Indestructible (48 page)
“Page.”
He laughs, treating me to one seriously enlightening sound, accompanied by the sexiest blindingly white smile. “Then no, not even close to good.”
Damn, I should’ve gone with a mediocre guitarist! Now I’ve backed myself into a corner, Stranger Danger not giving me anything in the form of segue. Struggling, I shove my hands in my back pockets and rock nervously back and forth on my heels, forced to come up with another revealing yet seemingly aloof question.
“Why do you ask?” he rescues me.
“Our band.” I toss my head back toward the bus. “We need a bassist. And since you’re hitchhiking, I thought maybe—”
He drops down from his perch on the top edge of the bench and stands, well over six feet of sinister sex appeal stretching out before my eager eyes. “Do you
know
what a hitchhiker is?”
“What?” I shake my head to clear it and take a step back. “Yes, of course.”
“You sure about that?” He eats up the steps I’d retreated, placing his body close enough to mine that I can literally
feel
the battle of push and pull between us. “‘Cause where I come from, hitchhikers stand
at
the road, where you can see them. It increases their chances of actually landing a ride.” His left eyebrow curves up at one end and that same eye, I swear it, twinkles at me. “Seeing as how I’m sitting at the back of a desolate rest stop, I’m either the worst hitchhiker in history,” another step closer, “or you’re labeling me with the wrong tag.”
Some weird sensation creeps up my neck, then my face, ending with a tingle all over my scalp. Confused, I reach up to feel my cheek.
What the hell
?
Am I blushing?
I had no idea my body was capable of such an act.
Am I a delicate, femininely light blusher or one of those hideous, red as a beet, blotchy kinds?
Also, and
most importantly
, what is it with this guy? I don’t blush, I certainly don’t notice what brand of jeans a guy wears, and…I don’t usually enjoy challenging yet intriguing conversations with strangers. In the blip of time I’ve spent with him, I’ve morphed into a completely unrecognizable version of myself, one I really don’t like…
and I wasn’t overly thrilled with the original
. Nothing, no one, ever surprises me in a good way or brings to curious life parts of me I thought were long since dead or didn’t exist at all.
Seriously, girls in high school? Complete anomalies. Gushing, blushing, obnoxious freaks of nature. I was never one of those girls and won’t allow myself to become one.
“I don’t play bass anyway, just dabble on that thing some.” He casts a fleeting glance at his case. Close enough that his breath grazes my already heated cheeks, I can clearly see that his pupils have dilated, a sure sign he’s fibbing and being modest.
He can play.
I step back again, beginning to resent him, this may be
vagabond
, for daring to stir my damn
Kool-Aid
. Nine out of ten receptors in my brain, although I have no clue how many a human brain actually has, are screaming at me to tuck and run far, far away. My heartbeat is thumping against its own cage like I just freebased crack and I haven’t turned to look for Conner in at least a full five minutes, neglectful and careless.
Yeah, not good. Time to regroup.
I need to come up with a solution that doesn’t make my nipples wanna cut glass.
And yet…I shift my eyes right, seeing that Conner is fine, and find myself speaking again as though I didn’t just have a back-out plan damn near planned. “Jarrett does. Play bass, I mean. He plays almost anything, and well.” My chin juts up and out, pride in my boy not to be tamed as I give him a curt nod. “So if you can hang on guitar, he can switch to bass no problem.”
He rubs his chin between thumb and forefinger and considers me, but in a classy, eyes above the neck kinda way. This time the
right
brow lifts in contemplation as he slides his tongue back and forth across that enchanting bottom lip. Women worldwide would pay top dollar for the chance to watch this guy do
anything
, algebra even;
trust me
. I’m cataloguing his habits
strictly
in case he does end up on the bus—left eyebrow up is playful and joking, right brow means serious and analyzing.
“Why don’t you let me try this, since you suck at it? Cannon Blackwell,
not
a hitchhiker.” He offers his right hand. “And you are?”
“Liz.”
A frown line mars his forehead as he awkwardly draws back the hand I didn’t shake—no way I’m actually going to risk touching him, as in, his skin, my skin. I’m becoming even more confused about the array of rabid, conflicting emotions stirring within me as the moments pass.
“Do you have a last name,
Liz
?”
Evading his question, I take a deep breath, and let ‘er rip. “Here’s the deal. I pegged you for a wandering musician, and we need one. You’ll have to pass a background check, body search, and piss in a cup for a drug test before you step one foot on my bus. We’re not a die-hard, international sensation, just a small band having fun. You split all the money from the gigs with Jarrett and Rhett, less a small cut for Bruce and Conner, and I pay for everything else. In return, you agree not to do drugs, on or off my bus,
ever
. You can do whores, not any of my business, but also, not on the bus. You
can
drink onboard, but never so much that you get sloppy in front of my brother.” After a long, loud exhale, I let my shoulders drop, done with the winded, practiced speech I’ve given before, and take another step back.
“What’s the name of the band?”
That’s
what he got out of that spiel? Definitely not the usual initial response I get. Most people start asking exactly what shows up on a background check, or what drugs the test picks up, things like that.
“See You Next Tuesday.”
