Chapter Twenty
Twenty
“Someone’s sleepy.” Grayson drops his cards on the table. “Two sixes.”
I hide my next yawn in my sleeve.
“Bullshit,” Wren says around a toothpick.
Grayson looks at her with irritation before scooping up a hefty stack. When I yawn a third time, even Indy gives me a concerned look.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I admit. “One seven.”
“Three eights.” Indy lays her cards atop the new pile delicately. I know she’s lying because I have two eights in my own hand, but I’m too tired to call her on it. “You should try to nap before we arrive.”
“I’m all right. I’m saving all my sleep for that hotel bed.”
We’ll make the easy trip from Boston to NYC tonight directly after the show, and when we arrive I’ll get to sleep in an actual bed with a box spring and more than one pillow. Heaven on earth.
“Lucky bed,” Grayson says, eyes crawling over my neck.
Indy makes a face. “Don’t be gross.”
“I’m always gross,” he replies with the edge of a grin. “Two nines.”
“Bullshit,” I say. While Grayson rakes in the stack with a groan, I get up to forage through the snack drawer for something that will give me some energy. My fingers are hovering over a granola bar when the suite door slides open.
Tom slinks out rubbing at his eyes. He looks a little worse for the wear: his beard needs trimming, scruff creeping down his neck where it’s usually shaved clean. His curls are even more unkempt than usual, as if he fell asleep on wet hair and then tossed and turned.
Conor follows him out and brews a cup of tea. Tom checks his phone. He doesn’t look at me once. A low-pitched yawn overtakes him and practically shakes the front lounge.
“What is with you two?” Wren asks. “Fucking Greek chorus of fatigue.”
My eyes snap back to the open drawer beneath my hands. You two.
There’s something bizarrely erotic about sharing this secret. It couldn’t be more pedestrian—all we did was text—but that doesn’t stop the butterflies going haywire in my stomach.
“Who?” Tom asks from beside me, taking his tea from Conor.
I peek up with an exhale, but find his relaxed posture and blush-less face oddly irritating. Is our proximity doing nothing to him at all? My mouth is watering at the smell of his cotton T-shirt alone.
“Clementine’s been yawning all day, too,” Pete says, eyes glued to his game of Mario Kart . Molly groans beside him, her car obliterated by some kind of…turtle? This game makes less and less sense to me the more I watch it. Pete’s eyes light with triumph but he’s smart enough not to gloat.
“They’re still coming down from their Philly bender,” Molly says, defeated.
My eyes widen as I search my sleepless mind for words. “I—”
“Clem wishes she could drink like the Irish,” Tom jests. His eyes finally find mine, warm and penetrating.
“I don’t know about that,” I tell him. “Haven’t you heard? Lightweights have more fun.”
Tom brushes past me to toss his tea bag in the trash, and I’m shocked when his knuckle grazes the small of my back above my sweatpants. His hand lingers there, sweeping deliciously back and forth where nobody can see. I grasp the counter to stay upright.
Conor turns around. “Shall we?”
Tom’s hand drops from my body. “Yeah.” It comes out in the wrong register. He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Yeah. I think I’ve cracked the verse now.”
Conor is none the wiser. “Brilliant.”
Tom follows him back into the suite. When the door closes my entire body slumps. The spot where he touched me is so hot it’s branding my skin. This kind of reaction to a person can’t be normal. I need a psych eval.
“One ten,” Wren says, toothpick still held between her teeth.
“ Clem ,” Grayson coos. “Isn’t that adorable.”
His brown eyes are lit with something charged, something possessive. I briefly debate acting as if the nickname is weird or unwelcome, but can’t bring myself to do it.
“I’m trying to give everyone nicknames,” Indy says easily. “Do you prefer Gray or Keys?”
“Do not call me Keys.”
“How about Georgia?” Molly offers, eyes on the spinning rainbow road on the screen.
While Grayson grumbles about how even Keys is better than Georgia, I sneak a glance at Indy—she kind of saved my butt. When our eyes meet, hers are lit with mischief and I know she knows.
To my surprise, it’s a relief. I offer her a weak smile and mentally prepare for the grilling I’m about to receive whenever we are next alone.
—
By the time we head in for sound check I can hardly keep my eyes open. I down the dregs of Molly’s coffee—black, no sugar, vile—and then work up the courage to ask Lionel for one of my own, which he fetches for me instantly. I forget I’m a real member of this band—that I’ve earned my keep.
After sound check I finally get a chance to call my mom back.
She’s fine: Willow has befriended a squirrel on our street, no drunk texts to exes, pain is neither better nor worse, Beth and Mike don’t ship Fox and Scully enough—but I cannot bring myself to tell her about Tom and me.
We’ve graduated from fear of admitting my lack of professionalism to fear that she’ll start looking at engagement rings online.
When we hang up my guilt is so bone-deep I ache.
But tonight’s concert is our first stadium show.
Twenty thousand people, in an arena used for hockey matches and basketball games and top-forty pop stars with glitter-coated backup dancers.
I’m not nervous, but I am acutely aware of how simple Tom’s show is.
Diffused lights, fake rain, some delicate shadow work, and plenty of fog.
But it’s mostly him, guitar in hand, and the band in the background swaying behind stand-up mics and instruments in our jeans and white T-shirts.
“Clementine!” Jen’s voice snaps me back to the present.
Behind wisps of steam from my coffee, I find her pretty head poking into the dressing room.
“Can you run this IEM to Tom’s greenroom?
Lionel’s dealing with a front-of-house issue and Pete’s got a rigging crisis.
” She blows a hair from her face as she mutters, “Because why should anything ever be easy?”
