Chapter 9
NINE
Ty
? On Top of the World - Imagine Dragons ?
The flight from Pittsburgh to Dallas had been smooth and even though I usually stressed the hell out during takeoff, the fact that Eric had booked me in first class, and I had access to unlimited free drinks had me feeling anything but stressed.
After signing the contract, I’d felt a lot more at ease about the whole situation.
It meant that I didn’t have to pretend to hate him or push him away because I know that we legally can’t touch each other.
We’re contractually bound to be friends and nothing more.
The walls around my heart might be made of paper and ink, but they’ll hold. For now.
When I step off the jetway and we lock eyes and he smiles at me like I’m the only person in this whole place, I do the same.
It’s been a little over a month since I’ve seen him, but the undeniable spark I feel when our eyes meet is still there.
I snuff it out, reminding myself that he asked me here to do a job.
A job that is much different than the one I found myself doing the night we met.
He crosses the distance between us and wraps me in a hug so tight that I’m momentarily unable to breathe.
“You bought a ticket and dealt with TSA to meet me at the gate?” I ask, closing my eyes as I breathe in his familiar cologne and relax into his arms.
“Of course,” he says, like there wasn’t another cheaper and less stress inducing option. He pulls out of the hug and stares at me for a moment, like he can’t believe I’m here, before snapping himself out of it.
“Here, I’ll take that.” He grips the handle of my backpack and lifts it off my back, and I slide my arms out of the straps.
He throws it over one of his shoulders like it weighs nothing (it’s full of books, so it weighs a ton) before gripping the handle of my carry on.
“Baggage claim?” he asks, and I nod. “This way.”
I fall into step beside him and as we wind our way through DFW, he asks what I want to do first: get something to eat or stop by the stadium and see our RV. I choose to ignore what hearing the words “our” and “RV” together does to my insides.
“It’s ready?” I say, feeling more excited than I thought I would about the idea of spending the next six months in a tin can.
“It is,” he says.
“While we’re on the subject, giving me the bedroom isn’t necessary,” I say. “It’s your RV, you should have it.”
“Too late, my stuff’s already put away, so no swapsies.”
I choke on a laugh, and he eyes me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just never expected Eric Ambrose, The King, badass and bad boy extraordinaire, to use a word like swapsies.” He smiles, his dimples making their second appearance of the day, and I fight the urge to reach my finger up and poke the one closest to me.
We decide it makes more sense to head to the RV and drop whatever I won’t need there so I don’t have to lug it all to the hotel. When we get to baggage claim, Eric hoists my large suitcase off the belt and pushes it, along with my carry on, toward the doors.
I follow him through the parking lot until we stop at a very clean, blacked out Chevy truck. He unlocks it and opens the passenger door for me before walking my luggage to the bed and loading everything in.
We drive from DFW to AT&T Stadium, where a line of six RVs are parked in a neat row behind the stadium.
“Wow, that’s a lot of RVs,” I say, and he chuckles.
“We each have our own, and then there are two for the road crew and one for our assistants,” he explains.
We get out of the truck, and I follow him to a black RV with swooping gray accent lines and blacked out windows.
“Welcome home,” he says, opening the door and raising a hand, motioning for me to step inside.
When I do, I’m blown away by how beautiful it is.
Despite the dark windows, it’s bright and airy inside, with shiny, light gray floors and darker, more slate gray paneled walls, and recessed lighting on the ceiling and under cabinets.
The front of the RV contains the living area, which has two gray leather recliners and a high table in between them along the left wall, as well as a long couch against the right wall.
The kitchen, with a marble countertop, a cooktop two-burner stove, a ton of storage drawers, a three-tiered refrigerator/freezer combo unit, and a table with two high-backed bench seats sits behind the living area.
The guest bath is behind the kitchen, and six surprisingly spacious bunk beds line the hallway to the main bedroom.
The bedroom has a queen-sized bed, a flat screen TV on the wall opposite the bed, a vanity with more drawers and closet space than I know what to do with, and a full bathroom, including a beautiful, tiled shower.
“Holy shit,” I say, turning around when I finish looking around. Eric is leaning against the bedroom door, arms folded across his chest, and smiling.
“You like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Truly. I thought I was going to feel claustrophobic but this this is a lot more spacious than I imagined it would be.”
“It’ll get a little smaller when we’re on the road because we’ll have to close the slide-outs,” he says, jerking his head toward the front of the RV and pushing off the wall.
I follow. “That means that out here, the couch, booth, and fridge will pull in to here,” he says, pointing to where the wall at the foot of the bunk beds on the right side of the RV ends.
“And back in your bedroom—”
“The bedroom,” I interrupt.
“Right, like I said, back in your bedroom,” I roll my eyes, and he laughs. “The bed will pull in closer to the vanity. You’ll still be able to get into the dresser drawers and cupboards, it'll just be a tighter squeeze.”
Well, that doesn’t seem so bad. I look around again, slowly taking it all in. Letting the moment of realization hit—I’m here. This is happening. I’m about to spend six months on the road with my favorite band.
Holy. Shit.
“So,” I say. “I guess we’ll need some sort of signal for when you want to bring women over after a show. I don’t want to be interrupting anything…important.”
His eyes narrow.
“You really do have your mind made up about me, don’t you?” he asks. Another deflection. Another non-answer. My heart constricts in my chest, but I ignore it.
While I walk around, I notice the signs that he’s moved his things in—toiletries in the hall bathroom, clothes in the closets—but like his dressing room the night we met, there’s nothing personal anywhere. No photos. No extra blankets or throw pillows in the living room or on any of the bunks.
While I look at the bed, I force myself to wonder if he has to sleep diagonally in it in order to fit his long frame, instead of all the things I know he could do to me in it.
“Which of your bags stays here?” He asks when I make my way back to the front of the RV where he’s waiting at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, I can get all that stuff,” I say, trying to go around him down the stairs. He steps in front of me, and I look up at him. He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it, and steps aside to let me pass.
“Alright, I’ll just sit here like an asshole and wait while you do everything yourself.”
“Thank you,” I say, flashing a bright smile and pushing past him and down the stairs.
I walk outside to his truck, lower the tailgate, and being extra careful not to scratch the paint, set my largest suitcase on the ground before grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulders.
I spend the next half hour listening to Velvet Shadows’ new album through my AirPods while I unpack the clothes and books I brought with me, before tucking my suitcase into one of the closets.
Eric has been waiting patiently in the kitchen at the table, scrolling through something on his phone.
“All settled?” he asks, as I lean against the fridge.
“I think so, yeah.”
“I’ll AirDrop you Dani’s number. Text her your grocery list and she’ll make sure everything gets picked up and put away before we pull out of here after the show tomorrow night.”
“That seems…unnecessary,” I say. “I can go shopping.”
“Assisting is literally Dani’s job. Please let her do it. Otherwise, what the fuck am I paying her for?”
I laugh.
“Alright, fair enough.” We stare at each other for a few seconds, and I swear I physically feel a pull to move closer to him and have to force my feet to remain where they are.
“So,” I say, breaking the spell we seem to have found ourselves in. “Where are we eating?”