Mended (Connections, #3)(7)
I grab the bottle and pour the amber liquid into the shot glasses stacked beside it. It’s our preshow routine. A shot and a prayer, so to say. It’s Garrett’s turn tonight to “pray”—this should be good.
He raises his glass. “Here’s hoping Xander gets laid so he’ll get off our backs.”
Tipping my glass back, I quickly down the liquid. It burns as it makes its way down my throat. Once we’ve all drunk our two-shot maximum before a show, Garrett follows his toast up with, “Seriously, man, you need to get laid.”
The guys laugh and I actually join in. Jerking off in the small bathroom on the bus is definitely one of the downsides of touring. I’ve slept with a few girls at some of our stops, but screwing groupies isn’t really my thing. I’m not one to have time for a girlfriend, but I’m also not about to pull my dick out backstage. So it’s been a long six months.
Zane coughs after he slings back the shot and I look at him with concern. “You’re going to a doctor tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “Yes, Mom, if you say so.”
“I’m not kidding. Your voice sounds like shit.”
“It’s a f*cking cold. I took some medicine. I’ll be fine.”
“Doctor. Tomorrow. I mean it. I’ll have Ena set it up.”
“I can always sing,” Garrett chimes in, and I smack the back of his head.
“Hey. I can,” he responds, offended.
The lights start to flicker and I look at Zane with that feeling of uneasiness again. Second time this tour he’s coughing and hacking. We’re screwed if he really gets sick. He nods at me as I pat him on the back. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he heads out first, raising his arm in the air. The crowd goes crazy. The six-foot-tall guy is a chick magnet and no one is missing my brother tonight. Garrett heads out next, yelling, “Great to be here, Mountain View!” and Nix follows with his trademark nod. Zane skips his normal charming banter, and I know he must be saving his voice. Again I think about how f*cked we are if he gets really sick.
I stand at the edge of the stage all night, until they finally come to their last song. “It Wasn’t Days Ago” is a simple but crowd-affecting ballad, and Zane belts it out. Shouts from nearly thirty thousand fans call for an encore. Turning away from the microphone, Zane coughs again. He bites his thumbnail, looks over at me, and I slice my finger across my neck.
“One more song for tonight,” he tells the screaming fans, and my blood pressure rises. “This one is a cover, an ‘ode to’ I’ll call it. It’s for Xander Wilde, the band’s manager, and it’s his favorite song. Everyone ready?” As he starts to sing Linkin Park’s “Iridescent,” I close my eyes and listen. When he hits the chorus, his voice gets so low my eyes snap open. Zane turns to grab a bottle of water while the guys continue to play, but I can tell something isn’t right.
CHAPTER 2
Something Beautiful
Last night definitely didn’t go as planned—a visit to the ER, then sleeping in a chair next to Zane all night on the bus because the steroids he was given freaked him out wasn’t what I had expected. It’s noon and Amy and I are just arriving at Pelican Hill Resort. She invited me to join her at some party being thrown tonight by her band’s label. I would rather have skipped, but since we are here anyway, Ellie, the tour manager, insisted we all go for the good PR.
I’m exhausted and really need some sleep before dealing with the press and tomorrow night’s show. The paparazzi have been everywhere—by the bus as we exited to the waiting car in LA, outside the doctor’s office, at the gates of Zeak Perry, Zane’s father’s house, and now they’re here in Irvine at the hotel.
To avoid the chaos awaiting us in the lobby, I called Ellie and asked her to check me in and meet me at the pool bar with the room key. I drape my arm around Amy, and we head that way. I’ve been here a few times, so I know my way around. Cutting through the grotto and over to the pool and cabanas, I steer Amy to the right and stop in my tracks as all the air rushes from my lungs.
My body floods with adrenaline and my gut twists. I don’t even have to do a double take, since I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistaking her. She’s just so beautiful—the elegant planes of her face, those high cheekbones, the red lipstick, and her platinum hair, which may be shorter than it used to be but is still tucked behind her ear like it always was. She looks the same. No, she looks better. Her skin glistens in the sun and my gaze automatically follows the shape of her long legs. They look smooth and tan against her white bathing suit. An ache forms in my chest as I think about running my fingers up them. She still looks like that eighteen-year-old girl I once knew, but now she has the body of a woman—lean and toned and full of curves. The sight of her is so familiar it doesn’t seem like a day has passed since I last saw her—and everything I ever felt for her, it’s all still inside me.
My pulse races at the mere memory of us. She’s reclining in the cushioned lounge chair, reading a magazine just outside a cabana. My heart slams harder in my chest when she sticks her earphones in her ears and it transports me back to the last time I saw her do the very same thing. We’d skipped school and were at my grandparents’ house—their pool. She was lying on the lounge chair listening to music and singing along—her voice so full of soul. I’d moved to sit with her under the guise of putting lotion on her back. She sat up and smiled that shy smile she didn’t need to have when she was with me. I squeezed the tube into my hands. And after rubbing them together, I slowly applied it to her back, kneading my way up and down, touching every inch of her that I could.