The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(187)

From behind me I hear Walsh mutter, “Well, he went for the full-on rock-star entrance I see.”

Then Mike responds with, “What the fuck? Why does he always have to be such a prick?”

“Dude, you’re just pissed you didn’t think of it,” Colin jokes.

My initial reaction is to be disgusted with Joss. To sneer, along with Mike, at what a clichéd dick he is. But as I watch him show the girl around the outside of the tour bus and introduce her to a few roadies and Dave, I really look at both his face and his body language. He does everything with her as though he’s onstage, even looking around frequently, as if to see if anyone is watching. He smiles at all the appropriate moments, laughs and jokes with everyone as though he’s the host of multimillion-dollar party, but that same bleak look from my photos is in his eyes the entire time. And when he touches her, it is with no passion, no interest at all. He touches her as though they are filming a commercial and she is an actress he met moments before.

After a few minutes, Joss walks the Barbie doll back to the waiting car, yanks her skinny ass up against him, and parties with her tongue for a good half a minute. The roadies catcall and wolf whistle; Walsh chuckles and rolls his eyes. I feel nauseous.

Once the girl is safely tucked away in the back of the car, Joss turns around and executes a little bow for the crew. They all laugh and cheer some more. Then he walks briskly to the bus. I wonder if anyone else sees him wipe the back of his hand across his mouth as he goes.





Chapter Seven

Joss



I’m sitting in a captain’s chair on the bus, turned toward a window, watching the state of Oregon pass away behind us. We’re an hour out on the road and heading to Los Angeles, because really, where the hell else would you start a mega-famous rock band tour?

Tammy has been shooting daggers at me all morning, and I take a really perverse satisfaction in the possibility that my little production might have bothered her. Since screwing Katrina last night did nothing to make me feel better, I thought maybe becoming who Tammy thinks I am might. I rake my hand through my hair at this thought, wondering when I became such a bitter jerk.

The irony of the whole thing is that I have no idea if Tammy saw all that shit or not. When I stepped out of the car, all prepared to make my big entrance, the very first thing I laid eyes on was Mel. She was standing by the coffee table, a green beret on her head and a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. As I looked her direction, she brought that cup of coffee up to her cherry red lips to take a sip, and bam. I’d never wanted to be a coffee cup so badly in all my life. After that, I stumbled my way through my little deal with Katrina, and all I could see or think about was Mel. Which is so incredibly fucked up. I can’t even go there.

She’s entirely different than Tammy. There’s this softness to her where Tammy is all hard edges. Mel reminds me of a room from one of those Pottery Barn catalogs, where everything is pretty and relaxing and feels like home. Tammy is Architectural Digest—sleek and gorgeous but not user-friendly.

This contrast makes me question how I could possibly be attracted to them both. They don’t look alike—well, with the possible exception of the really fantastic racks—sound alike, or act alike. Yet, I’ve been torn to pieces because of Tammy for more than a year and now find myself inextricably drawn to Mel. I feel like she’s some sort of magnet and I’m a piece of iron, slowly inching my way toward the undeniable force. I’m afraid that, like a magnet and iron, the closer I get, the stronger her pull will be.

During my worship of the window, Mike went back to bed in his bunk, Colin threw on a set of headphones and is playing a game on his laptop, and Tammy retreated to a back bedroom to holler at more people on her cell phone. The two security guys are up front with the driver, leaving Walsh, Mel, and me the only ones here in the main cabin.

“Joss, man, you going to grace us with your presence sometime today or is this the bus of silence?” I hear Walsh chide from across the aisle.

I swivel my chair away from the window and give him a smile. It’s definitely not his fault I royally screwed up my life. I need to quit avoiding him simply because it makes me feel like crap to be near him.

“Nah. I need to talk some or my vocal cords will shut down and I won’t be able to sing.” Walsh grins at my bullshit. “Any more of the coffee left on this rig?” I ask.

Mel smiles from her seat near Walsh. “Sure. How do you take it?”

My heart skips a beat at her beautiful smile. “Um, just a little cream if there is some. Do you mind?”

