Mayhem Page 9

  He gives me a warm smile and then asks if I’m looking forward to the show tonight.

  Actually, I feel super-­nervous about not having Dee there. I’ve never gone to a concert or club without her, and flying solo would be intimidating even without adding Adam Everest to the mix. “It’ll be kind of weird being there by myself.”

  Adam scoffs. “You’re not going to be there by yourself. I’ll be there. And I’ll introduce you to all the guys. Don’t worry. It’ll be great.”

  I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s always so sure about everything he says that it makes me feel sure about it too. A warm sense of calm washes over me and I close my eyes again, turning my cheeks back toward the sun. “Okay.”

  We’ve been riding for almost half an hour when some terribly bad country song starts playing. “Oh my God,” I say, my eyes popping open. “I can’t believe you listen to country music!” I can’t help laughing, but it only makes Adam smile. He shoots me a devilish grin and then starts singing along. Loudly. I laugh hysterically as he imitates the high-­pitched country twang, singing about pick-­up trucks, daisy dukes, and football games. “Make it stop!” I joke, slapping my hands over my ears. But Adam just laughs and turns the music way up, singing even louder. At the top of his lungs, he exaggerates the yodel-­pitch and Southern drawl. Still laughing my ass off, I snatch his phone from a cup holder to change the song, but as I’m looking for something better, a text message comes through from some girl named Jaylin.

  Hope u have a fun wknd, but by the looks of that nerdy tutor girl, I can tell u won’t! Call me when u want the fantasy. ;)

  I immediately stop laughing. “Shit.”

  When Adam looks over and sees the expression on my face, he turns the music all the way down. I quickly push his phone into his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to read that. It just came through.”

  When he reads the text, he rolls his eyes and sighs. He hands the phone back to me. “Reply to that however you want. But don’t tell her it’s from you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Let her have it. And whatever you say, I want her to think it’s from me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  I give Adam a skeptical look, but he just takes another drag of his cigarette and then puts it out in his ashtray, not looking worried in the slightest. I sit there thinking for a while, and then I type:

  Herpes isn’t really something I fantasize about. Sry!

  I hand the phone back to Adam, hoping he’ll get a kick out of the text before he deletes it. He laughs appreciatively and then hands the phone back to me. “Perfect. Send it.”

  I gape at him. “No way!”

  He snatches the phone back and hits SEND before I can delete the message. I’m just sitting there with my mouth hanging open when he looks over at me and chuckles. “She deserved that.”

  “She’s never going to talk to you again.”

  “Sure she will. Just watch. She’s going to text me in three . . .” His eyes drift to his phone, which he’s set back into his cup holder. “Two . . .” He points at the phone, like he can work magic. “One!” When nothing happens, he frowns and says, “Damn, how cool would that have been?”

  I giggle at him and can’t stand myself for it, but he’s seriously cute as hell. His phone beeps a few seconds later, and he grins.

  “Told you.”

  “She’s probably telling you off.”

  He picks up his phone, reads it, and then shows me the screen with a triumphant smile on his face.

  :( Did I do something wrong? Please don’t be mad at me.

  I shake my head. “That’s just sad.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.” His words surprise me, and I stare over at him, but his eyes are back on the road and his shades are back down. He turns his head to smile at me again, but it only lasts a second.

  Before that smile, I’d never understood girls like Jaylin. Now? It’s almost too easy.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’M STILL MUNCHING on a cheeseburger when Adam downshifts and turns into the venue’s parking lot. Shawn is sitting on the steps of the open tour bus, scowling at his cell phone—­which solves the mystery of who has been blowing up Adam’s phone for the past twenty minutes. When he spots us, he immediately stands up, pockets his phone, and starts walking over. He does not look happy, and the bite I’m chewing is suddenly hard to get down. I really hope Adam isn’t in trouble, but more than that, I really, really, really hope Shawn doesn’t recognize me.

