A Rockstar in Her Bed Page 4

  I know I can’t hide out in my room forever, so whether I want to or not, I eventually make my way downstairs. When I do, I’m ot completely surprised to find the somber mood from the night before has followed us to today.

  Silently, I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at the kitchen table where Max is already stewing. He glances sideways at me, but doesn’t say anything. I’m not entirely certain if he’s still as mad as he was yesterday, but he’s definitely still something.

  For a little while, the tension becomes stifling and I just want him to say something so we can move past this. I should’ve been careful what I wished for.

  “How long?”

  His voice is tough, raspy, and still clipped when he asks his question. I’m not really surprised, but it makes me squirm. Regardless, I don’t plan to lie about anything now. What’d be the point? It’d only make things worse than they already are, and I’m not entirely sure I want to see what that’s like.

  “Since the release party for Space Rider, bro,” I answer reluctantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him roll his shoulders. I wait for the outburst, but it doesn’t come. Evidently, he’s trying to stay calm because he’s scared Mom might come out of the shadows again. So am I.

  “Four years,” he says under his breath. I only nod. “Are you guys dating, or something?”

  “No,” I state less than firmly.

  Max doesn’t ask if what Adam and I had was just casual sex. I don’t think he wants to hear the answer, even though he’s probably well aware of the truth.

  For a little while, Max doesn’t say anything else, so I take it as my chance to ask something that’s been on my mind since last night, and honestly worries me more than his current anger towards me. “Are you really quitting the band?”

  I don’t want to think Max will actually leave the band, but I’m not sure he won’t, either. I knew he’d freak if he ever found out, but I never thought it’d be like that, so I’m actually afraid he’s going to quit his dream job.

  “How the hell am I supposed to keep playing with Adam now?” he snaps. “Jesus, Chris. How am I supposed to tour with the guy?”

  A sigh leaves my lips and I shake my head at his stupidity. It gives me just enough strength to be irritated even though I know I’m in the wrong.

  “We’re adults, Max. Adam and me. What we did doesn’t matter, okay?”

  “Doesn’t matter?” he looks genuinely surprised by what I’ve said. “You’re joking, right?” I don’t respond. “Do you have any idea how many girls he’s slept with in the last few years? Hmm?”

  A pit forms in my chest. I don’t want to think about Adam with anyone else, because it has nothing to do with our time together. And for a moment, I almost believe that’s the real reason, and not jealousy. But the truth is, I don’t want to think about him touching anyone else like he does me.

  “I don’t ca––”

  “Dozens!” Max cuts me off. “Maybe more.” I cringe internally. “And now you’re just another notch on the bedpost.”

  My focus sharpens on him immediately. I know Max is still angry and probably a little hurt, too, but he’s just insulted me whether intentionally or not, and I’m not going to let that happen.

  “Look,” my voice is tight because I actually have to fight raising my volume. “I know you’re pissed, I get it, but we’re almost thirty years old, okay? I’m allowed to sleep with whomever I want without your approval. And you’re not going to quit the band, either, you hear me? You’re right in the middle of a tour, this is your dream job, and you’re good at it, so just let it go. Besides,” I push myself up to my feet and he reluctantly meets my gaze, “I think it’s safe to say it’ll never happen again.”

  And with that, I leave.

  ****

  Around noon, a bit of the oppressive atmosphere has dissipated throughout the house. I figure that’s about as good as things will get before Max and I head out in the next couple of days.

  Now that it’s calmed a little, we all do the typical Christmas Day things, like sitting around the tree opening presents while A Charlie Brown Christmas plays in the background. There aren’t many presents because we’re not six anymore, but there are a few fun things wrapped in shiny paper. Mom got us childhood toys as well as practical, thoughtful gifts.

