Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sadie
Broken
Lovelytheband
The thing about men like Dean Ross? They pretend they’re made of armor right up until you see it dent. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You can try and fill it, sand it, repaint it, but the imperfection is still there. It’s always there, under the surface, just waiting to crack again.
The accident on the road sits in my chest long after the flashing lights disappear behind us.
Dean walked off our bus and onto Luc’s hours ago.
The others pretend not to notice what happened.
That’s loyalty. Or denial. Hard to tell.
Either way, I respect them for it. They have each other’s backs.
They are more than just bandmates; they are a tight-knit band of brothers.
This much I have been able to determine.
I sleep a few bumpy hours during the early morning hours, waking when I feel the bus come to a hissing halt. I pop my head out of my bunk’s curtain, Hayden coming out of the bathroom. “Where are we?”
“Pit stop.” He pauses next to my bunk, yawning before he continues. “Truck stop diner if you want breakfast.”
“Definitely.” I grin, my stomach grumbling its approval at my decision. There is nothing better than truck stop diner food. I don’t care what anyone says. The food is always hot, fresh, and no-nonsense.
The diner smells like burnt coffee, bacon grease, and something questionable involving syrup. Perfect place for a girl who hasn’t slept much in the last thirty-six hours.
I slide into a back booth, drop my camera bag beside me, and press my fingertips to my temples. My skull is pulsing like a bad drum solo. I’m running on three hours of sleep, caffeine withdrawal, and the memory of Dean Ross looking human in the rain.
I flip open the menu hungry enough to eat three breakfast specials. The bell over the door jingles, and I feel him enter. I don’t even need to look, but of course, I do.
Dean walks in like the room owes him something, hood up, hair damp, jaw set. He doesn’t see me at first. He goes to the counter and orders something in a low voice, fingers drumming like he’s vibrating on the inside. Then he turns, his eyes scanning the room, stopping when they find mine.
There’s a flicker in his gaze, a tightening followed by a quick, sharp inhale like he wasn’t expecting me. He breaks contact by lowering his head, shaking it just slightly, then walks straight toward me.
He’s got the standard white diner mug in his hand, wearing an expression somewhere between ugh, why, and I dare you to look away first.
I lift my chin in greeting. “You sure you’re at the correct table?”
He gives me that signature half-scowl. “Not so sure about anything right now.” He sets his cup down and slides into the booth anyway. “I’m not sitting because of you. I’m sitting because the counter coffee tastes like battery acid.”
“What makes you think mine’s better?”
“You haven’t thrown yours at me yet.” He chuckles. “If it was bad enough, I’m sure you would.”
My mouth twitches despite myself. “Fair point.”
The waitress appears with a pot and tops us both off. Dean wraps his hands around the mug like the heat’s the only thing tethering him together.
“You sleep?” he asks without looking at me.
“Like a rock tossed down a well.”
“That bad?”
“That accurate.”
I study him over my cup. “Didn’t expect to see you up this early.”
“Didn’t expect you to follow me outside last night,” he mutters, jaw shifting.
I go still. “I wasn’t—”
“Following me?” His brow arches. “Sure.”
“I wasn’t,” I repeat quietly. “I just… needed air.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Recognition. Or maybe guilt.
“What happened out there-” I start to ask tentatively, a hard reply cutting me off almost instantly.
“Isn’t your business.” His response isn’t cruel. I think it’s guarded, maybe even scared.
I nod. “Okay. Then I won’t ask.”
His gaze snaps to me, eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to pry?”
“Not today.” Silence stretches between us. It’s not tense, but it’s taut enough that it feels like a string tuned just shy of breaking.
“You’re different this morning,” he observes finally.
“Not hungover anymore,” I offer as a way of explanation.
He shakes his head. “I know hungover. It isn’t that.”
I tap my mug. “Maybe I’m saving my snark.”
“For when?”
“For whenever you say something stupid.”
He huffs out a laugh he tries to smother. “You talk too much.”
“You glower too much.”
“You take pictures of things you shouldn’t.”
“You’re kind to complete strangers even though you pretend you’re made of stone,” I volley back without thinking, regretting it the moment it leaves my lips.
His head snaps up. Dean stares at me. Really stares. Then looks away, tension vibrating off him. “You need to stop watching me so close.” He sneers.
“Maybe stop being so interesting.” My brow arching on my retort.
His eyes darken in heat issuing a warning. “You can’t say shit like that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?” I persist in pushing him, even though my gut is telling me to shut the hell up.
“No,” he says, voice low and rough. “Because you don’t mean it.”
I lean in just a little. Enough for him to feel it. “Dean, I don’t say things I don’t mean. It’s one of my many flaws.”