Molly doesn’t look up from her eyeliner and Wren is on the phone.
“Of course,” I say, hurrying to grab the earphone from her. Jen is off so quick her sharp haircut nearly slices my fingers off . I am humbled by the reminder that while I may be a real part of the band, I’m still easily the lowest-ranking one.
The hallway vibrates with barely contained energy.
The crowd is rowdy just beyond these walls, cheering for a local opener I’ve forgotten the name of.
Engineers and venue PAs speed-walk past one another, carrying all manner of ropes and equipment.
The air is thick with anticipation and artificial fog.
My bones tingle. Tired as I am, I cannot wait to sing. I cannot wait to sing with him .
The private greenroom door is ajar and when I open it, Tom is slumped in a leather armchair he hardly fits in. His limbs are all too long, and it’s not helped by the jitters sending his knees up and down like rubber balls.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” he says, though his voice is tight. “What’re you doin’ here?’
I close the door behind me and we are swallowed by silence.
Those are some seriously thick walls. This “greenroom” isn’t really a greenroom.
The actual private lounge is being used by the rest of the band as we speak.
Tom’s in more of a refurbished storage closet, with two stiff leather chairs and a table between them that seems like it used to be patio furniture.
Weak light from one low-hanging lamp filters out, painting his eyes a darkened evergreen. A limp bar slants against the wall, stocked with water bottles.
“Jen needed me to bring you a new in-ear monitor.” I hand him the IEM. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I’ve never seen him so pale, which is saying something.
“Nerves,” he says, running a hand over his mouth. “It never used to happen.” He leans forward as if he’s going to say more or stand from his chair, but does neither.
My heart cracks a bit. I wonder if that’s why he never hangs out with the rest of the band before the shows.
“What changed?”
“All the pressure, I think. Expectation’s sucked a lot of joy out of performing.”
The other leather chair feels too far from him to sit in, and I don’t want to hover over him any longer, so I sink down to my knees before his jitterbug legs. “How can I help?”
I’m wearing a black tank top tonight and my lucky jeans with the rip under the butt cheek. They’re black, too, and I think back to how much he liked the color on me that morning on Joe’s show.
Tom’s anxious eyes anchor on my face. Though I had zero intention of anything suggestive, the position compromises me. Tom isn’t immune to it, either, as I watch a muscle in his jaw jump. “You’ve already helped plenty,” he says, voice deepening.
I want to be closer to him. Scooting forward on my knees, I press myself between his spread legs. I’ve never thought myself exceptionally small, but from the floor, sandwiched between his humongous knees, I am a Tiny Girl?.
My hand rubs his calf soothingly. “Really?”
He blinks. “Give yourself some credit. I mean—just look at you.”
My sides grow sensitive where his legs make contact. His eyes focus on my lips, and I wet them for him. The noise he makes is like his lungs have been punctured. Then he looks at my hand, still on his calf, and swallows hard.
I’m aware of how little time we have, but I’ve lost my wrestling match with self-control.
I stroke my hand over his knee and up the length of his thigh.
His entire beautiful leg is corded with muscle beneath these well-worn slacks.
His eyes have closed, and his hands are wound in tight fists at his sides.
My hand moves higher up his leg and my core pulses maddeningly.
I reach the swell of his cock over his pants.
He’s hard like granite. When I brush my fingers over him, he twitches, and then groans.
His eyes shoot open and simmer, black and hot and sharp.
He leans forward to cradle my face. “Come here.”
Goose bumps rise along my arms. His thumb sweeps over my cheek. But I’ve got other ideas…
I push him backward and give him a stern glare that says stay put.
He’s so big, sprawled like a king in the leather armchair.
Legs stretching on either side of me, eyes shuddering, throat working as he watches me touch him.
Something about kneeling before him, teasing him like this, is sending my body into overdrive.
His erection bulges furiously against his zipper as my thumb sweeps over the ridged head. I wonder how long it would take for him to come just from this. He tips his head back, lips parting, hips bucking eagerly, and I wager not that long.
I squeeze him a bit harder. I’m breathless when his fingers brush over my bottom lip, dragging it down. He’s so long, he doesn’t even have to sit up to reach me. My tongue darts out, tasting the sweetness of his skin, and he releases a tight, reluctant groan.
This room is too warm. My tank top is clinging to my nipples and underarms and making me sweat.
Tom’s hand is against my face now, mussing my hair—and I need so, so much more.
I need to lap like a dog at his collarbone.
To feel his tongue against the curve of my breast. To watch the length I’m working with my hand push into me while he whimpers my name. Honestly, I might need to be sedated.
I’m dripping between my legs—he could slide right in. I can’t resist telling him as much.
“I’m so wet,” I tell him, voice shaking. “So wet for you, Tom.”
His fingers tighten in my hair. “Yeah?”
I nod pathetically. Insatiable.
“Show me,” he instructs. His voice has never been this deep.
I release my hand from his length and in a haze, unzip my—
“Showtime!” a voice calls outside the door.
I shoot into the air like a firework and Tom does the same, smacking his head on the low lamp above us. “Shite.”
It swings haphazardly and I stifle a laugh.
But the humor dissolves on my tongue as soon as I take him in, towering over me once more, rubbing the back of his head.
His other hand finds the inside of my arm.
My eyeline is closer to the fearsome tent in his pants than his face, but he dips his head to press his warm lips against my forehead. “That’s not how I—”
A knock sounds at the door. “Onstage, Tom.” It’s Jen.
“I know,” I tell him, barely a rasp. “Don’t worry about it.” Adrenaline is beginning to pour through my veins. I can hear twenty thousand voices chanting the name of the man whose mouth is hovering above my own. “Break a leg.”