  I hand Max his card, and he gives me one as well. When I open mine, it’s a novelty Christmas card that screams a badly sung carol the instant it’s opened. Evidently, we still think alike because the one I got him isn’t much different. Our presents to each other are similar, too. Being unable to take much with him on tour, I give Max a two-hundred dollar gift card to a popular music store with chains all over the country so he can buy anything he wants or needs. Max gifts me a two-hundred dollar gift card to a popular home improvement store.

  When the presents are gone, and Max is stoking the fire and Mom’s making her ‘babies’ some cocoa, I walk around the living room picking up the trash and discarded wrapping paper. As I lift a torn piece with a Santa cartoon on it, I notice a final present almost hidden beneath the tree, nearly forgotten.

  “What’s this?” I call out, lifting the small cube wrapped in sky blue paper to show to the room.

  Max shifts to see and shrugs a shoulder. Mom pops her head into the living room and shares his confusion.

  “I don’t know,” she admits. “I didn’t buy it. Max?”

  “Nope,” he grumbles as he pokes the igniting logs.

  “Open it,” Mom says as she enters the living room with a tray of steaming mugs.

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’ve always loved tearing open wrapping paper. I drop the trash bag and slip my index finger beneath the tape, popping it open easily. The gift itself is about the size of a ring box, explaining how it’d been missed, so it takes seconds to open. As I suspected, it is actually a ring box. My brows tug together as I lift the lid and reveal what’s inside.

  A piece of folded paper with my name written across it is bent into the lid, but my eyes are drawn quickly to the piece of jewelry. It’s a silver ring … though that could mean any number of metals. The band is perhaps an inch thick or more, created by four coils of interwoven thorns. It isn’t sharp, though. Instead, it looks almost delicate and beautiful as a result.

  And resting in the middle of the thorns, tucked within the twists and curls, is an opal. That’s my birthstone.

  My mouth opens and closes repeatedly as I try to speak, but I’m not entirely certain I have the ability. My mind is actually blank.

  “What is it?” Mom asks.

  Her voice gives me a reprieve from my internal struggle and shocks me back into the moment.

  “A ring,” I reply. Snatching the piece of paper out of the lid, I offer the little box to Mom, who immediately gasps at its beauty. It’s definitely unique and incredibly my style, which is strange.

  As Mom continues to gush over the ring and show it to Max, I unfold the piece of paper that turns out to be about the size of a Post-It. Inside are three simple words that bring a few answers, but so many more questions:

  Merry Christmas,

  Adam

  Again, I’m struck dumb. This doesn’t make sense. Adam and I don’t exchange gifts. We never have. In total, we’ve known one another for about six years, and not once during that time have we ever given one another anything.

  I don’t know how long I’m left staring into space trying to make sense of the expensive gift, but Mom’s hand on my arm brings me back.

  “Huh?” I ask quickly.

  “Who’s it from?”

  My eyes dart to Max briefly and instead of answering out loud, I simply hand her the piece of paper. She reads over it as I sit in the nearby chair. She’s as surprised as I am.

  Max seems to know something’s off and almost snatches the note away from Mom. Thankfully, common sense takes over and he doesn’t. She may have slapped him otherwise. When he sees Adam’s name on the piece of paper, his agitation returns tenfold. I say n
othing and instead sink as deeply into the overstuffed chair as possible like it’ll help me disappear. Chewing on my thumbnail, I watch as he says something angrily under his breath and simply walks out of the room. Mom and I don’t bother trying to stop him.

  “Well,” Mom chimes after a few minutes of silence. She plasters a smile on her lips as she offers me the ring again. “It’s a lovely gift.”

  “Yeah,” I reply as I take it back. It really is beautiful.

  ****

  After dinner, I’m in my room lying in a bed that’s almost uncomfortably small staring at a ring I still don’t know how to classify. Is something like this a gift you give a friend? Is it for someone who means more? Jesus Christ… is this an engagement ring?

  I immediately throw that thought out of my mind. There’s no way Adam’s proposing to me. It’s not possible. We’ve never even been on a date, so obviously a ring of thorns isn’t an engagement gift. But, that barely helps me understand its meaning.

