Page 14 of Dedicated

I hadn’t had a girlfriend or boyfriend in years. Not since I’d started on this crazy journey with Evan. In a fucked-up kind of way, he was my primary partner, even if we weren’t in a sexual relationship. I had no idea whether or not he felt the same. But it was powerful in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else; the times when we were onstage and I looked over at Evan only to find him already looking back at me, how we navigated intuitively around each other, how I knew the song he wanted to play just by watching how his fingers stretched toward his strings. I wanted to touch him constantly, touch him like I had that night with Ella. My fingers permanently ached with the need, and they ached then as I lay there, knowing he was three feet across the aisle from me, his stocky body folded up in the bunk, and still somehow a world apart. But he’d made it clear that that would never ever happen again. He didn’t want it.

When I wokeup the next morning, we were in Indianapolis, parked on a side street near the venue—some old theater that’d recently been revamped. Jimmy lay sprawled on the couch, catching a nap, and I dug through the minifridge, contemplating leftover wings for breakfast when the door swung wide and Mars poked his head in.

“Pancakes?”

“Fuck yes.” I tossed a T-shirt over my shoulder and clattered down the narrow staircase. Just outside, Evan was bent over stretching his hamstrings. He was drenched in sweat, an empty water bottle tucked in his waistband and another one in his hand. His running shorts were plastered to his ass, and he looked like aMen’s Healthmagazine come to life. He emptied the rest of his water bottle, then set it down to peel off his shirt and wring it out while I tried not to stare.

“Your healthy habits are an insult to musicians everywhere,” I told him.

He sent a dismissive gaze over me, and I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt self-consciously. He was literally the only person in the world who could make me self-conscious, and I fucking hated it with a passion. “You should try a few sometime.”

“Nah. I’m good. I’m now a lifetime member of Fitness Underachievers Anonymous. About to go make some more shitty food choices so I can level up. My stomach’s screaming for pancakes and bacon with a side of aspartame.”

“Are you sure that scream isn’t an SOS for something green?” His brow ticked up as he swiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the corner of his shirt.

“Pretty sure it’s a mercy plea for excess sodium, yep.” I hesitated, trying to read his expression, but he had his hand shading his eyes from the sun, and all I could see were planes of shadow on his sharp features. “Sorry about last night, by the way. I forgot.”

“I noticed.” He dropped his hand to his side, pulling his lips in, like he was debating saying something else, then shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You coming for pancakes?”

“Shower first, then I’ll be over.” He mopped his shirt across his bare chest, and I gave myself an allowance of a measly two seconds to admire the hard lines of his torso coated in a healthy sheen of perspiration—which wasn’t enough. His body deserved at least a handful of minutes. Preferably a whole night. Then I forced my gaze away and headed down the street to the IHOP.

We tookup three booths in the restaurant. I packed in next to Blink and Reg, a ball cap pulled low over my eyes. The other patrons didn’t recognize me, but I could tell by the gaggle of servers clustered around the hostess stand darting looks back and forth at us that they did. Mars, sitting across from me and next to Terry, speared a pancake and ate the entire thing in two bites. I was two deep into a stack of four and already getting full.

Blink relayed a story about some dimwit sound guy at the last venue, then turned a scathing eye on Mars, who was licking syrup from his fingertips. “You need a trough.”

“I’d eat from a trough. No problem. Would save me the trouble of forks and knives,” Mars said, like silverware was a huge inconvenience. I snickered and passed over the rest of my pancakes to him and then turned a look aside as Blink muttered a “whoa” under his breath.

When I glanced up to find the source that earned such a reverent sound, Evan was walking toward us. Evan was… Evan could come across as really intimidating unless he was smiling, because he was hard all over. Not just his body, but all of the angles of him, too. Super structured cheekbones, a steel-edged jaw, insanely attractive in that kind of fierce, untouchable, reserved way that made you want to get inside him and figure out what made him tick. He was lines and edges and definition, not a soft spot on him, except maybe his lips, and now was definitely not the time to be thinking about those. He had a fierce resting bitch face, which was why Blink was muttering. I didn’t even know it was possible, but Evan’s RBC had achieved new heights. His brows were tightly knit, and Oscar the Grouch had nothing on the scowl he sported as he stalked toward us.

“Did someone replace his hair gel with lube or what?” I asked, half-serious. Mars laughed and shook his head, but we all got quiet as Evan reached the table. He dropped onto the bench across from me, next to Mars without a peep, then picked up the menu and glared at it before he looked up and actually snapped his fucking fingers for attention. When the waiter ran over, he barked out a terse order, then slumped down on the bench. He did all of this as we watched in silence because his behavior was so unusual that none of us were sure how to approach it. Evan got mad on occasion, sure, but it was always this kind of inwardly directed thing. He could be complaining to a sound guy, but the second the guy’s face fell, he’d go soft and backtrack.

Mars and Blink both stared at me, which meant I’d been silently elected to figure out what the fuck was wrong with him. That was a bad idea.

“Your G-string sitting too deep in your crack or what, Porter?” And that was why it was a bad idea. When I got nervous or flustered, I inevitably resorted to what was probably the worst thing to say. And people always ended up even angrier. Always.

Evan didn’t bat a lash at first, didn’t even look at me. Then he blinked slowly and leveled a gaze on me that could’ve frosted the Devil’s ass cheeks. “Sorry, not sure I heard you right. Thought I’d check and see if you had a cock crammed down your throat. Looks like you don’t, though—at least not right now—so I guess that means you were just spewing your usual meaningless horseshit.”

Every jaw at the table dropped because Evan and I antagonized each other back and forth, but even when it was bitchy, it was never overtly aggressive the way it was now.

“Uhh… I’m gonna go check the equipment,” Blink said, and bailed, sliding from the booth so fast the plastic seat squeaked. Mars followed with an excuse so lame I didn’t even register it. The other guys trickled after them, trying to act natural, but very evidently wanting to leave us alone.

The waiter delivered Evan’s order, and he plowed into it in surly silence. I kicked my feet up onto the bench across from me, leaving Evan plenty of room, and folded my arms over my chest as I watched him. He kept eating as if I wasn’t there.

“I can’t tell if you’re waiting for me to ask what the fuck is wrong with you or if you’re just hoping I’ll ignore it.”

“The last one,” he said around a mouthful of hash browns.

“Well. You’re kinda making that impossible. You’re putting out a vibe that’s got people running like an elevator fart.”

“So get off the elevator and let me finish eating in peace. Funny you should mention elevators by the way.”

He was still focused solely on the wobbling yellow cluster of scrambled eggs that he jabbed at and poked into his mouth.