Chapter 5 #3
The door to the bus gaped open, and I placed my foot on the first step and grabbed the silver handrail. I eased onto the bus and took a deep breath of the new leather smell. Must’ve been newly outfitted because the bus itself didn’t look like the newest model.
I peeked down the center, taking in the lounge area with a flat screen TV and PlayStation with a variety of controllers in assorted colors.
A mini fridge sat next to a microwave with a row of cupboards above that I knew the tour promoter, Odyssey would stock with every conceivable form of junk food, including any requests from the talent.
I didn’t know about Ashley, but Conor would put a couple bottles of Guinness on his list of must-haves.
A few bunkbed cots occupied space in the back, past the bathroom. I glanced at the steps leading to the top deck of the bus, which contained the rest of the sleeping quarters.
Odyssey had spared no expense or comfort—which meant they needed to recoup all their money in ticket and merch sales.
I planned to do my best, even if that meant pushing Conor and Ashley together at every conceivable public moment.
Might as well check out the arrangements upstairs. I ducked my head and climbed the stairs to the second level. A row of bunkbeds draped with curtains hugged either side of the bus. I yanked one of the curtains aside and perched on the edge of a bed, bouncing a little to test the mattress.
I could probably manage this for one night—depending on who was in the top bunk.
A footfall on the stairs brought me to my feet with a start, and I banged my head on the upper bed frame. I swayed for a second, and my world dimmed at the edges.
“Noelle, are you okay?”
Through my blurry vision, I saw Conor’s head pop up in the top deck of the bus. His eyes widened, and he scrambled toward me.
“What happened?” He took my arm and guided me back down to the bed. Thrusting three fingers in the air, he asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.” I shook my head, and the fog cleared. Conor wasn’t a vision. He was really sitting right beside me jabbing fingers in my face. I placed my hand against the throbbing knot forming on the back of my skull.
“You hit your head.”
“I heard you climbing onto the bus, and you startled me. I jumped up too quickly and...bang.”
His head swiveled. “I know they’ll have ice on this bus eventually, but I don’t think it’s stocked yet. Does it hurt?”
“Yes.” I sniffed and pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
He reached across to slide down a window. “It’s stuffy in here. You need air. Did you break the skin? Scalps are bleeders. Let me see.” He nudged my fingers aside with his own and gently dabbled them around the sore spot. “No cut, but that’s some bump. You need ice.”
“Like you said. Nothing stocked yet.” I closed my eyes as he combed his fingers through my hair. I’d gladly suffer a bump to have Conor’s hands in my hair. “I have some ibuprofen in my bag though.”
Conor bent forward and snagged my purse from the floor.
He opened it and as he dug through the contents, I vaguely wondered if I had anything embarrassing in there.
I’d stopped carrying condoms when I put dating on hold a few months ago.
I actually wish those Trojans were still in there to prove to Conor I’d moved on after he dumped me—eleven years ago. Had I though?
Pinched between two fingers, he held up a blue foil pack. “Hoping to get lucky, are ya?”
Did I just manifest those? My cheeks burned as I swiped the pack of condoms from his fingers. “You’re supposed to be looking for Advil, not snooping through my personal life.”
He shook a small bottle of pills in the air and thumbed it open. “Do you have one?”
Holding out my hand, I asked, “One what?”
“A personal life.” He tapped two gel caps into my palm.
I gulped them down with spit. “Of course I have a personal life. Do you think I just work all the time?”
“Seems like it.” He snapped the lid back on the bottle and tossed it into my purse. “That’s what broke us up all those years ago, isn’t it? Noelle Martine’s burning ambition.”
His words made my head pound, and I almost passed out—for real this time.
I stared at him over the bag between us, the sound of Hamish’s Harley growling to life muffled by the walls of the bus.
He said it so casually, like he was talking about the weather instead of carving a knife straight through my chest. His words propelled me to my feet.
I needed to face him for this confrontation—one I’d been planning in my head for years.
Baker Street had offered me a role promoting a new boyband, but I’d turned it down waiting for Conor to give me the go-ahead to follow him to Australia. He never gave it. He never gave me anything.
“That’s...”
A rumble cut me off. That wasn’t Hamish’s bike. The bus vibrated beneath the soles of my sneakers and then lurched forward, throwing me off my feet again—this time straight at Conor’s chest.
Conor went down under my unexpected assault, and his body cushioned mine as we tumbled to the floor of the bus.
He shouted in my ear. “We’re moving!”