember it,” I mutter in defense.
“It was definitely a compliment,” he contends, peering at me over the rim of his mug, rubbing salt into the festering wound I am at the current moment.
I glare at him. He just raises a brow like he’s daring me to admit it. I won’t. Ever.
“What the hell were you doing walking around naked anyway?” I shift gears to try and make him feel awkward instead.
“So, you did notice?” He flashes a wicked grin, like he’s won something precious, then shrugs. “I sleep naked. Better get used to it if you’re planning on staying, sweetheart.”
I stand, slinging my camera over my shoulder even though it feels like it weighs the same as a mid-sized sedan. “I need coffee. Before I commit homicide.”
Dean pushes off the counter, blocking my path, my body coming to a halt just inches from his. “Sure you aren’t still drunk?” He’s close enough for me to notice the tiny flecks of amber in his otherwise very green eyes.
“I’m fine.” My nostrils flare as I inhale what I’ve come to recognize as his scent; cedar and mint blended with a dose of arctic ice.
“You’re not wearing any shoes.” His chin tilts toward the floor, his eyes trailing down the length of my body.
Fuuuuccccck. Can this morning get any worse?
The bastard actually chuckles, then does something I don’t expect. “Sit.” He plants a hand on my waist to turn me toward the table. “I’ll get you a coffee.”
Because he’s rendered me into a state of shock, I do as he says and slide into the booth seat at the table.
I slip the camera off my shoulder and place it on the bench beside me.
A second later, Dean sets a steaming mug in front of me.
It’s black. Realization creeps in that he left the coffee for me yesterday too.
I lift my gaze from the mug up to him, feeling my features soften as I’m met with not a cocky smile, but a soft one for once. He’s yielding for whatever reason, and I couldn’t be more grateful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, quiet, but just for a moment. “Don’t let it go to your head.” He nods toward the mug. “Wouldn’t want you to fall for the bad guy.”
Annnnnd, he’s back.
I snicker. “The only thing I’m falling into is a better mood.”
I’m trying really hard not to fall for his baiting tactics, but he can’t seem to let things go, leaning into me just enough to make it feel like he’s touching me, but he’s not, his voice low. “Good luck with that.”
I exhale, slapping my hands down on the table to push myself up to my feet again. I need to be anywhere but near him right now. “Move, Ross.”
He steps aside, albeit slowly, obnoxiously so, his eyes staying locked on me the entire time. I brush past him, my whole body going warm where our arms almost touch.
I hate it.
I also want to go back and do it again.
Which makes me hate myself.