  “You’re late,” he tells Adam. His eyes are narrowed at the fast-­food bag in my lap, and I suddenly feel guilty for taking Adam up on his offer to grab me something to eat from a drive-­thru on the way here. I would have turned him down if he had told me we were running late, but he acted as laid-­back as ever, like we were in no big hurry.

  “You’re surprised,” Adam replies, and if it weren’t for the look Shawn gives him, I would probably crack a smile. He walks over to my side of the car and leans against the black paint as I get out. “Shawn, this is the girl I told you about. The one who’s helping me out with school.”

  “Rowan,” I add for him, wondering if he even remembered my name.

  Shawn extends his hand and introduces himself, but he still seems agitated and is giving me a weird look. “Do I know you?”

  “Right?!” Adam interrupts as I shake my head no. “That’s what I said!”

  Not good, this is so not good.

  The night I met Adam, Dee had done my eyes in smoky pink eye shadow with extra-­thick mascara. She’d made my lips a pouty pink and had blushed my cheeks and curled my hair before tossing a micro-­mini skirt at me, followed by bright pink heels and a scandalous pink top. I was practically music-­video ready. When I looked in the mirror before leaving her dorm room, I hardly recognized myself, so I’m praying Shawn won’t recognize me either.

  I try to sound honest when I say, “Nope. I must just have one of those faces.”

  “Are you sure?” Shawn asks, still scrutinizing my every faded freckle. “I’m usually really good with faces. I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before . . .”

  I shrug. “Not that I know of. But maybe, I guess.” I walk to the back of the car, hoping some distance will keep Shawn’s memory fuzzy, and ask Adam if he can pop the trunk.

  As I get my stuff out, Adam walks over to me. “I have to go in now. We were supposed to start”—­he looks at his phone—­“fifteen minutes ago. But just give your stuff to Driver. He’s . . . the bus driver.” Adam chuckles at the look I give him. “Tell him you’re with me, and then tell him to lock up and bring you backstage, okay?”

  I nod. “Alright.” I really feel like I should apologize for making Adam late again, but I know he’ll tell me not to be sorry, so instead I thank him for the food.

  He smiles warmly at me. “Sure thing. See you inside.”

  He doesn’t bother putting the top of the convertible up before he disappears with Shawn. I close the trunk and walk to the bus. The door is still hanging open, so I step up to it and call out, “Hello?”

  A young guy in jeans so worn they look older than I am jogs halfway down the stairs. His eyes go from me to the open door between us, and then he curses something about “Fucking Shawn” and complains, “I told him to close the damn door!” This guy looks Adam’s age, with a mop-­top of curly reddish-­brown hair and a chin layered with days-­old scruff. His long, baggy Ninja Turtles tank makes him look even taller and lankier than he already is.

  “Uh . . . Hi, I’m Rowan.” When it becomes clear that means nothing to him, I add, “Adam said to tell you I’m with him.”

  The guy looks me up and down. “So you’re the tutor, huh?” I doubt I’m what he expected, but he smiles warmly at me and shakes my hand. “I’m Driver.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I knock my
toe against my suitcase. “Where should I put my stuff?”

  “Oh, here, let me get that for you. Just hang tight.” He takes my suitcase and backpack and disappears upstairs. After Dee finished packing for me, I emptied everything out and started over. She pouted the entire time, complaining about the non-­attention-­grabbing things I decided to bring along. Flats. Jeans. Leggings. T-­shirts. Basically, the polar opposite of what Adam’s “Peach” would wear.

  After Driver hops back down to the lower level, I tell him what Adam said about locking up and taking me backstage. He closes up the bus and then walks me across the parking lot. There’s still a long line out the door even though the show’s already starting, but Driver cuts to the front and tells the bouncer I’m with him. Looking at all the girls in line, I suddenly feel way underdressed—­which means I’m way overdressed—­and way out of place in my black leggings, my blue T-­shirt, and my black flip-­flops. But it’s not like I have anything better to change into. I frown, realizing I really should have listened to Dee for once, even though there’s no way I’ll admit that to her when she grills me about this the next time we talk on the phone.

