Tone Deaf(26)

Killer’s hand thrashes around, like he’s trying to find someone to smack. But Jace expertly backs away, and Killer withdraws back under the blankets. I smile a little, not bothering to hide it.

Jace gestures to the other couch. “You can sit over there.”

I nod and obey, sitting on the cushion right across from Killer. I force in a shuddering breath and do my best to actually relax. But I can’t get my muscles to loosen, and my hands are shaking a little. I fist them into balls to try to hide their shaking, and then quickly unclench them, realizing that it’s just making me look even more like a nervous wreck.

Jace stands between the couches, a safe distance between both me and Killer. I wait for him to take a seat on one of them, but he just stays there, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a thin black T-shirt, which does a nice job of showing off his defined muscles, and a ripped pair of dark skinny jeans. Usually, I don’t like it when guys wear skinny jeans, but Jace pulls them off. Hell, he could wear a kilt and pull it off.

He shuffles his feet, and his throat bobs as he clears it. “So . . . do you want a drink, or something?”

I flinch at his words. Me? Drink? After all the times I’ve been punched by a drunk? “I don’t drink.”

Jace grimaces a little. “I’m not talking about alcohol. I would not offer you alcohol.”

Then he looks at me expectantly, raising one eyebrow. It always annoys me when people do that. I mean, if you’re going to raise an eyebrow, why not go all-in and raise them both? People always look awkward when they only raise one.

Except for Jace. He doesn’t look at all awkward. This seems to be a recurring theme with him; he can get away with anything—dirty Vans, quirked eyebrows, overactive middle fingers—and still look hot.

My god. I’m starting to sound like Avery.

“Well?” he signs. “What do you want?”

I blush deeper and deeper until I’m pretty sure my face looks like a lobster’s. That’s right; he’s been waiting for me to tell him what I want to drink. Damn, I really need some sleep. When I wake up, maybe I’ll actually be able to carry a non-awkward conversation.

“Water,” I reply. “Um, please.”

He walks into the adjoining kitchen without saying anything else, and my heart starts pounding again, making my head ache from the racing pulse. Was that the right thing to do? Should I have insisted on getting my own water, instead of having Jace get it? I mean, he’s a celebrity. I don’t think he usually spends his time fetching water for girls. Especially not for sweaty, shaking, sunburned girls.

Killer flops the blankets off of his face and squints at me. “Darling, if you’re gonna tag along, you need to learn the Jace Rules.”

I frown. “The Jace Rules?”

He holds up a hand and starts counting them off: “One—don’t lie while you’re near him. Two—don’t touch him. Three—don’t bring anything with carbs or refined sugar into his RV. Four—don’t ask about his feelings. And five—don’t even mention drugs or alcohol.”

I’m pretty sure rock stars are supposed to want all those things. Well, maybe not the carbs, but still. It seems like Jace missed the memo that famous musicians are supposed to live on the edge. Not that I’m complaining—if his rules mean that I don’t have to put up with anyone drunk, I’ll gladly follow along.

I nod uncertainly to Killer. “But aren’t you kind of . . . ?”

“Completely hungover,” Killer supplies, rubbing his temples with a wince. “Yeah. About that. Jace will make exceptions to his rules for the band, because we’re stubborn and he trusts us not to screw him over. But you’d do best to just follow them. If someone outside of the band annoys Jace, he has no problem shoving them out of his life.” Killer rolls his eyes. “He’s finicky.”

Even though Killer doesn’t directly say it, I get the message: if I piss off Jace too badly, he’ll just tell me to leave, and my chance at freedom will disappear. My stomach starts churning again at the thought.

I glance over to the small kitchen. Jace stands at the counter, gripping the edge of the granite like his life depends on it, but he’s not moving and seems to just be staring out the window. I don’t stick around to find out what he’s looking at. Instead, I head back toward the entrance of the RV, looking for the bathroom I spotted earlier. I want a few moments alone to splash some water on my face and clear my thoughts.

As I pass by the RV’s entrance, I spot my duffle where Jace dropped it by the door. I pick it up and stare at the door uncertainly. If I leave now, I could probably get back to my house before my dad realizes I ever left. I could go back home, to where things are miserable, but at least predictable. As soon as he figures out I’ve run away, I really don’t know what my dad will do. He’ll try to get me back, that’s for sure. He has so little control left in his life, and he’s not going to give up the power he has over me without a fight. But I have no idea what lengths he’ll take to get me back, and I’m scared to find out.

I take a deep breath and then head into the bathroom. No. I’m not going to give up this opportunity Jace is offering. Although, judging by how awkward and uncertain he’s acting this morning, I’m afraid his pity for me isn’t going to last very long. Musical background or not, I don’t fit in here. Jace’s whole life revolves around playing music and being in the spotlight, whereas my only goal is to stay quiet and hidden.