Page 20 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

“If you guys would’ve told me, I could’ve helped with the bags,” I said, bending over to grab one. I brought it to my bed and spilled its contents onto the comforter.

Bishop was slow in walking toward my bed, standing on the other side of it. “It’s okay. Priest wanted to show you how strong he is. You saw him flexing for you, right?” He chuckled softly at that as he set the dress he’d taken from Priest onto the bed.

All I could do was nod.

“He’s… well, he’s a good guy, but he can be a little over-the-top sometimes. Don’t let him bother you.”

“I won’t.”

Bishop’s hazel eyes fell to the bag I’d emptied onto my bed, and then at the clothes I was sorting through—some pants that looked to be my size. I had no idea how Ramona knew my size. “Do you want some help putting this stuff away?”

I knew what I should say: no, I didn’t want his help. That he could go and leave me be. But for some reason, I found myself saying, “Uh, sure. If you want.”

The smile Bishop gave me made my stomach do a funny thing, and I had to look away. The smile was the same; it had to be Cody. The same smile, the same eyes. I mean, what were the odds of that?

As I struggled with my body’s reaction to his cute smile, he turned his head toward the TV mounted on the opposite wall, watching the video that was currently on the screen. I’d forgotten I was knee-deep in research before he and Priest had walked in with the bags.

“I see you’re watching one of our shows,” he pointed out.

“Oh, yeah. Ramona wanted me to get familiar with your older songs and your stage presence.” I bit my bottom lip. “I don’t know what I’m going to do up there with you guys. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to sing with you. I feel like our styles are very different.”

“Ramona has a good ear for things. If she thinks you’ll complete us, then I’m sure you will.” He went to grab more bags off the floor, bringing them to the bed and setting them by me. This time he stood on the same side of the bed as me, less than a foot away.

He was taller than he was when he was a kid. He didn’t tower over me as easily as Priest, but there was still a healthy seven or so inch difference. That height difference made me all too aware that he wasn’t the same kid I used to know.

He was a man now. An attractive one. And I was old enough to recognize the way my heart skipped a beat when he got close.

I decided to talk, to get the conversation off me. I took the pants from the first bag and wandered to the tall dresser on the far side of the room, mostly to put space between us. “Have you guys always wore those masks like that?”

“Yeah. It started out as a joke. Pope wanted everyone to keep guessing who Black Sacrament was, to the point where we didn’t talk to each other during school. We started going by our stage names, and any time we went out as the band, we dressed up like that.”

“So you guys do your own makeup and stuff?”

“It’s paint. It’s not that hard.”

I was in the process of folding the pants and slipping them into the bottom drawer of the dresser when I paused and looked at him. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but it’s makeup.”

He’d turned around, folded his arms over his chest, and shot me a look. The look was meant to be serious, but I could see the corners of his lips turned upward in a smile he was trying to hide from me. “It’s paint. Body paint. There is a difference.”

I tilted my head in mock thought. “Is there?”

“Oh, you’re mean, aren’t you?”

Chuckling at that, I stood up. I’d finished putting the pants from the bag into the drawer. Only had about million bags left. “You know, for someone who offered to help, you’re not really helping all that much.” I was slow in returning to the bed, where he was, trying to act tough, like he didn’t use a whole bunch of makeup when he went out on stage.

Those pretty hazel eyes of his stared at me for a while, and he said nothing. Neither of us said anything right away. It was like we were locked in a staring contest, neither one of us wanting to bow out.

Something changed on his face, something small, almost indiscernible. A part of me wondered if he’d finally recognized me, if the past was finally catching up to him, but any small hope that might’ve been left in my body was dashed when he said, “I think you’re going to do just fine.”

It was stupid. Those words were meant to be comforting, I was certain, but I couldn’t help the way my gut twisted at hearing it. “Thanks.” My answer was short. I turned away from him and went for another bag of clothes. This one had two boxes in them; shoe boxes.

With freaking heels.

Where the hell would I wear heels? Surely not on stage. No freaking way.

I was so caught up in the sight of the skinny black heels that I almost didn’t hear Bishop say, “I mean it. I was worried at first, when Ramona told us about you, but I think you’re going to be great.”

The heels were, unfortunately, my size too. Had Ramona talked to my mom about my sizes? Because it was kind of creepy that she knew exactly what size shoe I wore. “You haven’t even heard me sing,” I muttered off-handedly, too engrossed with the heels.

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