  When we get inside, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness. And then I hear Adam’s voice, and my eyes swing to the stage. Butterflies. So many butterflies. Why is it that the feeling I had sitting next to him gets multiplied by like . . . a thousand times when I see him standing onstage? The spotlight transforms his ordinary navy blue T-­shirt and tattered jeans into . . . ugh, I don’t even know. He is too damn sexy. The front of his shirt is tucked into a studded belt, and he’s running a hand through his hair. I wonder if he knows the effect that has on the girls in the crowd.

  By the confident smirk on his face, I’m guessing he does.

  Adam talks to the crowd, laughing with Shawn and getting them worked up, while Driver and I skirt along the edges of the room to get backstage. When the first song starts, it makes the ground beneath my feet vibrate. And it’s good. Seriously—­really good. I find myself staring up at the band again. There are five of them, with Adam front and center and Shawn off to his right. To Adam’s back-­left is a guy much shorter and . . . well, slighter than he is. But maybe that’s just because Adam is so . . . Adam, sucking up all the attention without even trying. The smaller guy has short, light blond hair and is looking down at his guitar as he plays. Closer to the front of the stage, there is another guitar player, this one sporting a spiked blond mohawk. He’s just as tall as Adam, and his neon yellow T-­shirt is hugging him so tightly I can tell he must work out. The drummer in back is a guy who is a little heavier, with cropped brown hair. He’s banging on the drums so hard and fast that my eyes are getting a workout just from following his drumsticks. He’s lost in the song, his entire body moving with the beat he’s setting. I could probably watch him all night, but then the beat slows down and the instruments quiet, and all there is is Adam.

  I suddenly feel a hand on my elbow, and I realize I’ve stopped walking. I’m just standing there practically undressing Adam with my eyes. I look up at Driver, who points with his chin toward a door a little farther back, and I follow him. He shows a pass to the security there, and then we both slip inside.

  “Ever been backstage before?” he asks as he leads me down a hallway packed with rolling band equipment and ­people bustling back and forth.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He grins back at me. “Then this’ll blow your mind!” He opens a door that leads to a set of stairs. The music is deafening in a way that makes my blood buzz with excitement. I’m mesmerized, watching the guys play from a vantage point that most ­people will never get to experience. Their backs are to me, but every time Adam turns in my direction to walk across the stage, it’s like my heart stops beating. He looks as comfortable onstage as he did singing to me in the car, maybe even more so, as absurd as that is. When the song hits a chorus, he crouches down at the edge of the stage and holds his microphone out to the crowd. Everyone sings in unison as crowd surfers ride the waves. The front rows are surging forward to touch Adam’s sneakers, the frayed edges of his jeans. He stands up and walks across the stage again, and when his eyes lock with mine, I’m sure I look as stunned as I feel. Adam smiles and winks at me—­seriously winks—­and I’m surprised I don’t faint right then and there. But then he turns his back to me and continues the song, and I can breathe again.

  Can I still call myself a virgin after that wink? Dear God . . .

  The next song starts out quieter. Someone rushes past me, carrying a stool out for Adam to sit on. Adam puts the mic back in its stand and holds on to it as he sings in a voice as beautiful as it is haunting. He sings about breaking hearts and girls who should have known better, and there’s no doubt he’s the person who wrote this song. The lyrics convey a lack of emotion, but the way Adam sings it . . . it’s like I can feel every word.

  At some point, Driver disappears, but I’m not sure when he left or where he went, and really, I’m not all that concerned. I take every bit of the show in, knowing that I made the right choice when I decided to come along. Dee was right about it being a “once in a lifetime” opportunity. I’ll have to make sure to play all of this down when I talk to her tomorrow so that she can’t hold how right she was over my head for the rest of my life.

