Chapter 10
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.
“I’m not glaring,” I growl out.
He arches a brow. “Sure you’re not.”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “You’re not worth the effort.”
Mikey lets out a muffled, “Oooh,” from beneath his hood.
Dean’s mouth crooks at the corner, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to smile or bite. “Didn’t seem that way when you checked out my dick the other night,” he reminds me, voice lilting with just enough implication to hit every nerve ending I possess.
My face goes hot. The world compresses to the four-foot space between us and the memory of me, drunk, staring at his very naked, very impressive body and telling him exactly what I thought of it.
Kill. Me. Now.
Hayden clears his throat, the world’s gentlest ref.
I snap my laptop a little closer, shielding my expression behind the screen. “Just because I can’t unsee a horror movie doesn’t mean I want to rewatch it.”
“I don’t think what you saw horrified you.” His tone is light, but there’s an undercurrent there. Something almost bitter. “Don’t worry, I know a tequila compliment doesn’t count.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” I fire back.
“So, you’re saying you haven’t thought about what you’re missing.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m saying I was drunk.”
“Such a liar.” He chuffs, shaking his head.
I glare at him properly this time. “Do you actually need this much validation from everyone, or am I just special?”
He stares back, unblinking. “Oh, you’re definitely something special alright.”
Hayden takes a long, theatrical sip of his coffee like he wishes it were stronger.
My heart skitters against my ribs. I drag my gaze back to my screen, silently vowing not to say anything else. Ever. I will mime my way through the rest of this tour if I have to.
The bus settles into that long-haul hum, the kind that erases time and makes everywhere look like nowhere. Miles roll past the windows in long, dusty stretches. Mountains flatten into plains. The sky opens wider and wider.
Hours later, based on my laptop battery and the number of times Mikey has woken up to pee, we’re deep in the middle of nowhere.
My back is stiff, my eyes burn, and my stomach is threatening a mutiny.
The little red light on my screen winks at me: 10%.
I wiggle the plug into the outlet, but it doesn’t seem to help.
“Hey, Sadie.” Hayden pulls one of his headphones off his ear. “That plug is bugging again. Use the one there.” He nods toward the wall socket by the middle bench. The one right next to Dean.
My stomach drops. “This one’s fine.”
“It’s not,” he contends mildly, pointing to the cord. “It’s not going to charge, and I don’t want it to surge your laptop if it decides to suddenly work.”
Traitor. I blow out a slow breath. It’s either move toward Dean or watch my laptop die and sacrifice hours of editing work and distraction. I unplug my charger and gather my stuff, sliding off the bench. The aisle feels narrower than usual as I move, aware that every inch between us is shrinking.
Dean doesn’t say anything as I approach. He just tracks my movement, eyes lazy, expression unreadable. I drop into the bench across from him, plug my cord into the outlet, and pull my laptop toward me. My knee bumps the table again. Electricity zips up my leg, and not just from the impact.
Of course, this table is lower. Of course, there’s less leg room. Of course, my boot bangs into his under the table when I try to adjust myself.
“Sorry,” I mutter, jerking my leg back.
“It’s fine,” he states, but the word lands heavier than it should.
For a while, silence does its best impression of peace. The bus rocks. Mikey scrolls through his phone. Hayden dozes upright against the wall, mug cradled in his hands.
Dean drifts in and out of noodling on the guitar. A scatter of notes here and there. That half-formed riff that sounds like a secret he still doesn’t want to share.
My eyes keep catching on him when I’m supposed to be focusing on the screen. The way his fingers move over the frets, long and sure. The small crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, like sleep keeps losing a fight with whatever’s clawing him up inside.
He looks exhausted. Not rockstar-party exhausted though.
It looks more bone-deep, soul-level, haunted exhausted.
The image of him in the rain after the wreck flashes through my head; the way his hand hit the side of the bus, the way his breath went ragged, the wild panic in his eyes that had nothing to do with fame and everything to do with something else.
My chest tightens. You’re not here to care, I remind myself. You’re here to capture. There’s a difference.