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Tugging my clothes back on, I dress with jerky movements, refusing to meet those icy blue eyes. Yesterday, he looked at me like I was the center of his world, his own personal miracle, and today…
Today, I feel small and soiled.
“I simply don’t want to kidnap you.” Now he’s annoyed too, voice clipped and shoulders tense. “Would you rather I let you sleep as the tour bus carried you away?”
Yes.“Obviously not. But you don’t have to be such a jerk about it.”
A muscle leaps in Beckett’s jaw. “Noted,” he grits out. “My apologies.”
Bright sunshine spears through a gap in the curtains, warming up a stripe of my unhappy face. Further down the tour bus, voices clamor and bowls clink in the kitchen area, and there are so many freaking obstacles between me and the way out of here. So many pairs of eyes to watch my walk of shame, so many lewd comments to hear whispered in my wake.
This sucks so, so much.
“Well.” Shouldering my backpack, I hit Beckett with a big, false smile. It’s kinda mean, but I don’t regret it when he winces, because this morning has made me feel so oily and awful. Like a tar slick in his pristine bed. “Bye. This sure has been… an education.”
Yesterday’s blisters throbbing inside my shoes, I stomp to the door. Beckett hesitates, then steps out of my face, his expression pained. “Resa…”
How dare he sound so hollow?I’mthe one being tossed out like yesterday’s trash right now. I’m the one who gave my v-card to an emotionally frigid British dude, damn it.
My palm smacks against the door, shoving it open. “See ya never.”
“Wait—”
My bag jostles against the door frame as I lurch out into the cramped hallway. Even with the tour bus standing still, I guess I haven’t found my sea legs yet. Or maybe everything we did last night turned my knees to permanent jelly, and now I’m doomed to go through the rest of my life like this—like some tragic, knock-kneed cowgirl.
“Resa,” Beckett calls behind me, but I charge forward, bouncing off one wall. Everyone on this bus will think I’m drunk if I can’t walk in a straight freaking line. “Resa!”
Voices float all around, some drifting through closed bedroom doors and a few louder ones echoing from the kitchen area. Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and stride down the bus, nodding at the startled crew members hunched around the table, spoons hovering above their cereal bowls.
“Hey,” I mutter, cheeks flaming hot as I stomp past.
“…Hi?” one guy says as I reach the door, wrestling with the stupid thing with clammy hands, desperate to get it open.
“Resa.” Beckett’s low, clipped voice right behind me makes my eyes sting, and I yank harder on the stupid, useless door handle. “Hang on, there’s a button. Let me—”
The tour bus door opens with a hiss, and I clatter out into the parking lot. There are more glossy black tour buses out here, all standing in a line, with huge battered equipment trucks and around a dozen smaller cars and camper vans, all clustered together in the morning sunshine. Voices bounce around the lot as people call to each other, so stupidly energized after their latenight yesterday, and vehicle doors slam as engines rumble to life.
They really are about to move out, then. This convoy is on the move.
Goodbye, Beckett. Goodbye, whateverthiswas.
“Resa,” he says now, stumbling out of the bus behind me, tugging his suit jacket straight. “Wait, I need to say something. I need to—” His voice cracks, horrified. “Hang on. Are you crying?”
Sniffling, I wipe a line of snot on my bare arm. Well, it’s not like I can go any lower, is it? “Of course I’m crying!”
I mean, he’s seen my morning, hasn’t he? He witnessed the whole shit show firsthand, so this should not be a plot twist.
Can’t believe I missed Soul Obsession for this. My one chance to meet the band. Tugging on the lilac reunion tour t-shirt that Beckett bought me yesterday, I try and fail to stop my chin from wobbling. And it’s hot already this morning, so hot and sticky and stifling, and I can’t believe I have to go back to my tiny studio apartment and pretend I’m not a whole different person from twenty four hours ago.
“Shit.” Beckett scrapes one palm down his face, then steps toward me, arms outstretched. “I’m so sorry. Come here, Angel.”
“I’m not going to hug you after all that, you maniac.”
But my words make me a liar, because as soon as Beckett steps close, I collapse against his stupid chest with a shaky sigh of relief. That creeping frost inside me thaws the tiniest bit, and the hollow feeling in my stomach eases.
I need this man so much.Lovehim so much already.
And he’s so happy to let me go.