  When the show ends, my stomach immediately twists itself into knots. I’m about to come face-­to-­face with Adam after witnessing the spectacle he just put on, and . . . ugh, I’m freaking starstruck! How am I supposed to talk to him after seeing that?! There are no words! Every girl in this building wants him, but I’m the one who will be sharing his tour bus tonight.

  Will I be the only one sharing his tour bus tonight . . . ? I’d never even thought about it . . .

  When Adam and the guys walk out of view of the crowd, the fans start chanting, “One more song!” But it’s all part of the routine. Most of the guys stand to the side of the stage catching their breath, gulping down water, laughing and telling jokes. Adam swipes a water bottle off an instrument case and then practically skips down the stairs, spotting me standing sheepishly off to the side. He heads straight for me.

  “So what did you think?” His eyes are wide with left-­over excitement, and I let his energy wash over me, calming my nerves and making me smile.

  “I thought you guys were awesome!”

  Adam beams. “We have to do one more song, but then I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  After the last song, the entire band gathers around me—­as if I didn’t feel small enough already. “This is the girl from my class,” Adam says by way of introduction, and then he points to the short blond guitarist. “That’s Cody.” Then to the mohawked guitarist. “That’s Joel.” Then to the drummer. “That’s Mike. And you’ve already met Shawn.”

  I smile at Shawn and then give the rest of the guys a little wave. “Rowan. Hi.” I vaguely wonder if Adam is ever going to bother introducing me by name, but it’s really not my biggest concern right now. Looking around at all of the sweaty rock boys in front of me, I’m busy trying not to feel two inches tall. Forcing a smile, I say, “You guys were amazing out there.” I nod at the drummer, Mike. “You were freaking incredible.”

  He looks absolutely stunned, glancing at the other guys and then over his shoulder, like he’s not sure if I’m talking to him. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you! I’ve never seen anything like that.” By the look on his face, I’m guessing Mike doesn’t usually get first dibs on after-­show compliments—­not with Adam and Shawn to compete with. He steps away from the rest of the guys to wrap his arm around my shoulder, and then he starts leading me away.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, confused.

  “To get married. Immediately. Sorry, Adam!” I look over my shoulder, but the guys are following behind us, laughing. Adam smiles so warmly at me that I can feel my heartbeat even in the tips of my ears. Mike leads us back the way I
came, but once he opens the door to the venue, a wall of fans stops us from moving forward. The night turns into a chaotic mess of autographs and pictures. Mike’s arm slips from my shoulder as he poses with fans, and then I’m just standing there, feeling out of place as hell and wishing I could melt into the floor or teleport to a less awkward layer of hell. I’m thinking about sneaking away—­not that I’d actually have to sneak, since it seems no one remembers I’m still here—­until another arm wraps around my shoulders. And this one gives me goose bumps, because when I look up, Adam is smiling down at me. The ends of his hair and the collar of his T-­shirt are dark with sweat, and his body against mine is fire-­hot from jumping around the stage all night.

  He bends close to my ear so I can hear him over the crowd. “You ready to get out of here?” Even as he says it, I hear a chorus of girls calling his name.

  I nod.

  Adam takes my hand in his and leads me through the crowd, ignoring fans the whole way. We slip out of a guarded back door, and once we’re out, he leans against it. “So you had fun tonight?” he asks as he pulls a cigarette out of its pack and lights it.

  “So much fun,” I say, and I mean it. “I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

  With one foot propped against the door, Adam smirks at me. “And Mike was the best part, huh?”

  I shrug and tease, “You were alright too, I guess.”

  Adam chuckles and takes another drag. “I was feeling a little off tonight. I don’t usually go on stone-­cold sober.”

  “Oh yeah?” I remember the way he swirled the whiskey in his glass when I had been on his tour bus last time. I’d asked if he needed to get ready, and he’d told me he was getting ready. I guess pre-­show drinks are a part of his normal routine.

  “Yeah. It was . . . different.”

  “Good different or bad different?”