His breath catches. Barely. But I see it. “You hungry?” he asks abruptly, shifting like he needs to break eye contact before something dangerous happens.
“Starving.”
“Then order something.” He slides the menu from its stand on the table, dropping it in front of me. It’s the closest thing to an apology I’ve ever heard from him, and suddenly I’m extremely uncomfortable. This can’t happen between us.
I slide out of the booth, but he stops me with a quiet, unexpected plea. “Sadie.”
I look back. His hood’s half-off, hair messy, eyes tired but soft. Unarmored. Just a man, not the legend. “You don’t have to sit somewhere else.” His voice almost a whisper.
My chest does something traitorous and warm, which sounds an alarm in my head that blares like a fog horn. Don’t get involved. Don’t let yourself feel anything. Don’t get too personal. It messes with the story.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I lie. “I’ll see you later.” I turn without waiting for a reply, passing Hayden, Luc, and Mikey in a booth just a few down from where Dean and I were sitting. Hayden’s gaze tracks me as I go, giving his chin a slight tilt, the look in his eye all knowing.
I flash him a tight-lipped smile but keep going. I noticed a sign for public showers, and figure here is better than on a bus with three men, so grab my pack and find them.
I’m head down in front of my laptop when the three of them stomp back onto the bus a short time later.
I’m clean, and it feels good. I changed into new undies, a fresh bra and T-shirt, and cutoffs that aren’t stiff from caked-on dust and grime.
My hair is damp, and falling around my face providing the cover I’m so desperately trying to seek right now.
A Styrofoam container slides across the table coming to a stop when it hits the back of my computer. A thick cardboard cup is next to it a moment later, and I know it’s a black coffee.
“Didn’t know what you liked, so went with pancakes. There’s some butter and syrup in there for you.” It’s Dean. Of course it is. He’s the one I need to hate the most, but doing everything he can to get under my skin, without even trying.
“Uh, thanks,” I manage to stutter out, barely hiding the shock from my response.
“Don’t want the enemy hangry when she writes about us,” he jokes, but the fact that he’s noticed I haven’t been eating isn’t missed by me.
I pull up the photos from last night’s show, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of it as a distraction. I sip on the coffee between bites of the pancakes, which are absolute heaven. I’m almost feeling back in control, but then, I pause, discovering a photo I didn’t mean to take.
Dean, in the wings, head back on his shoulders, hand on his neck, eyes closed. No pose. No performance. Just a man trying to hold himself together. I don’t breathe. The photo feels wrong. Too intimate. Naked and intrusive.
The old version of me, the one who clawed her way through war zones and riots and midnight alley concerts, she would keep it. Might even sell it. It’s one of those pictures that speak a thousand words. But the version of me sitting on this bus? Delete. Click. Gone.
“Why do you do that?”
His voice jolts through me. Dean stands in the aisle next to me, eyes unreadable. His brow is furrowed, arms crossed, shirt clinging, tattoo half-hidden in his sleeve. He nods at my laptop. “You always delete the good ones.”
“I don’t,” I try in defense, coming up short.
“You do. I’ve seen it a few times now.” His stance widens as the bus sways, but he doesn’t budge.
I exhale slowly. “Not everything belongs to the public.”
His jaw flexes. “You’re here to tell a story.”
“I’m here to tell the truth,” I correct. “But sometimes the truth isn’t mine to share.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. “What happened last night,” he says finally, “doesn’t leave this bus.”
My chest tightens thinking he would find it necessary to even say that. “Again, some things aren’t mine to share.”
His gaze drops to my hands, shaking slightly. “You cold?”
“No,” I shoot back, always on the defense with him.
“Another lie.” He steps closer. Slow. Intentional. The bus hums beneath us like a warning. “You hide a lot for someone who wants to know everyone’s secrets,” he muses.
“You seem to have more than a few,” I dare to challenge.
His mouth curves and it’s dangerous, tired, and amused all at once. “Careful, camera girl.”
“I’m always careful,” I assure him as I flash the smallest sneer.
“No,” he says softly with a shake of his head. “You’re brave. That’s worse.”
Something in me sparks, and my body stiffens, my reaction not going unnoticed by him.
He opens his mouth, but then closes it, apparently changing his mind. Instead, he reaches past me, grabs a blanket from the bench, and spreads it over my lap like a truce he’d probably deny.
“Try to get some sleep,” he mutters, walking away. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Dean.”
He stops, doesn’t turn. Just stops.
“You’re not as unreadable as you think.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then a single, quiet reply. “I really wish that wasn’t true.”
He disappears into the hallway. The blanket on my lap is warm. His words are warmer. And for the first time since stepping on this bus, I realize something terrifying, I’m becoming part of the story.