Tone Deaf(30)

I hesitantly undo the lock and step out of the bathroom. The RV feels strange under my feet as the floor rocks softly, the rumbling engine creating a steady stream of vibrations. I glance out the window and see desert rushing past—sand and rocks, and more sand and more rocks. It seems endless.

New York has never felt farther away.

I shudder and tread down the short hallway leading to the room with the couches. Killer is sitting at the desk in the far corner with a laptop. He’s wearing nerd glasses and squinting at the screen, and the way his wrist expertly flicks around the mouse tells me he’s experienced with computers. Strange. I didn’t think rock stars could be geeks.

Killer doesn’t notice me, and I nervously shuffle my feet as I consider what to do. I could just nonchalantly say, “Hey,” and pretend I belong here. Or I could introduce myself properly, which I never got a chance to do earlier. Although I’m not even sure how I’d do that. Hello, I’m Ali, a random chick who will be stowing away here for a bit. Pleasure to meet you. Sorry I’ve never listened to even a second of your music. Yeah, there’s nothing I can say without being awkward.

Before I can force any words out of my mouth, more vibrations move across the floor, and I look up to find Arrow striding out of the kitchen and toward me. Heat instantly floods my cheeks, and I grit my teeth. Last time I saw Arrow, it was when Jace had flipped me off. Not the most elegant of introductions.

Arrow seems about as happy to see me as I am to see him. He tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. “Well,” he says, “if it isn’t Jace’s little sailor.”

I’m about to ask him what he means, when I remember my curses from before.

Oh. Right.

“Where’s Jace?” I ask. I try to keep my feet still, but they just keep shuffling, giving away my anxiety. Arrow’s posture remains rigid and unfriendly, and I can’t help noticing that he has quite a bit of muscle. I watch his fists carefully in the corner of my eye as I wait for his reply, unable to stop myself from the habit.

Arrow inclines his head toward the front of the RV. “Jace is taking a shift driving.”

I nod and force in a deep breath. Okay, so I’m stuck with two strangers in a small, isolated room that Jace definitely isn’t in. I can handle this. After all, if Jace is going through all this trouble to help me, it’s not like he’s going to leave me alone with guys who are actually a threat.

I edge toward the couch facing the desk, and Arrow moves toward the one opposite of it. We both sit at the same time, me barely touching the cushions, and Arrow falling back heavily into them. The message is clear:

He belongs here. I don’t.

Killer finally tears his attention from the computer and toward me, spinning his chair away from the desk as he offers me a wide smile. Relief trickles through me, slowing my pounding heart. At least someone is happy to see me.

Killer pushes his glasses up his nose in a practiced way that tells me he’s been wearing them forever, and doesn’t use them just for style. Then he strides over to me and extends his hand. “We haven’t properly met.”

His lips move slightly differently, and I can tell that he has a pretty strong accent. Which just makes him all the more interesting. Now that he’s not hungover, I’m surprised to find that he’s far from shabby looking. I can’t tell what race he is—maybe Asian, maybe African American, maybe both. Whatever he is, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Not really a handsome type of gorgeous, but a more delicate type, the kind that would make most girls jealous.

“Hi,” I say and hesitantly give him a little wave. But I don’t take his hand. My nerves still feel overloaded with anxiety, and touching people is the last thing I want right now.

Killer doesn’t skip a beat when I reject his handshake. He just sticks his hands in his pockets and settles next to me on the couch, sitting way, way too close. I frown at him and scooch away. It’s not his fault that I don’t like being close to people, but still, this is definitely uncomfortably close, even for normal people.

Again, Killer hardly seems to notice my reaction and just keeps smiling. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the silhouette of a white bow tie at the top. In bold letters, the shirt reads, BOW TIES ARE COOL. My frown disappears as I recognize the saying from my favorite TV show. Yeah, Killer is definitely a geek-in-disguise.

“So,” Killer says, “what’s your name, little stowaway?”

I’m guessing he already knows my name, and is just trying to be polite by asking, but that just makes me like him even more.

“I’m Ali Collins.”

A smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s merely amused and not at all scathing. “Ali Collins? Come on, can you get more generic than that?”

I roll my eyes. If anyone else had asked that, I would have bitten their head off—Collins is my mom’s name, and one of the last things I have left of her. And she chose the name “Alison” for me, which somehow makes it special, even if it is generic. But I can’t get mad, not with Killer’s goofy shirt and smile so close. “It’s not like I got to choose my name,” I say.

He laughs a little. “Well, I guess that makes it more acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” I repeat. “You’re one to be talking. Who names their kid ‘Killer’?”

“I was really bad at keeping my pet goldfish alive when I was little.”