Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Dean
Three Steps Ahead
Jared Benjamin
The worst part about almost kissing someone you have no business wanting? You still wake up wishing you did.
For a full three seconds, I’m convinced I actually had her pinned to that elevator wall, my mouth on hers, my hand under her shirt, biting the word don’t right off her tongue. I can feel the impression of her body against mine, the heat of her breath, the scrape of need sliding down my spine.
Then my eyes open to a very empty, very beige hotel room, and reality punches me in the face. Right. We didn’t. I didn’t. I stopped. Gold star for me. I’d like to cash it in for a lobotomy now please.
The blackout curtains are half open, a stripe of morning light cutting across the bed, dissecting me right down the middle. One side warm. One side cold. On the nightstand, my phone face down, a bottle of water half-drunk, a room key like a wink.
My chest feels tight. Not stage-tight. Not adrenaline-tight. Something else I’m not used to feeling. Something like… wanting. I throw an arm over my face and groan into my own bicep.
“Fuck,” I mumble, because that about covers it.
My brain, the traitor, replays the look in her eyes when the elevator doors opened. Wide and surprised, pupils blown with desire. Not scared. Not offended. They were hungry.
The fact that I even let it get that close makes me want to punch a wall and then my own reflection. I know better. I live better. I’ve built a whole damn life out of not letting anyone get close again.
But Sadie Brooks stepped onto our bus and is somehow leaking into the places I welded shut.
I swing my legs off the bed and sit there for a second, elbows on knees, hands clasped.
The room smells like hotel soap and my own sweat.
My head’s not pounding, but it’s not quiet either. Static lives behind my eyes.
There’s a knock on my door. Three short taps, one long.
Mikey.
“Go away,” I yell.
“Housekeeping.” His voice is a shrill high pitch through the wood.
“I’ll put you in a fucking closet.”
“You’d have to open the door for that, sunshine,” he challenges back.
I scrub a hand over my face and stand. My joints pop in protest. I cross the room and unlock the deadbolt, cracking the door just enough to see his stupid, grinning face.
He’s in mesh shorts and his favorite hoodie, hair damp, shoes unlaced.
He looks like he either just came from the gym or just came from hooking up with someone and showering in their room.
“Morning,” he chirps. “You look like someone stole your guitar.”
“Someone stole my will to live,” I grunt out.
“So, Sadie, then.” A wide grin breaks across his face.
I scowl. “Don’t start.”
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding. “Luc texted. We’re officially off-duty until soundcheck tomorrow. Cherry gave us the whole day off. No promo, no press and she warned us to not get arrested.”
“Awesome,” I admit. “Except the getting arrested part.”
“Hayden’s scoping out the hotel café and then probably calling his mother,” Mikey continues to report. “Luc, Lily, and Larkin are on a video call with Marie. I heard squeals through the wall. It was disgusting. Thought I’d see if you wanted to go destroy the breakfast buffet with me.”
The thought of crowds and bright lights and forced cheer makes my skin itch. “No.”
He studies me for a beat, eyes narrowing. “You going to hide in this room all day?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how we do days off, man.”
“That’s how I’m doing it today,” I grunt like a caveman.
He huffs. “You’re allowed to be a person sometimes, you know.”
“Pass.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll text you if I find any trouble worth your time.” He starts to turn, then pauses, glancing back. “You good, though?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening on the door edge. “I’m fine,” I respond automatically.
Mikey gives me a look that says he knows I’m full of shit and loves me anyway. “Yeah. Okay. Holler if you need something.”
“Like what?” I drag my hand through my hair.
“A shovel to bury your feelings with,” he shoots over his shoulder, walking away.
I shut the door and lean my forehead against it for a second. Day off. No show to prep for. No interviews to dodge. No setlist to fight over. Just me, a hotel, and twenty-four hours to marinate in my own brain.
I last twelve minutes. The four walls are too quiet. The bed too neat. The TV remote too obvious an escape hatch. I can already see the channels; news, reality trash, some rerun of some show where no one ever bleeds or screams or does anything real. I need noise, but not that kind.
I throw on a T-shirt, clean jeans, and sneakers that don’t mind walking. I grab my room key and my sunglasses. For a second I reach for my guitar, then leave it leaning against the wall. This isn’t that kind of mission.
