Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Ty
? Walking On a Dream – Empire Of The Sun ?
The excitement and adrenaline from opening night had taken forever to wear off last night, keeping me awake until well after two in the morning.
I’d laid in bed reliving my favorite moments over and over—and pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming—until, finally, my eyes fluttered closed and I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I woke up around nine and cracked the door open to see Eric still fast asleep in his bunk, so I left my door open, crawled back into bed, and grabbed my Kindle, happily losing myself in the next book on my never-ending Tbr.
An hour later, right on cue, Eric rises from his bunk, stretching enough to raise his t-shirt and flash me the cut V muscles of his lower stomach, and I feel my cheeks heat as I force my eyes back to my Kindle screen.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he says, leaning against my bedroom door, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his loose pajama bottoms. I send a silent thanks to whatever being exists in the universe that he doesn’t sleep in gray sweatpants.
“Morning,” I say, setting my Kindle in my lap.
“You hungry? I can make us some breakfast.”
“Breakfast sounds great,” I say, tossing the covers off me and getting out of bed. Eric’s eyes immediately drop to my hips, and I’m suddenly very aware I fell asleep in nothing but a tank top and my underwear.
“Shit!” I say, grabbing the comforter off the bed and covering myself. “I’m sorry! I completely forgot I—”
“It’s alright,” he says, grinning. “I’ve seen you in a lot less.” He winks and pushes off the doorframe, heading for the kitchen. I groan and pull a pair of leggings out of my drawer before joining him.
Eric cooked a delicious breakfast—French toast, bacon, and home fries—before excusing himself to take a quick shower. For the last ten minutes, I’ve been sitting at the table in the kitchen, bouncing my leg to try and release the nervous energy growing inside me.
He’s worked hard to keep his personal life private—especially after everything that happened during his very public on-again, off-again relationship with his ex-fiancé Amy Murphy a few years ago—and I’m starting to feel the pressure of being the one who was suddenly responsible for presenting his story to the world.
Eric steps into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a black Dolly Parton t-shirt, hair damp and falling across his forehead. He walks to the counter and makes himself another cup of coffee before sliding into the booth across from me.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Okay, I guess,” I say, shrugging.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “The first few nights on the road are a bit weird, but you’ll get used to it. Sleep will be easier in a week or two.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t that,” I say. “Actually, I think once I was tired enough to doze off, it was probably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in…I don’t even know how long.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I just felt so…wound up after the show. I was awake until after two.”
He chuckles and says, “Same.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “It always takes me a few hours to come down after a show. Playing gives me this huge rush of adrenaline, so I’m always amped up after.”
“So, we were both just…lying there wide awake and alone?”
“Would you rather we be lying there wide awake and together?” he asks with a suggestive wink.
“I mean, it would have made more sense to hang out or something instead of just lying there and staring at the ceiling,” I say. “Or doing whatever you were doing.” I widen my eyes and gasp dramatically, placing a hand over my chest. “You were watching porn, weren’t you?”
“Jesus, no,” he says. “I sleep in the goddamn hallway right outside your bedroom door and practically right behind George, and I’m sure neither of you would appreciate the sound of me jacking off at two in the morning.”
“Affirmative,” George says from the driver’s seat, and I choke on a laugh.
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m down to hang out whenever you want. The guys and I used to be up until all hours of the morning when we shared one of these things. It’s a lot harder to wind down when you’re alone.”
“As long as by ‘hang out’ you don’t mean watch whatever weird porn you pull up on your phone, then sounds good to me,” I tease.
“I don’t—I wasn’t—” he stutters, and I laugh. He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t you have questions you’re supposed to be asking me?”
“Yes, sorry,” I say, picking up my notebook and pretending to thumb through a few pages of questions. “Do you prefer to watch the more traditional male female or—”
“Jesus Christ,” he says, throwing his head back, resting it against the wall behind him and covering his face with his hands. I toss my notebook back down onto the table and laugh again.
I unlock my phone, fire up my Voice Notes app, and tap record.
“When did you start playing?” I ask. He looks back at me, brow arched. “The drums.”
“Oh,” he says, chuckling. “Well, if you ask my parents, they’ll tell you I started when I was six months old and was drumming with silverware on the tray of my highchair.
” I smile at the image in my head of a baby Eric happily drumming away with a little plastic fork and spoon.
“I obviously don’t remember that, but I do remember pulling pots and pans out of the cabinets in the kitchen, flipping them over, and banging on them with wooden spoons.
I was probably two at that point, but even at that age, I recognized that each one had a different sound, and I knew what sounded good.
My mom said she never minded it because, even though pots and pans aren’t exactly instruments, I wasn’t just making noise. There was a method to the madness.”
“And when did you get your first kit?” I asked.
He smiled.
“I was eleven, and it just happened to be the worst day of my life.”