His head cocks to the side, a few brown locks falling near his eye, and he smirks. “Your band is called cu—the uh, c-word?”
“Now did you hear me say the word cunt?” I challenge, twisting my lip in jest.
“Do
you
play, Liz?”
“Why?” I ask, a hint of defiance.
“Well, you’re as feisty as you are cute. Not sure I can handle a triple threat. You play too and I may be in trouble.” He smiles; well, his mouth does some upturning, mind-fuckery type thing. I’m not exactly sure it’d be considered a smile.
“Sister!” blares through the peaceful afternoon air, and then again, more desperately. “Bethy! Come find me!”
I hold up one finger, silently requesting a minute, and turn, smiling at Conner running toward me, Jarrett right behind him. “Come ‘ere, Bubs! I want you to meet someone.”
Tell me
he’s not a genius with super powers—his timing is spot on. I’m on the fence with this guy. No kill us in our sleep vibes or so much as a flinch at my gamut of requirements, he should be an automatic yes. Yet I’m torn, all my hesitancies resting on the scary
good
vibrations he’s giving me. I need to continue focusing on what’s important, my ace “people reader,” who’s joining us now, and
not
the ass on the new guy. I find Cannon Blackwell disarming…and quite frankly, it’s pissing me off.
“I thought you got lost,” Conner pants, habitually throwing his body on and around me, igniting a reminder twinge in my back. “Jarrett! I FOUND HER!”
I wince, dislodging my arm from his deadlock to stick a finger in my ear, wiggling it around to stop the ringing.
“Right behind ya, buddy,” Jarrett chuckles in a normal volume. “Good job, though.”
“Bethy needs a Bubcuff,” Conner states, holding up his wrist.
Jarrett grins at me sideways. “I think you may be right there, Con Man. Liz, do you need a Bubcuff?”
Ever since I was granted custody of Conner, almost a full two years of red tape after I turned eighteen, I’d made him wear what came to be known as the “Bubcuff” any time he’s not right beside me. It’s nothing more than a thick, brown leather wristband, but Conner thinks it’s magic and sends me a signal if he gets too far from whomever I’ve entrusted him with.
I do what I have to do. You lose your brother, who faces certain challenges, in the middle of a carnival and then come talk to me. And in my defense, Bubs is actually the one who first suggested I was able to find him because of the bracelet. I just didn’t correct him.
“I wasn’t lost, Bubs. Jarrett knew where I was the whole time, but thanks for finding me. I should have told you where I was going too. Can I have a
soft
hug?” I reach my arms out, hoping he caught my specific request.
Thankfully, he did, wrapping him arms around me half as tight as normal, kissing my forehead as he pulls back. “Soft enough, Bethy?”
Eaten up with happy and the goofy grin to match, I nod my head. “Perfect. Now, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
When I turn Conner by the arm, Cannon’s watching us with, hmmm, I don’t know him well enough yet to say with what exactly. But none of my intuitive hackles go up, so it’s not anything offensive, nothing I’m usually braced for when introducing someone to my brother for the first time.
“Conner, this is Cannon Blackwell. He plays—”
“He almost has my same name!” I’m interrupted with a shout.
“You’re right, they do sound a lot alike, but I wasn’t done, bud.”
He ducks his head. “Sorry, Sister.”
I tilt his chin with my finger, not specifically acknowledging the pouting as the doctors advised me, and continue on. “He plays the guitar and I was talking to him about maybe giving the band a try. Cannon,” I shift my body, opening my stance to include them both, “this is my big brother, Conner. He plays the tambourine for us.”
“I’m the second other boss of the band.” Con steps forward, puffing out his chest.
What Cannon does next, reflexively, not only casts away any doubts that may have still been lingering in the back of my head, but also testifies largely toward my preliminary sizing up of his character. “It’s nice to meet you, Conner.” His hand’s already extended. “What kind of music does your band play?”
I sneak a glance at Jarrett to find he’s already looking at me, wearing a “told ya so” smile on his lips.
Cannon’s in with him.
“Not my sister’s music. She won’t let us. We play Rhett’s songs, and other people’s. It’s called Al, At—”
I place a hand on Conner’s back, helping out a little. “Think Evanescence has a baby with City & Colour. We call it Alternatwang. Jarrett and I wanna rock, but Rhett writes the songs and
should
have been born the gritty Everly Brother, so we compromise.”
He nods, surprisingly not needing further explanation on our genre. “So, Conner, I’m sittin’ here, minding my own business, when your sassy sister comes over and asks me to jump on a bus full of strangers. Sounds crazy to me. I’m hoping maybe you can tell me why I should join your band?”
“Where are you going?” Conner asks him.
He bounces his shoulders and looks off in the distance. “No idea,” he barely wisps out.
“Do you like Pez?”
Cannon turns back to him slowly, an amused spark of interest lifting
both
brows, which I note to mean “you’ve pleasantly surprised me.” “Sure, who doesn’t like Pez?”
“I got a bunch on the bus, let’s go!” Conner yells, grabbing Jarrett’s and my hands, dragging us back the way we came. “Come on, Cannon Blackwell, we’re heading out! Woo woo!” His train noise carries off on the breeze.
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