The hallway outside is quiet, carpet muffling my footsteps. Elevator or stairs? Elevator makes something twist in my gut that has nothing to do with faulty cables and everything to do with one journalist with a mouth like a dare.
Stairs it is. The stairwell smells like industrial cleaner and dust. I take them two at a time, letting the brainless rhythm of step after step scrub my thoughts clean.
By the time I hit the lobby level, my breathing is steady and my head’s a little clearer.
I push through the door and step into the marble-and-glass echo chamber of the Sapphire’s lobby.
Music plays over hidden speakers; some chill, inoffensive playlist meant to keep wealthy guests calm enough to spend more money.
A few suits hover near the front desk. A family corrals two hyper kids near the revolving door.
Sunlight spills in through the tall windows, painting the floor in pale gold.
I could go outside. Wander wherever Lincoln hides its noise. But something tugs me sideways instead, toward a sign that reads:
ROOFTOP POOL & LOUNGE – GUESTS ONLY
A rooftop means sky. Space. Air. Fewer people, hopefully. Height without velocity.
I follow the arrows down a quieter hall, swipe my keycard at another door, and step into a smaller bank of elevators that only go up.
I hesitate for half a second in front of the car, then curse at myself internally and get in.
Five seconds of motion, a tiny lurch, and then the doors open onto the top floor.
The rooftop is surrounded by glass, the kind that cuts the wind but leaves the view.
A long, rectangular pool glitters in the center, steam curling off it in the cool morning air.
Lounge chairs line the edges, their white cushions pristine.
Potted plants in symmetrical rows try to convince you this is an oasis and not a very fancy box.
It’s early enough that it’s mostly empty. A woman in a one-piece does lazy laps. A guy in headphones sips something green at a table, eyes on his tablet. A staff member in hotel black moves chairs half an inch like that matters.
And on the far side, in the blue-grey shadow of an oversized umbrella, of course, is Sadie.
Legs folded up crisscross on a lounge chair, boots off, bare toes tucked under her.
She’s wearing those damn cutoffs again, but I tilt my head in appreciation at the black bikini top she’s wearing.
Much better than the standard band shirt she’s usually got on.
She’s got her camera in her lap, laptop balanced on a towel-covered side table. Her hair’s down, a loose, messy fall around her shoulders, curling at the ends from the humidity. Sunglasses slide down her nose as she squints at the screen.
She has no idea I’m here. My heart does something stupid and adolescent in my chest, like it didn’t get the memo that we are not doing this.
I should turn around. Go back down. Find another coping mechanism that doesn’t involve throwing myself at the source of my current frustration.
Instead, my feet move forward like I’m on a track.
She notices me when my shadow cuts across her toes. Her head jerks up, sunglasses pushed into place with one finger, like armor.
“Stalking me?” She smirks by way of greeting. Her voice is rough from sleep and coffee and probably not enough water. It slides over my skin like someone dragging their nails, but in a good way.
I don’t take the bait and bite back. I scrape my fingers through my hair and continue to stare her down. She squints up at me. “Pretty sure there are other places you could brood today, Ross.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, maintaining my focus directly on her. “But then I’d miss the view.”
Her lips twitch. She hates that she likes that. I can see it. She drops her gaze back to her laptop. “If you’re going to stay, don’t loom. Looming is rude. Pick a chair.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but I take the lounge chair next to her, dropping into it with a grunt.
The cushion sighs under my weight. For a second, neither of us talks.
The sound of water lapping gently against the pool tiles fills the space where words could go.
The sky is a pale, cloudless blue stretched tight overhead.
“What do you even do on a day off?” she blurts suddenly, eyes still on the screen.
“Sleep. Pretend the world doesn’t exist. Avoid people.” I spout off my normal list.
“Bold strategy for someone whose job involves thousands of screaming fans every night.”
“That’s the point,” I explain. “When we’re on, we’re on. When we’re off, we disappear.”
She hums without conviction. “Is this disappearing?”
“Close enough,” I reply. “Half this town doesn’t know who we are.”
She snorts. “Give it an hour. Somebody will post that they spotted you by the omelet station and the lobby will look like a pop-up Hot Topic.”
I imagine that. The shrieks, the selfies, the way people’s hands sometimes shake when they hold something out for me to sign, like I’m anything other than a guy who got lucky and didn’t die young. “Then I guess I’ll enjoy the peace while it lasts.”