  I slide it onto my right ring finger and I’m a little surprised it fits. Then again, I have the most common ring size, so maybe it isn’t so farfetched. I like how it feels, though, and that just makes the blowout from yesterday all the more heartbreaking. It shouldn’t have happened like that.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my cell phone and sift through my texts, looking for the last time I sent anything to Adam. I’m not really surprised it’s been over a month since then, and I quickly type a new message. I send it just as fast. To my shock, my phone beeps before I can set it down.

  My initial message reads: The ring’s beautiful. You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.

  Adam’s reply follows: You’re welcome.

  I stare at the two simple words, reading them more than once as though they’ll give me some insight into his actions, but they don’t. Of course they don’t. Again, I roll over and attempt to set my phone back on my nightstand, but again, it goes off. More confused than before, I read the second message from Adam:

  I’m sorry, Chris.

  There’s no point in asking what he’s talking about. We both know. I reply:

  Don’t be.

  He writes back quickly.

  I guess this is done, then, huh?

  My heart actually hurts when I read that bit. I feel a literal twinge in my chest because I can’t say no. I can’t tell him this’ll pass and everything’s going to be fine again. Yes, the animosity will end up fading, but Max will always be watching us now, and as per our initial agreement, Adam and I don’t date.

  Yeah.

  I write it whether I want to or not. Then I add:

  It looks like it.

  My eyes burn and my vision becomes blurry. I’m on the verge of tears and there’s no logical reason for it. It’s not as though I’ll never see or speak to Adam again, I think, so my emotional response doesn’t make sense. I don’t like it.

  After a longer break than he’d taken before, I finally get another message from Adam simply wishing me a Merry Christmas. I return the sentiment and somehow know that’s the end of the conversation. Whether I want it to happen or not, when I blink, tears slowly glide down my face.

  Chapter Five

  Adam

  Well... Merry-fucking-Christmas to me.

  If I’d known how that’s the way my Christmas would go, I’d have kept my happy ass in Nevada. Instead, I spent the whole day fighting to get a flight out of snowy-ass Wisconsin and back to where our tour bus was docked on the other side of the country. Fun.

  Shit, I didn’t think that’s how it would’ve gone down when Max found out about me and Chris. He actually swung at me. I knew he’d be mad, sure. I mean, those two are close. I knew that when I first met her and saw them together. They’re twins, for God’s sake, so of course they’re close… but I hadn’t thought he’d actually try to hit me. Yelling, screaming, and threatening, but not violence.

  Then again, maybe part of me knew. I had to have known on some level because the more time that passes, the less surprised I am about the way he reacted. I probably would’ve done the same if some guy I thought was my friend turned out to be banging my sister. I knew how protective he was of her, too. I fucking knew and it still didn’t stop me. I went for it, regardless. I’m such a piece of shit.

  But I couldn’t help it. It sounds so cliché, but I just couldn’t help it. Chris is gorgeous. She’s every one of my weaknesses rolled up into one perfect package. She’s tall and fit from working a manual job. She has dark hair, lightly sun-kissed skin, bright green eyes, and the fullest lips I’ve ever seen in person. And she’s smart. Jesus, she’s smart. She went to college to be an architect and found out she’d rather restore old buildings instead of creating new ones.

  Chris has a biting wit, killer taste in music, the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen, and she turns the most perfect shade of pink when she’s embarrassed. I’m a little proud of my part in that, in fact. I’ve seen her tear guys apart with her sharp tongue, but I say one thing to her and she blushes. Fucking beautiful.

  I’ll admit, I’ve never been stuck on a girl before … and I’ve had my fair share. Touring the country and playing all kinds of venues, I’ve come across a decent amount of women, and yeah, I partook. At the risk of sounding like an even bigger dick, I can’t even count how many women I’ve either slept with or fooled around with because I just didn’t care. And yeah, some of them overlapped with Chris when we began our little thing––she dated, too, so I know it wasn’t just me––but for the last couple of years, it’s just been her. I can appreciate a pretty fan in the audience, but they don’t do it for me. No one does anymore, except Chris.

