20. Jarron
20
JARRON
M y stomach churns as I lay sprawled across the tour bus couch, a cold compress on my forehead. The bus door swings open and my bandmates tumble in, their energy electric.
"Dude, you missed it!" Lyle shoves his phone in my face. "Look at this shit!"
The screen shows Quinn on our stage, belting out our latest single. Her voice soars through the chorus, hitting notes I sometimes struggle with. The crowd's going absolutely wild.
"Damn," I mutter, pushing myself to sit up. "She actually killed it."
"'Actually?'" Beau snorts. "You might need to go back to shoveling cow shit."
"Hey, I'm sick here. Cut me some slack."
Austen flops down beside me. "Food poisoning my ass. That's what you get for eating gas station sushi."
"Shut up." I grab the phone back, rewinding to watch Quinn work the crowd. She's got this natural presence, drawing everyone in. Different from my style, but effective. "The fans seem to love her."
"Instagram's blowing up," Lyle scrolls through his own phone. "Everyone's asking who she is, wanting more duets."
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. "Well, she didn't completely destroy our reputation."
"High praise coming from you," Beau rolls his eyes. "Maybe now you'll hop off your high horse."
I toss a pillow at his head. "Maybe if you stop mooning over her every five seconds, I'll consider it."
But I keep watching the video, studying how she moves across our stage like she was born to be there. Maybe I've been wrong about her. Maybe.
I scroll mindlessly through Netflix, trying to ignore the excited chatter outside as the crew loads up for their night out. My stomach still feels like I swallowed a blender full of razors.
"Last chance, sicko!" Austen yells through the door. "Sure you don't want to power through?"
"Go fuck yourself!" I groan, pulling a blanket over my head.
"Your loss. Quinn's buying the first round to celebrate her debut."
That gets my attention. "Since when does she have money?"
"Since your dumb ass got food poisoning and she saved our show. Monica gave her a bonus."
I grunt and hit play on some action movie I've already seen three times. The door slams shut and engines start up as everyone heads out. Finally, some peace and quiet.
I'm barely twenty minutes into the movie when there's a knock at the bus door.
"I swear to God, Austen, if you forgot your wallet again..." I stumble to the door, yanking it open.
Quinn stands there holding a paper bag, her hair still styled from the show. "Hey. I, uh, brought you some stuff for your stomach."
"What are you doing here? Thought you were buying rounds."
"Changed my mind." She pushes past me into the bus. "My grandma's cure-all for upset stomachs."
"You didn't have to-"
"I know." She sets the bag on the counter. "Consider it a thank you for letting me sing your parts tonight."
"Letting you? Pretty sure I was face-down in the bathroom when that decision was made."
She laughs, and it hits different than her stage laugh. More real. "True. But still. Thanks for not being mad about it."
"Hard to be mad when you didn't totally suck."
"Wow. High praise from the great Jarron Haynes."
Quinn sets down a steaming bowl of soup and a blue Gatorade on the small table. The aroma hits my nose - chicken noodle, but not the canned stuff. Something about it smells homemade.
"You really didn't have to do all this." I push myself up straighter on the couch, trying not to look as pathetic as I feel.
"Well, I figured being sick and alone sucks." She tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "I mean, if you want me to go, I can. But I thought maybe you'd like some company?"
I should say no. I should maintain that wall I've built. But the bus feels too quiet, too empty, and my stomach doing backflips. "You're not afraid I'll puke on you?"
"Please. I worked at a daycare during college. I've been puked on by professionals." She perches on the arm of the couch, keeping a safe distance. "Besides, you look marginally less green than earlier."
"Gee, thanks." I reach for the Gatorade, my hand shaking slightly. "Shouldn't you be out celebrating with everyone else?"
"Bars aren't really my scene." She shrugs. "And honestly? After tonight, I kind of need to process everything. It's a lot, you know?"
"Yeah, I know." I take a careful sip. "You did good up there. Really good."
Her eyes widened slightly at the compliment. "Was that actual praise from Jarron Haynes? Quick, someone check if hell froze over."
"Don't get used to it. It's probably just the fever talking."
She laughs, and for the first time, I find myself actually wanting her to stay. Maybe it's the sickness making me soft, or maybe there's more to her than I've let myself see.
"So," she says, reaching for the TV remote. "What terrible movie are we watching while you try not to die?"
"You can choose, but I draw the line at chick flicks." I shift on the couch, making room as Quinn settles in with her own bowl of soup.
She flips through Netflix. "Too late. 'Santa's Secret Songwriter' it is."
"You're evil." I grab another cracker. "Taking advantage of a sick man."
"Hey, you're the one who ate gas station sushi. Your judgment's already questionable."
The movie starts, and it's exactly the cheesy disaster I expected. Some struggling musician moves to a small town and falls for the local Christmas tree farmer. Quinn provides running commentary that actually makes it bearable.
"Oh come on," she groans at the screen. "No one writes a hit song that fast."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Please. I once spent three weeks writing about my neighbor's cat."
"Was it at least a good song?"
"It was terrible. The cat died before I finished it."
I laugh, then immediately regret it as my stomach lurches. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
"Sorry." She hands me the ginger ale. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've seen you smile without it being for cameras or groupies."
"I smile."
"Smirking doesn't count."
On screen, the songwriter is butchering "Silent Night" in what's supposed to be a romantic moment.
"Even sick, I could sing that better," I mutter.
"Prove it."
"What?"
"Sing it. Right now." She pauses the movie. "Unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared of anything." I clear my throat and start singing softly, keeping it simple. To my surprise, Quinn joins in with a perfect harmony.
Our voices blend in the quiet bus, and for a moment, I forget about my churning stomach and all the reasons I'm supposed to dislike her. When we finish, there's this weird tension in the air.
"Not bad, Haynes." She unpauses the movie. "For someone who's dying of bad sushi."
"Not bad yourself, Dupree."