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I was, but I’d hoped that Priya and the people who interacted with me daily knew I’d changed.
I guess not.
It was strange; when Lyndsey told me she wanted to keep us a secret, I felt hurt. I felt like she thought she had to hide me. Or maybe, Lyndsey was on guard because she couldn’t see beyond the tabloids.
Part of me hoped that she would look beyond the headlines and know that I wasn’t the person the media made me out to be, but I couldn’t blame her for being cautious.
It felt karmic; I spent years cultivating a hedonistic personality filled with meaningless sex, and now the first person I liked only wanted to use me for meaningless sex. I was, quite literally, fucked.
Lyndsey checks us out of the hotel without so much as a glance in my direction and digs out her laptop the moment she walks onto the bus. I can’t help but feel like she’s ignoring me as she sequesters in the kitchenette, hunched over her laptop.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I grab onto the cabinet to steady myself.
“Making sure we’re set for Nashville,” Lyndsey mumbles. We’re playing a headlining show for the Human Rights Campaign, and a cut of the ticket sales will go to the HRC’s Nashville chapter. It’s a great cause but a massive gig, with a dozen other bands taking over Centennial Park for the weekend.
“Well, are we?” I ask.
“We will be if you let me finish this email to the sound guy,” Lyndsey mumbles.
“Sorry,” I say, skulking over to the couch.
“Hey, Vince,” Lyndsey calls. I look up, full of hope.
“Lynn just texted me to remind you to finish that email interview for GQ. Try not to send your publicist chasing after me when you don’t do your homework,” Lyndsey snaps.
“Fuck! I was supposed to do it last night,” I look around; Henry’s absorbed in an audiobook and Priya’s napping. Apollo is staying in Atlanta an extra day and meeting us in Nashville. But I can’t help but feel like I’m about to blow our precarious cover.
“Vince,” Lyndsey says, clearly exasperated. I walk over to the booth where she’s sitting and slide next to her, but she blocks me with her knee.
“You can’t tell me you’re not doing your job because we’re too busy fucking; this is exactly why we can’t be together. We have the tour to think about! I’m not going to lie and pretend like last night wasn’t amazing, but it can’t impact the tour, okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble. Lyndsey has a point, but it’s an annoying point. I mumble something about needing space and answering emails in my bunk. If Lyndsey wants to pretend that last night was some huge mistake, then two can play that game.
By the time we arrive in Nashville and park the bus at the edge of the park, everyone’s too exhausted to say anything about it. It’s close to 1 a.m., and I can hear Lyndsey tossing and turning in her bunk.
Suddenly, her breathing becomes shallow as the bunk starts to creak forward. Her breath hitches. I feel myself harden.
Is she touching herself?
My suspicions are confirmed when a soft moan peels out of the back of her throat, the same noise she made last night. I long to touch her.
My dick hardens against my belly. I flip onto my back and grab the shaft, thinking of Lyndsey’s soft and muscular thighs and how I want her, but I can’t have her. Then, I realize we were being ridiculous.
“Lyndsey?” I call.
She startles. I hear a thump as her head hits the ceiling.
“Vince! What the fuck?”
“Are you touching yourself?” I ask.
I can feel the embarrassment radiating off her.
“It’s none of your business.”
“It is. I’m right here. I can help,” I offer suggestively.
Lyndsey hangs her head over her bunk. I crane my torso around and kiss her, feeling utter relief as her soft, warm lips find mine. I slip my tongue into her mouth, and she smiles. Gently, I clutch the back of her neck. Lyndsey kisses back harder this time.
