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If I asked him, he’d probably tell me to stay. So I didn’t ask him. I needed to keep a thin hold on my sanity.
I lay for a long time, wide awake with my eyes closed, feeling happier than I could ever remember in my life. Then I slid out of bed and gathered my clothes.
TWENTY-TWO
Axel
We’d have to resume our distance again. I already knew that. Brit and I couldn’t start a hot-and-heavy relationship, awash with nonstop sex. Not now. The balance was too delicate, and what if we burned so hot that we burned out? We’d ruin everything, and as much as I wanted her again, I wasn’t willing to risk it.
So we reverted to normal, or as close to it as we could. I didn’t act like nothing had happened, because something had very much fucking happened. But I didn’t push Brit for a repeat. She needed breathing space. She also wasn’t past the sexual hang-ups brought on by the Narcissist Who Was Epically Terrible in Bed—I needed a snappier nickname for that guy, but it would do for now. She needed to be ready, and she needed to come to me.
We played Cincy, and then we took the bus to Chicago. I was starting to feel in my bones that I wasn’t a kid anymore, and without a convenient load of chemicals to perk me up, I was tired. I had started daydreaming about my house, my kitchen, and my bed. The other guys were feeling it, too, and our bus rides got quieter. This tour, bankrolled with actual money, was more luxurious than our old tours had been, but the schedule was no less exhausting.
In Chicago, Brit said her stomach was bothering her and she had a headache, so we split up so she could lie down in her room. I was going to watch TV, but I got restless, so I went walking through Chicago as the afternoon faded into evening, taking some precious time alone, thinking, going wherever my feet took me.
When my phone rang, I realized I’d been walking for an hour and a half. My hamstrings were starting to groan. The call was from Brit.
“Where are you?” she asked when I answered. “I fell asleep, and then I knocked on your door and you didn’t answer.”
“I’m out walking. I like Chicago, and it’s nice out.”
“Get back here now.” This was second nature to Brit by now. She knew I had to get off my leash every once in a while, but letting an addict loose in downtown Chicago for ninety minutes without supervision was plenty of time to get into trouble.
“Are you hitting on me?” I asked, because I couldn’t quite help teasing her.
“You wish, de Vries. I’m doing my actual job. How far are you?”
I looked around, getting my directional bearings. “Twenty minutes or so from the hotel. Do you need me to pick up anything on my way back?”
“Maybe?” She suddenly sounded awkward. “I mean, I kind of… Yes. Yes, I need you to pick something up.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
Brit sighed. “It means I need lady supplies.”
What the hell kind of term was that? It was so weird that it took a second for me to figure out what she meant. Makeup? Shampoo?
Oh. So, okay then—she wasn’t hitting on me, at least not tonight. “I’m half a block from a drugstore,” I said. “But Brit, you’re gonna have to be specific. I don’t think you want me to guess.”
“Donotguess.” She was adamant about that. “I’ll text you the exact brand and item I need. I’ve run plenty of errands for you. Don’t mess this up.”
By the time I got to the drugstore, she had texted me a photo of the empty package of pads she needed replaced. The aisle—what the fuck was this aisle? It was a mile long, and there were hundreds of items, brands, sizes. Everything was the same pink, orange, or mint green. I stood there for a bewildered minute, my phone in front of my face, trying to find the right package.
I turned to find a woman standing next to me with a two-year-old boy on her hip. Both were staring at me with the same curiosity. I guessed I looked strange, standing in this aisle in my ripped black jeans, Converse, tats, and Judas Priest tee.
“I need to find the exact right thing,” I explained to the woman, turning my phone toward her so she could see the photo. She leaned in and peered at it, and then a look of understanding crossed her expression.
“Oh, yeah. You want that one,” she said, pointing to the matching package, on the top shelf on the left. The little boy was still staring at me. He seemed to like my rings, so I lifted my hand to give him a closer look. He grabbed my fingers, squeezing in delight.
“He likes flashy things,” the woman explained, shrugging.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said.
The woman and I were stuck together for an awkward pause, because neither of us had the heart to disappoint her cute son. I cleared my throat.
Finally, she gently disentangled her son’s hands from me. “Want some advice?” she said. “Feed her, give her a back rub, do the laundry, and try not to piss her off. Your girl has a heavy flow.”
I stared at her. Period talk didn’t shock me, but those words,your girl, clanged through my brain like a bell. Was Brit my girl? I’d liked a lot of women, but I’d never thought of one of them as mine. Not ever.
