20. Emerson
EMERSON
I should be thinking about my mom.
That’s the part that bothers me most.
I should be lying here replaying every word Mateo said, thinking about the fact that I finally admitted out loud the thing I’ve been too afraid to say—that I’m terrified I’m losing pieces of her. That somehow, every day that passes is another day farther away from the woman who raised me.
Instead, I’m thinking about him.
I should be reflecting on why finally saying the words I’ve been choking on for the last month feels like pulling a knife out of a wound while knowing I still have to figure out how to heal it.
But instead, I’m thinking about him.
I should be trying to figure out where I am with all of this now.
Preparing for how I’m going to handle two weeks back home without this job, without this tour bus, without Crew and Mateo and Liam and the rest of the bands.
How I’m going to get through the holidays.
How I’m going to find the motivation to see my friends, to eat, to do something other than lay in bed.
But I’m still thinking about him.
About Mateo.
About the way he looked at me when I told him how I’m starting to forget my mom. Like he understood without needing me to explain anything more. Like he knew exactly how heavy it was because he’d carried something similar.
I should hate him for that.
His stupid face.
His stupid voice.
His stupid ability to make it feel like we’re the only two people in this whole entire world.
It would be easier if he were just attractive. If this was just a physical thing. A harmless distraction.
Something I could understand and control.
But of all people, Mateo Lane has to have this infuriating habit of saying exactly the thing I don’t want to hear and somehow making me want to listen anyway.
And be insanely hot?
I’m not used to men being so emotionally intelligent—it’s annoying.
I sit up on my elbow, flipping my pillow around for the third time. I can’t stop tossing and turning, my eyes wide open and staring at the tour bus ceiling, listening to the soft rumbling of the wheels—picturing stupid Mateo and his stupid tattooed hands and how stupidly hot they’d look on my body.
I roll onto my side, hiking the covers over my head. I haven’t even put my headphones in, knowing I’m nowhere close to sleep.
Maybe I’m the stupid one.
Heat pools low in my stomach as I lie there, painfully aware of every inch of space between us—a closed door, a small hallway, another closed door.
My skin feels too sensitive, my heartbeat too loud, the air in my bedroom too warm.
A harsh clank comes from somewhere beneath us, followed by a grinding whine that vibrates up through the floor and rattles the windows, my body immediately going on high alert, like a bucket of cold water over my head.
I sit up, and that’s when I hear a sudden hiss of compressed air releasing, louder than it should be, like the bus is exhaling a long, tired breath. I feel the bus start to slow.
“Emerson?” Mateo’s muffled voice shouts, and it sounds like he’s just outside my door.
Lifting the blanket off my legs, I rush to the door, opening it to find Mateo’s messy hair and bare chest heaving, like he just jumped out of bed.
I look up to meet his eyes, only to find him staring at the hem of my T-shirt, where it lands mid-thigh. His throat bobs, swallowing as his gaze moves up my body, landing on my chest where an old, faded Cross My Heart tour logo sits.
We’ve never brushed the topic of how much of a fan of his band I am, but sleeping in one of the shirts probably hints at where I stand.
He opens and closes his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, like he’s restraining himself.
The tour bus is just dark enough to make out his features, and the thin hallway between our respective bedrooms doesn’t leave much room between us.
When Mateo’s eyes finally meet mine, there’s something there that I’ve never seen before.
Hunger.
He’s looking at me like he’s the predator, and I’m the prey. Like he’s moments away from losing the tight restraint he keeps on himself.
And I want to bask in it.
And I want him.
To lose myself in the feel of him.
To cross a line neither of us even drew to begin with—because this was never supposed to happen. We barely know each other, and I’m here to do a job. To take care of his son.
But maybe it’s the darkness of the hall, the loaded silence in the air between us, the way we both watch each other.
It’s like we’re each waiting—daring—the other to make the first move.
Before either of us can do a thing, the bus comes to a harsh stop, causing us to lose our balance.
I barely catch myself on the door frame, and Mateo stumbles down the small hallway, finding his footing just before he falls to the ground.
“I’m okay,” he says quickly as he stands to his full height, even though I didn’t ask. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m going to check with our drivers,” he mutters, heading down the hallway and through the kitchen and living room and towards the front of the bus.
I bring a hand to my chest, my heartbeat finally starting to slow as Mateo disappears into the cockpit. It takes me a second to register what just happened.
And how much I need it to happen again.
“Repair team and a new bus should be here in the morning,” Mateo says, leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, crossing his arms.
I’ve been sitting on my bed, waiting for an update, trying to keep myself busy with a book, but I think I read the same page three times.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, closing my book and tossing it into my open suitcase on the ground.
Mateo exhales, blowing the breath out of his mouth.
“Luckily, the drivers were able to pull off the highway and into a hotel parking lot, so they’re going to head into the hotel to sleep for the night,” he explains.
“We can sleep on the bus. Or if you want a room, we can get you one, but I think I’m just going to sleep here. ”
I nod my head, weighing my options.
When I got into bed tonight, I expected to feel my body sink into the mattress like it always does. Instead, I’ve been up thinking about the rockstar standing in front of me right now.
“I think I’ll sleep on the bus too,” I say, but my voice is just above a whisper.
