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  CHAPTER 21: HANNAH

  I didn’t think I’d be starting the day with a view of Tommy’s penis, but there it was in all its glory. I spotted a beautiful woman walking away from our bus out the window, so I assumed he kicked her off before we started on the road toward Denver.

  I shake off the mortification I still feel in seeing him completely naked. I’m not exactly sure why I feel embarrassed when he was the one with his goods hanging out, yet I do. I busy myself by grabbing a bottle of water. It’s a little early for breakfast, but I just feel like I need a minute.

  Not because of the Tommy thing.

  Because he’s looking at my pictures.

  He had it open on his phone, and maybe it’s not a big deal, but it feels like one. He was so kind as he admitted how impressed he was with my work, and then he was an asshole.

  We woke up yesterday wrapped in each other’s arms, and then this morning I was jostled awake when he got out of bed. Were we wrapped together again? Is that why he bolted?

  I blow out a breath then join him at the table. “So eight hours?” I ask.

  He nods. “Eight hours to Denver, and we have a private club appearance tonight. I want you to come.”

  I want to go. I want to experience it and maybe snap more photos and hang out with Brett and the others. Everyone but Tommy has gone out of their way to help me and to be kind to the baby and to me.

  But I immediately feel guilty for wanting any of that. “I can’t. I’ve got a baby to care for, remember?”

  “Amanda will take him,” he says. “She’s the unofficial band nanny. She’ll hang back with Maya and Luna anyway.”

  I shake my head. “You’re paying me to take care of Chance. I need to do my job.”

  His eyes meet mine. “You are.” His voice is soft and a little raspy. “And you’re doing it well.”

  I break the connection between our eyes as I glance down at the table in doubt. I’m a poor substitute for that boy’s mother, but I’m doing the best I can. I have an obligation to. And hanging with the band doesn’t really mesh with those responsibilities.

  “Maybe next time,” I finally say.

  “Fine,” he says, accepting my answer with a nod, “but tomorrow night you’re taking pictures. I’ll get you trench access.”

  “Trench?” I take a sip of water.

  “There’s about six feet between the barricades holding back the pit crowd and the stage,” he says. “Security and crowd control hang there, but there’s also media access usually for the first few songs before they’re cleared out.”

  My brows turn down. “Is it safe down there? Or are there, like, crazy rabid fans throwing things?”

  He laughs. “The occasional bra, maybe, but it’s generally pretty safe. Our fans are less moshers and more head nodders.”

  “Your fans,” I repeat. “It’s so weird to be living on a bus with somebody who has actual fans.”

  “It’s pretty weird to be the guy who has them, too,” he admits.

  I tilt my head and study him for a beat, and then I ask, “How’d you get here?”

  He looks confused as he tilts his head back at me as if he’s mirroring me. He points to the table as if to indicate the bus. “Here? A friend dropped Tommy and me at the bus lot, and then we boarded and headed to Phoenix for our first stop.”

  I offer a huff of a chuckle. “No, I mean here.” I hold my arms up. “Playing huge venues to sold out crowds.”

  He shrugs. “A fuckload of hard work mixed with a whole lotta luck.” He lets that sit between us before he expands. “Tommy and another kid he went to high school with started the band their senior year. They brought Tyler in, and they needed a drummer. Tommy and I knew each other from music school. They interviewed a few guys and said they vibed best with me. The four of us fucked around in Tyler’s garage for six months or so. We played a few bars that we weren’t even old enough to drink at, and then our guitarist left for college. Tommy found Dustin because Tommy knew everybody in the local music scene, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “How’d you pick your band name?” I ask.

  He laughs at the memory of naming the band. “We started as just Kingsmen. Kingsman is a rank in the British Army and Tommy was obsessed with all things British back then. He thought it had a cool sound to it but since there were four band members, he pluralized the word.”

  “Why’d you add Capital?”

