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Chapter Eight
Sawyer
We arrived at the stadium in the middle of the night. It hadn’t been a long trip, and the movement of the bus had rocked me to sleep. I woke to the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen/living area.
George.
I shot out of bed and ran to the crate. The door was open. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. I hadn’t even been a dog parent for twenty-four hours and I’d lost my dog. Or did he escape? I thought the crates were supposed to be dog proof. Maybe I had a genius dog?
“George!” I whisper-yelled. If Kurt knew I already lost him, I would never live it down. I strained for any sign of him. Nothing. Then I noticed my door was cracked open.
“Oh no! No! No!”
In a near panic, I dashed out into the hallway and stopped in my tracks. The band members all sat on the couch. George was curled up on Kurt’s lap.
“Oh geez, there he is.” I put my hand to my heart. “I thought he escaped.”
“Morning sleepy—” Kurt stopped midsentence.
All eyes swung my direction. I could feel the eyes lingering on me. After a moment or thirty, the silence became a little uncomfortable.
What am I missing?
Cheerfully, I responded, “Morning,” as I walked up to George. I ruffled his head, but he didn’t move. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Umm…maybe you should change.”
I looked down at
my boy shorts and tank top. They were cute and covered more than my swimsuits. The set was one of the new things I’d gotten from Victoria’s Secret while in Destin. But in the depths of Kurt’s blue eyes I saw lust, and I liked it.
I shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with my pajamas.”
“Those are not pajamas.”
“Umm…yeah they are.”
“No, they aren’t.”
I laughed. “Kurt, you are not overruling Victoria. She says they’re pajamas.”
“Victoria?”
“Yeah, Victoria.”
“Well Victoria’s wrong.”
The other band members watched us with intrigue. But I refused to give on this point. I rolled my eyes and noticed George still wasn’t moving. “What’s wrong with George?”
“I took him outside and wore him out.”
Again, my insides turned into a gooey mess. Before my face betrayed me, I turned to go to the cabinet. “Oh, you made coffee. You get the roommate of the day award.”
Kurt mumbled something, and I heard movement behind me. The drummer, Harlem, said, “See ya, Sawyer. We’re going to go back to our bus.”
With him was Edge, who played bass, and Razor, the lead guitarist. I liked them—they were nice guys. They didn’t seem to mind me, either.
I turned, coffee cup in hand. “You guys don’t have to leave so soon.”
