Chapter Twenty-Six
· Adriana ·
Three years ago
“What?” I barked as I tore the door open to stop the incessant knocking.
My hair had come undone, the former updo hanging off the side of my head.
I wasn’t sure where my dress had ended up, but I’d worn a satin slip underneath to stop the stage lights from turning the fabric transparent, and that was still covering me.
“We’re hitting the road,” Brooks said, unimpressed by my attitude or my state of undress.
I blinked at his tall frame and the way-too-calm expression on his face. This was wrong. First of all, we were supposed to stay the night. Second of all, he wasn’t the one who usually rounded people up. That usually fell on Anthony, his manager. “Huh?”
“Grab your things,” he said and leaned a hand against the door as if to keep it open, “or the bus is leaving without you.”
“I thought we were staying here for the—excuse you?” He pushed past me into the room. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Hi. Beat it, kid.”
The shirtless guy in my bed sat up, his confusion quickly morphing into wide-eyed recognition. “You’re—you’re, oh, Mr. Monroe. I’m such a big fan.”
Aaaand I was done with this guy. If the last few weeks on the road had taught me anything, it was that my ovaries shriveled up like raisins once a guy turned into a Brooks Monroe fanboy.
Maybe it was because they suddenly tucked their tails and bowed their heads, and all their charisma evaporated—or maybe because I’d seen Brooks brush his teeth and do the dishes like everyone else and he didn’t seem larger than life to me anymore.
I rolled my eyes but left the guy to his fan encounter, busying myself with packing up my bag instead. Brooks had him out of my room within two minutes and held up my dress to me.
“You owe me,” I grunted.
“I owe you? For what exactly?”
“Hello?” I pointed at the king-sized bed, the sofa, the gift basket on the desk. “The lady at the front desk upgraded me to a suite. I got free snacks and champagne.”
“We can take the snacks.” He shrugged and grabbed the gift basket.
“Suite?” I asked as I shrugged the dress back on.
“Take my bed on the bus, too.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Fine, I’ll owe you,” he sighed, and turned me toward the door by the shoulder. “Just go.”
I cradled my backpack to my chest, sulking all the way to the bus. Everyone else was already on board, not even looking up when I headed for my bunk bed. Okay, so maybe I had gotten my wires crossed, but then why would I have a hotel room in my name?
“Keep walking,” Brooks said, hand between my shoulder blades, when I threw my bag onto my bed.
“I can sleep in my bunk.”
“Get.”
I threw my hands up and let him box me into his bedroom at the end of the bus. It wasn’t as luxurious as a hotel suite, but it did house a queen-sized bed, a TV, and a few general luxuries that made it feel more like a room than a cubicle with a night-light.
“This does not cancel out how much you owe me,” I warned with my finger raised and dropped onto the mattress. It feathered back, soft and perfectly cushioned like a proper bed. And his pillow wasn’t squished thin and lifeless. “Oh god, this is nice.”
“Here’s your free snacks.” He set the gift basket down next to my feet and turned back to the door. “Good night.”
“Seriously? Good night?” I shot upright. “Buddy, I’m wide awake. I was about to be entertained for an hour or two. I chugged a Red Bull. You’re gonna have to keep me company if you want to even come close to paying me back.”
“An hour or two?” Brooks laughed, but closed the door anyway, shutting us off from the rest of the band. “I think you give that boy way too much credit.”
I didn’t even care about that guy anymore. No idea what his name was. I just cared that I was awake, and my blood was pumping, and I was going to die of boredom. “What’s a song you wish you could have written?”
“None.” He climbed onto the mattress beside me, folding his arms behind his head. “I don’t want to sing someone else’s songs. Collaborate on them, sure, but not take something that isn’t mine.”
“No professional jealousy?”
“That’s a different question.” He turned his head, his hazel eyes roaming over my face. “ ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’ ”
“Whitney Houston? A pop song?”
“Yes. It’s fun and memorable. It might seem simple at first but…
it’s hopeful. It’s about having gone through relationships and never finding the one, about feeling lonely, and desperately wanting to find somebody that matches your rhythm—but it’s not sad.
You play that song and people literally start dancing.
” He smiled, turning his attention back to the ceiling.
“It’s inviting people to keep dancing until they find their dance partner.