  “There was an old band called The Kingsmen, and when a small boutique label scouted us, they suggested changing our name.” He taps the side of his empty coffee cup. “Capital is a mix of Tyler’s last name and mine—Caldwell and Pitzer. Ca-pit. Dustin’s last name is Kingston, which is funny since he joined the band after we had the name, so we decided to keep Kingsmen and just add to it.”

  “I’m surprised Tommy let that fly without adding his name in there somewhere.” I twist my lips as I try to reconcile the man I know who seems incredibly egotistical with a band name that includes everybody else’s name except his.

  He chuckles. “Tyler and I spent weeks convincing Tommy that Stevenson had the en part of Kingsmen. It was literally all we discussed for twenty-three days.”

  I can’t help a little laugh at that, and I nearly stop myself out of guilt. I shouldn’t be sitting here laughing with Brett Pitzer.

  Except...is it really that bad if I do? It’s only been a few days since Brie passed. I’m filled with grief that I haven’t had a chance to really feel just yet given all the massive, sweeping life changes. But life goes on, right?

  Her letter to me told me to find a way not to hate him, whatever it takes. To be strong and to be happy.

  Part of me wonders if she’s somehow guiding me from beyond...right toward him.

  “Twenty-three days?” I ask.

  He lifts a shoulder. “Band names are important. A lot of times it’s the first impression of who we are, and we wanted to give off a certain vibe. One meaning of capital is excellent, a slang meaning of king is bro, and we’re four men. So our vibe is that we’re four adult male friends aiming to make excellent music. And when Dustin explained it that way to Tommy on the twenty-third day, something clicked for him and we never looked back.”

  “That’s quite a story.” I finish the rest of my bottle and stand, afraid to admit that I’m sort of impressed with the deeper meaning behind the band name. Afraid to admit that I’m starting to respect him more and more—something I shouldn’t be feeling after the questions he asked me last night that bordered the line of appropriateness.

  He’s quiet behind me, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask as I open the refrigerator in search of breakfast.

  “Not yet. I just got up a few minutes before you.”

  “Are you usually an early riser?” I close the fridge after staring blankly into it without really registering what was in there. I open one of the cabinets in search for Chance’s Cheerios. We can always get more at the next stop...probably. At least I think we can.

  He huffs out a laugh. “No. I’m usually a late riser. Ten is early for me. This is...” I glance at him when he pauses. “This is practically pulling an all-nighter.”

  “Go back to bed,” I chide.

  He shakes his head. “I’m up now. I’ll catch some sleep later.”

  “Want me to make some breakfast?” I ask as I pull down the box and grab myself a bowl. “I can put together a killer bowl of Cheerios.”

  “Sure. But only if you cut up little slices of banana in it.”

  “You got it.” I grab another bowl and set to work on the easy task, a mindless thing to work on so I don’t have to sit across the table and try to avoid making contact with him.

  The baby wakes before I get a chance to serve up breakfast, and it’s a welcome distraction to focus on caring for his needs. Because the more time I spend alone with Brett Pitzer, the more I like him. And that will only lead to trouble.

  * * *

  As fun as a private c
lub appearance sounds, there’s more than one reason I rejected Brett’s offer to go with. Yes, I was hired to care for my nephew, but I need a little time away from him. We’re traveling eight hours to Denver on the same bus, and we’re sleeping in the same bed, and surely we’ll be in the same hotel room...it’s all just a lot for two relative strangers.

  And so I did what I thought I was supposed to do. And at this very moment...I don’t regret it.

  I’m soaking in a huge, luxurious bathtub with bubbles surrounding me as I listen to a playlist of Capital Kingsmen songs. It feels like an obligation since I’m traveling with the band, but now that I’ve seen them perform live, I realize that I actually do like their music. I respect it. It’s pure talent, even though I denied it for a very long time. I focus on the beat of the drums as I listen to Brett do what he does best.

