4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Jordan
There’s a tightness that’s settled into my chest and hasn’t left me.
Even as I scour the neighboring convenience store like a kid in a candy shop, including the armfuls of colorful packages as I exit, there’s still something off . Something weird.
I don’t like it.
Taking my time at the apartment across the hall from Mac’s place, I change into grey sweats and an old band tee that I think may have been Mac’s at one point.
Armed with my bag of snacks and my cap back on my head, I stalk across to Mac’s and roll my eyes when the door opens freely.
Good thing this place is locked down like Fort Knox.
Guess that’s what happens when the band owns the whole building.
All twenty-six floors of it .
“Vida!” I call into the space as I hip-check the door closed and lock it behind me. “I came prepared.”
I don’t bother stopping at the counter to ditch the crinkly bags when the sound of The Other Guys fills the room because I know damn well that as soon as my ass hits the cushion, I’m not getting up again.
But when I step over Mac’s low-top Chucks and find the TV bathing the empty leather in light, I drop the goods right in his seat and wander farther into the apartment.
“Mac?”
Turning the corner into the open bedroom, I freeze for half a second when all I see is a flash of ass. It’s enough to have my stomach clenching, then releasing just as quick, while my brain screams to turn back around and ignore it.
I don’t.
I’ve seen a lot of butt-shots. Too many dicks. Lots of naked or scantily clad bodies thanks to being on a tour bus with rock stars for years.
In locker rooms even longer than that.
Waists with tan lines. Muscular, but thin arms. Tons of tattoos I’ve admired.
This is no different.
Instead, I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb as Mac pulls up the athletic shorts and snaps the elastic waistband against his smooth skin.
“Are those mine?” I ask.
He scoffs and spins, a flush to his face. “And that —” He points to my chest as he advances, jabbing me in the pec as he brushes passed me. “Isn’t mine?”
I shrug at the glance he throws over his shoulder. “Probably.”
Snickering when he mumbles something, I follow the drummer back into the living room and flop into what I’ve designated as my spot on the couch while Mac fiddles with the snack bag.
The movie is restarted as Mac settles crossed-legged on the middle cushion, his bare knee grazing my thigh ever so slightly.
It’s warm, tingles even, and pulls most of my attention.
Weird.
I’m so focused on the contact and scouring my mind for why I’m paying any attention to it when this is common for us, that I completely miss Mac’s reach until a pack of candies are smacking me in the chest.
“The fuck?”
Mac snickers and picks up the pack from my lap and slaps it right to my collar bone.
“I know these are yours. Skittles suck.”
“ Pffft .” I smack a hand over his, holding him and the candies where they are. “ You suck. Skittles are the best.”
“I mean …” Mac drags out on a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “One way to find out.”
The glint that flashes is full of mischief and my stomach does that weird clenching thing again.
I clear my throat and drop my grip.
“They’re the best,” I mutter low like a total lame ass and force myself to look away from the things I think I see swirling around in his almost green eyes.
He’s just kidding, like usual.
“Lies,” he mumbles right back and dives back into the snack bag on his other side.
Dragging in a silent breath, I swipe my hands down my thighs and pick up the Skittles pack for something to do.
Instead of watching the movie, I find that my attention keeps wandering, glimpses of Mac catching in my peripheral and searing into my mind like this is somehow different than any other night.
It feels different .
Like the last few months of being stationary with the drummer have altered the rules by which we operate.
Which makes no sense to me.
Mac and I have spent many nights just like this, holed up in tour buses or hotel rooms, with only me to keep him out of trouble. Many hours spent together in green rooms and random car rides. So much time spent within arm’s reach of one another, even at every gay bar he insisted on going to.
Being close is our thing. So close that we have a fanbase. A ship name. And everyone just assumes things.
Some of it’s true. Most of it isn’t.
Mac’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend, possibly even a best friend like he claims.
I’ll take it.
And yet, as we sit here together watching one of his favorite movies, he seems like he’s in another timeline. Lost somewhere in the space between his ears and not even a bag full of his favorite snacks has made him crack his usual blinding smile.
Does he feel the shift, too?
“Vida,” I mutter, my sight glued to the TV so he doesn’t know I’ve been watching him.
“Huh?” he mumbles back absently and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins.
“Best friends first,” I say, and I watch as something settles over Mac that’s heavy enough to bow in his shoulders. “Right?”
His breath releases through his nose when he meets my gaze over his shoulder and then he tips his chin. “Yeah.”
Why don’t I believe him?