“No. It’s right here.” She stands and moves to the small kitchenette that takes up the front portion of the bus. I watch the way she quietly moves, her limbs fluid and silky. After she pours me a cup and one for Walsh as well, she sits back down, but in the seat next to me. My heart stumbles, and I recognize the tingle of electricity that zips through me.

“Did you know you smell like lemon meringue pie?” I ask, unable to control myself now that she’s so close.

Walsh busts out with a snort but doesn’t say anything.

She giggles, but it’s not the kind of phony giggle that groupies give me when I sign their chests. It’s an authentic, girly giggle that is accompanied by a little bit of a blush.

“It must be my shampoo,” she says. “It’s some sort of lemon stuff.”

“Well, you’re going to have to keep the bus stocked with pies, because lemon meringue is my favorite and now that I’ve smelled it it’s all I can think about.” I wink at her, feeling somewhat self-conscious. I haven’t practiced being charming in a hell of a long time, and I’m a little rusty.

“He’s not bullshitting, Mel,” Walsh adds. “He once ate an entire one all by himself in less than two minutes. He used a mixing spoon. I kid you not.” He grins at me, and I can’t help but smile back at the memory. We were twelve, he had chocolate cream, and I had lemon meringue. He bet me that I couldn’t finish mine before he finished his. I won, and then we were both sick the rest of the night. Didn’t do a damn thing to diminish my love of the stuff though.

“Well, I don’t have any pie at the moment,” Mel says. “But here—” She leans over to her former seat and reaches into a box sitting next to it. She comes out with a doughnut that she hands to me. “Lemon-flavored jelly-filled doughnut.”

I take the magical morsel from her and down it in about two bites, which has Walsh shaking his head. “Still got it, man,” I tell him with my mouth full of Mel’s pastry.

“You suck. Just wait until we get to L.A. I’m hitting up the first bakery we find and then we’ll see who the real champion is.”

We all laugh, and I can’t remember the last time I was able to enjoy my best friend like this. Somewhere deep inside, I feel like Mel is a catalyst for joy.



We arrive in Los Angeles at one a.m. Everyone is exhausted and bitchy from sitting for fourteen hours. We check into the Beverly Wilshire, and even before I head to my suite, I know I won’t be able to sleep. Nighttime is the worst for me. It was night when it happened, the biggest mistake of my existence, and ever since, I’ve been unable to sleep at night. I usually pass out from complete and utter exhaustion around five or six a.m. and then get up sometime around lunch, which is actually my breakfast. Luckily, I’m a rock star, so no one gives a shit when I sleep.

I dump my stuff in my suite and decide that a run would do me good. After tossing on a t-shirt, shorts, running shoes, and a backwards Portland Trailblazers cap, I take the elevator up to the rooftop and hit the twenty-four-hour fitness center the hotel maintains for guests. As much as I’d prefer to run outside, this is first and foremost L.A., land of nonstop cars and pavement. In addition, Dave would no doubt call in the National Guard if he found out I’d left the hotel on foot at night without the security detail. I don’t have my ass insured by Sotheby’s or anything yet, but it’s pretty well understood that I’m not to take any unnecessary risks with my person these days.

Upstairs, I hop on a treadmill, throw my ear buds in, crank the Amy Winehouse, and start pumping my legs. I’ve been going steady for about forty minutes when I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I look through the windows in front of me to the outdoor pool that sits on the hotel’s roof. I see a slim body arc into the water. Golden skin and a flash of deep red hair cause my breath to hitch. I watch as the form glides back and forth across the water for several minutes and then finally surfaces at one end. She tosses back her wet hair and leans her arms on the edge of the pool. Mel.

I slow the treadmill down until it stops before I grab a sweat towel to wipe off and head outside, that magnetic pull guiding my every movement as if my body has no self-determination. I come to a stop at the edge of the pool and look down at her.

She lifts her head and squints at me. “You’re awake too?” she asks nonchalantly.

“I am,” I say as I squat down so we’re closer to eye level with one another. “But then I’m usually awake this time of night. What are you doing up?”

She grimaces. “I, uh, wasn’t so thrilled with my accommodations.”