  Water jets massage my calves and my thighs and my hips where they shoot out from the tub walls. I’ve seen tubs like this on television or in the movies, but I’ve never been privileged enough to actually take a bath in one. Our apartment didn’t even have a tub—just a shower, which made bathing a nine-month-old a rather difficult event. This is so luxurious, in fact, that I’m even drinking a rare glass of wine. I’ve never had a hangover, but I have had a glass of wine or two in my day. I did work at a bar, after all.

  Chance is asleep in the bedroom of our suite in his little travel crib that we bring out for hotels. The room boasts one king bed, so it looks like Brett and I are still sharing a bed.

  I wish I felt disappointed at that, but I don’t. I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt when I woke up in his arms yesterday morning. I want it to happen again. I take a sip of wine and set my glass on the edge of the tub.

  As I think about his warm arms and that erection I bumped into the other day, I slide my hand across my chest, stopping to thumb each of my nipples. I need a release, that’s all. I need to get these strange thoughts I’m having about a man I don’t even like out of my system. I didn’t take a bath with this in mind...but it’s suddenly not such a bad idea.

  I shift a little onto my side, and that’s when the jet of water brushes my leg. That gives me an idea, so I shift a little more until the jet is lined up between my legs. And then I grasp onto my own nipples as my legs open to the water as it hits my clit at a perfect angle. I squeeze my eyes shut as pleasure starts to pulse over me, and I think about what it would be like to have Brett here naked in this tub with me, to have Brett between my legs instead of this water jet, to have Brett’s tongue trailing along my neck, to smell his vanilla wood scent as he covers my body with his warmth.

  Just the thought of all that pushes me over the edge, and I thrust my hips toward the water jets as I hit my climax. My body throbs with need as I come, contraction after contraction pounding through me, and a certain euphoria washes over me as I start to come down from the high. I lean away from the jet and relax back into the tub, my eyes still closed as I picture him smiling lazily at me much like he did last night when he asked me if sex is one of my vices.

  Yeah, it was inappropriate. It crossed the line.

  But it was still one of the sexiest questions I’ve ever been asked.

  That vanilla wood scent is so real to me I think I can smell it. I breathe in the memory of it for a quick beat as I come back down.

  When I finally allow my eyes to flutter open to grab that wine glass for a sweet sip of relief...that’s when I gasp.

  Brett’s eyes meet mine.

  And his are full of heat.

  CHAPTER 22: BRETT

  Holy fucking shit.

  I’ve had a lot of sex in the last fifteen years. I’ve seen a lot of pornography, whether it was streamed, on a DVD, filmed by me, or watched on set. I’ve had twosomes and threesomes and foursomes and orgies. I’ve slept with famous women and unknown ones, with musicians and teachers and athletes and porn stars and barely legal ones. On a bus and in a car, backstage at a show or behind a bar. In a club and in a stall, right there in the middle of the fucking mall.

  Yeah, I know...sounds like a song, or maybe a Dr. Seuss for adults book.

  The point is I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, but that...

  Jesus Christ.

  That was fucking hot.

  I didn’t mean to sneak up on her, and I certainly didn’t mean to invade her privacy. I honestly thought she was in bed and had left a radio on here in the bathroom. The door wasn’t latched shut, and I was trying to be quiet, so I opened the door and there she was, seconds from falling into an orgasm.

  I will never forget the way her face twisted with pleasure as she came.

  My only regret was that there were so many bubbles, I didn’t get to see anything aside from her face. I could tell her hands were on her tits, but I couldn’t see what they were doing there. I could tell the water jet was pulsing between her legs, but I couldn’t see her pretty pink pussy.

  I want to see it.

  Fuck. I want to lick it. I want to dive face first into it and suck on her clit until she makes that face again. I want to stick my face between her breasts.

  How the fuck am I supposed to share a bed with her now? I was already in trouble before when I hadn’t watched her take pleasure in a fucking bathtub. Now I will never not see that image when I look at her for the rest of time.

