Mended (Connections, #3)(36)

When we get to the Janis Joplin area, Ivy studies the jewelry pieces on display. I lean against the glass and just watch her eyes twinkle. “Hey, guess what River gave Dahlia as a wedding present.”

She looks up at me and bites her lip. “What?”

The heat I’ve felt between us all day—the ease of two people having a great time—seems to flare. “The gold bangles that Grandpa gave Grandma. Remember, the ones Janis wore all the time and gave to my grandfather when she found out Grandma was mad at him.”

“I remember them. That was a really sweet gift.”

For a moment sadness crosses her features, but it quickly passes.

“Let’s move on. The Who or Michael Jackson?” I ask.

“You know, I’m pretty tired. Late night, early morning. What do you say we call it a day?”

“Sure,” I say, a little disappointed that our day is already ending. “Let’s just slip in the movie theater and watch a few minutes of Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Come on, you have to admit it. Best damn television idea second to none. It was reality TV before reality TV.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Five minutes.”

Boarding the escalator, we head to the second floor and enter the dark theater. We take seats near the back and watch as eager teenagers try to get the attention of a very young Dick Clark. We watch the show and I lean closer toward her. She stays put and never glances over toward me. I rest my hand on the arm of the chair and force my eyes to the screen. My breathing takes effort and I hear my own heart pounding. Heat rushes through me and my boldness comes alive in the darkness.

“Ivy,” I whisper.

She swallows and meets my gaze. “Shh . . .”

The way she turns is slow and sensual and it completely steals my breath away. I lean back a little in my chair and give her another glance. I feel like a kid again in the movie theater, wanting to make out with my girl, and the tent in the middle of my jeans is a dead giveaway. What the hell is wrong with me? I reach over and drop my hand to the bare skin of her leg. She stiffens.

“Ivy,” I whisper again.

She turns her head and I focus on her face, her eyes. I stare at her lips. I imagine sliding my tongue down the smooth curve of her arm and shoulder. I sit here as long as I can until I can’t take another minute of wanting her. I lean over and pull her face toward mine. I don’t think she’s breathing. I stop short of her lips and just hold her close to me. I feel the rush of adrenaline as my need for her spikes with every passing second.

Then, just as I brush my lips over hers, she stands up. “I can’t. Please don’t do that again. I want to be your friend, but that’s all,” she says and rushes out of the theater. I run after her, but before I can catch her, she hops in a cab and is gone. And just like that, so is our perfect day.





CHAPTER 8


Radioactive

After the Cleveland show the dynamics of the bus changed—I had a lot of work to get done. Ivy hadn’t committed to staying with the band after the tour, and I doubted she would, so I was putting some feelers out trying to see who might be available. And the guys’ social lives were running rampant. Not only did Nix invite Phoebe to join him for the rest of the tour, but Leif seemed to be on a mission to get laid in every city as much as possible. This often meant a stowaway on board from one stop to the next. It also meant I ended up staying out of the galley as much as possible. Nix and Phoebe aren’t exactly quiet and Leif doesn’t care who hears.

Spending more time in the lounges hasn’t been all that bad, because surprisingly, Ivy seems to be doing the same. She wasn’t kidding about wanting to be friends. At some times it’s exhilarating and at others it’s exasperating, but at least we’re spending time together . . . We talk about nothing that matters, we eat together, we play video games, and even watch TV, but now we never do any of these things alone. Garrett is always with us, and the minute he leaves so does she—my guess is the friends thing is just as hard for her as for me, because while most of the hostility between us seems to have eased, the tension hasn’t.

Unfortunately something else has changed as well—Ivy can no longer go out without being recognized. The first few weeks with her trademark locks cut shorter, plus having been out of the limelight for almost a year, we were able to move around each city easily. But after the Detroit show, her performance was so dynamic that it went viral. Ivy has gotten in the habit of singing a cover at each performance, and that night’s cover was “I Knew You Were Trouble.” Her rave-y, edgy performance unhinged the audience and they went crazy. The way she sang that particular song made it come alive. She turned it into her own and I f*cking loved it. It was catchy in her key and she gave it a rhythm and flow that rocked the audience. It exploded all over the Internet, and overnight the Wilde Ones became Ivy’s band and Ivy was being sought out. The next three stops after that we all stayed on the bus, and tonight is no different.

I’d fallen asleep early with my headphones on, and another f*cking dream woke me up. My dreams come more and more frequently lately. For some reason my dad is weighing heavy on my mind during this tour. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he wanted this life and I wonder why he did when he had a family or if it’s because I’ve started to think about what kind of life I could have while doing this. Getting out of bed, I throw a shirt on and head to the front lounge to grab a bottle of water, and as I do, I hear voices and laughter from the back lounge. Heading that way, I take a whiff of the air and the smell of cigar smoke has me more than curious as to what’s going on.