Mateo watches me carefully, but he doesn’t make a move to head to his bedroom. “Okay,” he says, whispering too. It’s like if we keep our voices low, we aren’t actually admitting what I think we both are thinking right now.
That we’re alone on the tour bus.
Stranded until tomorrow.
As if the universe is giving us an extra night before we’re supposed to dive back into real-life.
Where there are no crowds, no cheering fans, no four-year-olds with oversized headphones running around backstage.
I move onto my knees, kneeling at the edge of my bed. All I would have to do is reach my arm out, and I’d be touching him. The bedroom is small but even smaller when it’s the two of us.
“Emerson,” Mateo whispers, almost like he’s in pain. He swallows. “What are you doing?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” I ask, sitting back on my heels.
“Preferably,” he admits. “I’m not—I don’t know—I’m not sure what’s happening right now.”
A smile threatens my lips. “That depends,” I offer. “Do you want something to happen?”
He looks at me for a moment, contemplating his answer, before he nods.
“Then, come here,” I say, holding out my hand.
His gaze moves to my opened palm, and he only hesitates for a second before taking it and closing the distance between us.
With where I’m kneeling on the bed, I still have to look up to meet his eyes. And when I do, his lips are just inches from mine. He immediately envelopes me in warmth—and even though this has barely begun, I know I’m already going to miss it when it’s gone.
Mateo’s chest rises and falls, and I swear I can hear his heart beating in his chest. It mirrors my own, the rate rising the longer we stand here.
“Emerson.” His grip on my hand tightens, his weight slightly shifting from one foot to the other. “I haven’t—” he pauses, looking down at our hands before his eyes meet mine again. “I told you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone,” he admits.
“Why?” I ask, holding his gaze.
It takes him a moment to work up the nerve, but I don’t push him. Not now.
“The band took off when Talia and I were already together,” he explains.
“And when we separated two years after Crew was born, I didn’t want the tabloids or gossip sites turning our breakup into some kind of spectacle by catching me with someone else.
So I just focused on my son and my band and co-parenting.
” He pauses, his gaze dropping for a moment.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I offer, squeezing his hand in mine before adjusting our hold, interlacing my fingers with his.
He nods. “I know. And part of the reason Talia and I separated was because of our sex life. We became,” he pauses, searching for the right word, “incompatible.”
“Sexually incompatible?”
He nods. “Our relationship turned into a friendship over time, so slowly we barely realized it was happening. And it became hard to be intimate with each other, even more so after Crew was born,” he explains.
“But then those two years all of a sudden became four, and now here we are.” He shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe he’s admitting it.
“Wait, years? Four years?”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “At first, I told myself it was because I was protecting Crew, or because I didn’t want the press having a field day. But eventually, I think I just forgot how to do it, and it became easier not to.”
“Do what?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine. “Be wanted. Want someone. Date. Hook up. All of it,” he admits. “I can stand in front of thousands of people and feel completely confident, but put me in a room with one woman I actually care about impressing, and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I’m sorry, can we circle back?” I ask, dropping his hand from mine and tucking my hair behind my ears. “It’s been four years,” I hold up four fingers just to make sure I’m understanding this revelation correctly, “four years since you’ve had sex?”
Mateo nods. “Almost five,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I deadpan. “Please tell me you’ve at least been masturbating,” I add, because I’m an asshole and can’t help but make a joke out of all of this. “I will gladly be your first fuck in years, but your first orgasm? That’s too much pressure.”
“W-what? No,” he stutters out before saying, “I mean, yes, I have, but—” he slaps a hand against his forehead. “I hate this conversation,” he groans, and I can’t help but laugh.
A small smile spreads on his face, and his shoulders shake with silent chuckles. I immediately feel some tension in the air release, and Mateo seems like he’s lighter on his feet—almost more sturdy.
“This heart-to-heart just made tonight a lot more interesting,” I offer once our laughter dies down.
Mateo raises a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe we can, you know, help each other out?” I offer. “Just for one night.”
“Help each other out with what?” he asks, and I roll my lips together to stifle a giggle.
He really is clueless.
“Well,” I start, “if it’s been so long for you, and you think you have ‘no idea what you’re doing’,” I use air quotes to really get my point across, “then use me.”
He looks scandalized at my offer. “Use you? I’m not going—”
“Relax, rockstar. I give you permission. Plus, being the person to get Mateo Lane in bed post-divorce is a badge of honor I’d proudly wear.”
In the low light of the bedroom, I see the blush I’ve imagined so many times creep across his bare chest, disappearing underneath the black ink on his skin, reminding me of all those empty spaces where my teeth marks would fit perfectly.
“I don’t know about this,” he doubts.
I sigh dramatically, pretending that my stomach isn’t in knots over the fact that this might actually happen.
Me.
Mateo.
“You need to get this first time done and over with. I’m sure it’s just like riding a bike.
” I lean back, grabbing the hem of my shirt, before I lose my nerve.
I pull it off over my head, leaving me in just my underwear.
On full display, my heart in my throat, telling myself that his rejection won’t absolutely destroy me.
Mateo takes in a sharp inhale, frozen to the spot.
I cock my head to the side. Pasting a smirk over my lips, wearing a mask of confidence. “Come on, rockstar. I know you want to.”