  And what do I do? I go and ruin everything. I’ve pushed our luck and thrown a massive wrench into the works.

  Guilt is a hell of a thing. Not only do I feel guilty about what I did to Max and Chris, but Mrs. Price, too. That woman didn’t even know me, she invited me to her home with open arms when she just as easily could’ve told me to leave, and I destroyed her holiday with her kids.

  The fight was two days ago, and I keep thinking about her sitting me down in the kitchen. That was one of the most awkward things I’ve had to do in a long time. I actually felt like I was five years old being scolded by my own mother for something horrible. That woman’s power is incredible. She’s terrifying.

  I guess that’s why I ended up telling her the truth. I didn’t mean to, it just came out when she asked. Good thing I was smart enough not to say I’ve boffed her daughter repeatedly through the years. I’m sure she heard the whole fight, so she probably knows, but I told her for how long Chris and I had been ‘together’, and how I actually felt about the whole thing. I’d only known the lady for twenty-four hours at that point, and I still somehow spilled my guts.

  Jesus, I told Cynthia how I really feel about Chris. Why’d I do that? Better yet, why did I give Chris a ring? Why did I sit there and design that fucking thing, put her birthstone in it, and actually give it to her?

  Never mind. I know why. I’ve known for nearly a year. I almost told Cynthia what I still can’t even admit to myself. Instead I only managed to say, I care about her. That’s better, kind of. It’s not entirely true, though. I more than care about Chris, and I have for a long time.

  And then I get those messages from her yesterday while I was at the airport. Jesus Christ, those ripped my heart out. At first, I was so happy she liked the ring. I didn’t know how she’d react to jewelry, so when I got her text, I was elated. But my dumb ass had to press my luck again. I just had to ask if we were through or not, and like I knew she would, she said yes. That killed me. I didn’t want her to confirm my fears, but she did, and it fucking broke my heart.

  Shit, I’m screwed.

  Now that I’m out of the Cheese-Head State (actually, it’s The Badger State and I don’t know how the hell I know that), and I’m sitting alone on the bus, I do my best to relax. It’s not really working. I keep thinking about Chris no matter how hard I try not to, but I
have another, more immediate problem. God only knows how bad it’ll be once Max makes his way back. I don’t know if he’ll yell again, try to swing at me, or if he’ll even show up. He told me he wanted out of the band, so he might not even come back and leave us in the lurch for the rest of the tour.

  The disgusting hole in my chest keeps growing while I lazily strum my acoustic. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do in any regard of my life at the moment, and the only thing that’s ever helped is music.

  The sun sets while I’m still lost in my head. A while ago I started to think of a new song, so I’m grateful for the minor reprieve, but it doesn’t last. Out of nowhere, the door to the bus opens and to my surprise, Max steps on.

  Our eyes meet and I can see he’s still agitated, but he doesn’t react. He doesn’t really do anything for a minute or two. Eventually, he finishes his trek up the stairs and closes the door behind him. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, so I assume he’s planning to stay, but I don’t really want to ask. I don’t want to jinx it.

  I keep my eyes on him as he walks by and to the bunks at the back of the bus. He tosses his stuff onto his cot and when another fight doesn’t immediately break out, I decide to go back to my guitar. I continue to strum the strings for a little while until I notice a shadow appear in my periphery. Looking up, I see Max standing in front of me. He’s completely blank.

  “Hey, ma––”

  I don’t get the greeting out before he throws a punch that actually connects with my cheekbone. I know it’s not as hard as he can hit, but damn, it hurts.

  “Shit!” I yell as I clutch my throbbing face. The pain is slow to come, but when it does, it’s dizzying. My head feels like it wants to explode, like I have the worst hangover migraine in the world, but through the ache, I notice he hasn’t tried again. Still holding my cheek, I look at him through my one good eye.