It’s brilliant. And you can’t beat the energy in Whitney’s voice. ”
“Unexpected.” I could listen to Brooks talk about music all day.
Didn’t even matter what kind of music, or in what context.
Sometimes he could go on and on about the technical aspects of it, about arranging instruments and voices, or he’d talk about the genius behind certain lyrics, and other times, he just gushed about the ways music made him feel.
He was so in love with it. I’d never met anyone like that. “I love it,” I said.
“What about you?”
“ ‘Happy Birthday,’ ” I replied without missing a beat. “I’d be swimming in cash.”
He laughed. “Very pragmatic.”
“We can’t all be bajillionaire rock stars.”
“You’ll get there.” His hand found mine across the mattress and squeezed it, twice, in quick succession, like swearing on a promise. I didn’t pull my hand away when he just kept his fingers curled around mine.
“Yeah?” I breathed.
“Yeah.” He nodded.
Even a taste of his life on the road was quickly becoming addictive.
To have the audience sing your songs back to you?
To feel the energy shift in thousands of people just based on your words and the sound of your voice?
The connection forged because you were putting something into your music that linked your human experience to theirs?
It was worth so much more than all the little perks.
My thoughts tumbled back to the room upgrade and the gift basket and the half-naked guy, and I laughed.
“What?” Brooks asked.
“I’m well on my way, huh? A few weeks on the road with you and I’m ready to hop into bed with a groupie.”
“Hey”—he jabbed his elbow into my side—“have you seen me with even one groupie?”
“Uhm…no, actually. But I’ve heard stories.” I raised my brows at him. “Are you saying those are all fake?”
“I think I’m over it. The big events, the parties, the groupies…” He was still looking at the ceiling, but his eyes moved as if he was reading something up there. “I just want to make music.”
“You wanna dance with somebody?” I sang.
“Maybe.” He turned his head. “It’s unfair that you can lie here after the show, drunk, and still hit those notes without warmup.”
“I’m not drunk. Just amped up with caffeine and pheromones. Is that the hormone you get from making out?” I laughed and turned my hand under his, tapping my fingers into his palm, before sitting up.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, whatever, you’ll have to wingman me at the next overnight stop to make up for tonight.
Find me a guy whose panties melt for me, not you.
” I rifled through the gift basket and pulled out a big red apple.
That should get rid of the stale energy drink residue on my tongue.
I bit into it, and the sweet and sour taste exploded on my taste buds.
“Oh my god, your debt to me is just getting bigger and bigger. If this is how good a free apple tastes at that hotel, I’m missing out on a nice bed, a nice bath, an orgasm or two, and a killer breakfast on top of all that. ”
“Again, I think you give that boy too much credit if you think he could have gotten you off once, let alone twice.”
I rolled my eyes at him because that was the second or third time he’d called my hookup a boy.
It was also one of the first times we’d even broached the topic of sex.
Brooks was usually adamant on not crossing that line.
Part of me just wanted to see how much I could tiptoe that line, so I lay back down, just a few inches closer to him than before, close enough to inhale his warm and woodsy scent.
“I still could have finished the job myself in the privacy of my hotel suite. The tour bus life isn’t exactly conducive to a healthy sex drive. ”
He reached for the apple. His hand wrapped around mine, fingers combing through mine for just a moment before he freed the fruit and took a bite. I watched, rapt, how his lips wrapped around the curve, how his teeth dug in, how juice dribbled down his thumb.
He met my gaze. Possibly for the first time since I’d met him, his eyes pierced mine, and my breath stuttered from my lungs. The weight of his attention on me pinned me in place. I’d never felt this closely watched. This seen.
Not breaking eye contact, he placed the apple back in my palm.
“Just this once,” he whispered.
“Hmm?” My brain tried to come up with words or thoughts or anything, but I could only focus on the glossy sheen left on his lips.
Brooks pushed himself up and positioned himself at my ankles.
His large hands cupped my drawn-up knees, thumbs drawing circles over my naked skin.
My cheeks started burning. My dress had ridden up and I was sure that this angle already gave him a good view of my underwear, even with my thighs closed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whispered.
“You’re gonna want to bite down on that apple. I’m not explaining to anyone else on this bus why I owe you two orgasms.”
More blood shot to my face, spurred on by a mixture of embarrassment and something heavier, needier, churning in the lowest pit of my abdomen. “I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t have to give me…It was a joke.”