Adam looks back at me and holds a finger against his lips; then he creeps up and crouches next to the seat. He leans in close, looking like he’s going to kiss the guy’s cheek, but then his tongue flattens against it in a big sloppy lick and the guy wakes up yelling.
Adam laughs loudly as the guy wipes his sleeved shoulder over his cheek.
“Fucking gross, man!”
“Show’s gonna start in twenty minutes,” Adam says, walking to the wet bar and pulling a bottle of liquor from the cabinet.
The guy sits up and rubs his hands roughly over his cropped black hair. “Shit.” He finally spots me, and then his eyes travel over my face, my slinky top, my ten-sizes-too-small skirt, my hooker heels. He sighs. “Twenty minutes, Adam.” Then he slides past me and out the door.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“That was Shawn. Our lead guitarist.” Adam hands me a glass of whiskey and sits down where Shawn had just been sleeping, slouching in the seat. “So the way I see it, you have two options.”
I sit down next to him, and it feels so weird sitting next to him, because he is so out of my league. “Only two, huh?”
He grins at me and downs his drink. “One, we can sit in here and get you so shit-faced that you can’t remember what’s-his-name’s name.”
I chuckle. “And two?”
“You can get even.”
Okay, now I’m curious. “How?”
Adam sets his glass down and looks at me then—really looks at me. His eyes are locked with mine, and I swallow hard, every inch of me suddenly acutely aware of how close I am to him. His gaze drops to my lips, and when he starts leaning in, I panic. I know he’s going to kiss me. Before I can regret my decision, I scoot away.
He eyes me carefully. “Are you sure?”
I play stupid, because I suddenly feel ten shades of embarrassed. Dee can never find out about this or I’ll never hear the end of it. “Sure about what?” I swallow the rest of my drink, trying to calm my fire-cracking nerves.
Adam stays leaning forward for a moment before he carries both of our glasses back to the bar and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Shit-faced it is, Peach,” he says as he pours me another glass.
“Where’s the rest of your band?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”
He turns around and swirls the amber liquid in his glass, a smile on his lips. “I am.”
A knock at the door gets my attention, but my eyes stay glued on Adam as he goes to the front of the bus to answer it.
“Hi, Adam.” It’s a girl’s voice, and it’s shamelessly seductive.
“What do you want, Farrah?” Adam sounds bored, maybe a little irritated.
“Can I come in?”
Adam moves to the side enough so that Farrah can see me. And I can see her, all red-headed bombshell and legs, legs, legs. He sweeps an arm toward where I’m sitting. “I’m busy.”
She smiles at me and sweetly asks, “Room enough for one more?”
“No,” he says, and then he swings the door shut—right in her face.
My jaw is on the floor as he climbs back up the bus stairs and sits on the bench seat across from me, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sorry about that,” he says.
Frowning, I apologize for ruining his night.
“If you were ruining my night,” he replies, “I’d kick you off this bus without a second thought.” He smiles at me, and I’m not sure how to feel about what he just said. Would he seriously kick me off? “Now tell me about this cheating boyfriend of yours.”
“Can we not talk about him? I don’t even want to think about him.”
“Works for me. What do you want to do?”
I down my second drink of whiskey, my fifth drink of the night. It’s starting to hit me, fast. “Give me a tour?” I stand up and instantly feel wobbly on my feet. Adam bolts to my side and presses a hand against my ribs, steadying me.
And I giggle. I giggle like crazy at myself for almost falling in front of Adam freaking Everest on his band’s freaking tour bus, and he smiles at me like I’m the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.
“Hold on.” I crouch down and unbuckle my shoes, sliding them off and leaving them where they lay. “Okay, let’s go.” I’m suddenly much shorter than him, barely coming up to his chest. He takes a step deeper into the bus to begin the tour, but I reach up and grab his shoulder. “Wait.” He looks back at me. “I need another drink.”
He laughs and makes me another without any questions, handing it to me and then walking ahead of me through the tour bus. “This,” he says, gesturing to the bench seats, “is where Shawn likes to pass out before shows and get licked on his not-so-tasty face.”
I try not to giggle again, but I can’t help it. He walks me deeper into the bus, pointing at a flat-screen TV in the corner that hovers over an entertainment center filled to the brim with video game consoles.
“This is where Mike’s brain lives and dies.”
I grin, and he leads me into a small kitchen full of stainless-steel appliances and a glass mini-fridge stocked with beer and energy drinks. He reaches in and pulls out a Red Bull, handing it to me. “How drunk are you?”
“Not drunk enough.”
He gives me an appreciative smile. “Count backward from ten.”