  She’s too young for me. There are way too many complications involved. She needs to grieve. She doesn’t even like me, at least not that I can tell.

  All good reasons not to get involved with each other, I guess.

  Or excuses, maybe.

  “Uh, sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

  I turn and bolt out of there, but as soon as that bathroom is empty, I’ll be taking a very long, very hot shower if you catch my drift.

  It’s just because I haven’t had sex in a few days. That’s the problem. I should’ve hung out at the club with Tommy after our official obligations were over, but I couldn’t stop myself from coming back here to make sure everything was okay. It’s fine, obviously.

  And, above all, I need to figure out a way to make her feel more comfortable with what I just saw. The way she reacted to my line of questions last night tells me she’s inexperienced, and certainly she’ll feel mortified that I caught her.

  I’m right, for the record. When she comes out of the bathroom, she’s dressed in short shorts and an oversized sweatshirt, and she completely avoids eye contact with me where I sit on the couch as she dashes toward the bedroom.

  “Goodnight,” she says.

  “Wait a second,” I say before I can stop myself. It’s dumb. I shouldn’t be stopping her, but I’m not ready to say goodnight to her just yet. I want a little more time.

  She halts in her progress, but she doesn’t turn to look at me. “What?”

  “It’s okay, Hannah,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

  “It’s fine.” She finally peeks over at me. Her cheeks are stained with red. “I shouldn’t have done that anyway.”

  “Yes, you absolutely should have,” I tell her with all the sincerity I can muster. “If you don’t use those parts regularly, they fall off.”

  She offers a short, embarrassed chuckle.

  I shrug. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m about to give myself a treat in there.”

  She wrinkles her nose, and I hate how the little quirk turns me on even more. “No, that does not make me feel any better. I’m freaking mortified.”

  “Please don’t be. Not on my account.” I stand, and I take a step toward her. I lower my voice. “For the record, it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.”

  Her eyes widen a little, and I’m not sure if it’s in embarrassment or disbelief. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”

  She disappears into the bedroom before I get a chance to respond, and I’m glad she didn’t make me promise that. There’s no way I’ll be able to pretend I didn’t see what I saw.

  In fact, I
’m pretty sure I won’t ever stop thinking about it.

  I certainly don’t as I handle myself in the shower a few minutes later, and I really don’t as I stretch out on the couch to go to bed, a little more relaxed after blowing my load.

  I’d join her in the bedroom, but I already made that pact with myself that we wouldn’t be sharing a bed for a few nights. This little turn of events tonight only solidified that choice.

  * * *

  Hannah is quiet as we share danish and eggs on the balcony with the kid strapped into a chair. She’s regarding me warily, and I think she’s either still mortified or she wants to ask why I never came to bed. Can I really admit the truth—that she’s too goddamn tempting to sleep in the same bed with her, that this is a complicated situation and I need to stay far away?

  Probably not. It’s not really my mojo to have some deep and sappy conversation about feelings. Mostly because I usually don’t allow myself to actually feel them. I tend to go the route of numbing, but the last few days I haven’t.

  I just haven’t figured out the reason why I haven’t.

  I was up all night thinking it through. I didn’t just sleep like shit because I was on a hard couch in a hotel. I slept like shit because I couldn’t make my mind turn off. A little weed usually helps shut my mind off, but I skipped it last night and I paid the price.

  The kid, the girl...I suppose I’m just trying to step up and do the right thing, but I feel like a fraud acting in a role.

  So maybe it’s time to get back to myself again. A night out with Tommy, a smoke after tonight’s show, finding a chick to bang.

  I don’t understand why those things don’t sound as fun as they did a few days ago. It’s all I wanted out of this tour, yet something has shifted.

  I just feel sorry for her, I think. The kid isn’t her responsibility, but she’s stepping up for him despite her circumstances. If she can do it at the rock bottom worst moment of her life, I can do it, too.