Page 67 of Where Happiness Begins
“You keep those feet to yourself, Andy.” The truth is, Iamjumpy. Having him this close to me, barely covered, his scent targeting every single one of my olfactory nerves so I can’t smell anything but him… It’s temptation incarnate.
He groans. “I’ll sleep with my feet all over you if you continue with these stupid nicknames.” For good measure, he hooks his legs over mine.
I push him away, which only makes him press harder. I laugh, bringing the covers higher up to hide my grin behind. “I was wrong about us being able to share a bed, apparently,” I say.
It’s as if my words are a magnifying glass that makes both of us realize just how close we’ve gotten. He might’ve started off at the other end of the bed, but our legs are now tangled, the soft hairs of his calves—don’t think about his calves—brushing against my shaven ones. His hand still rests on my waist, and when his fingers flex, even a little, I shiver. Our heads rest on neighboring pillows, turned to face the other, breaths mingling in the middle.
Carter’s gaze travels across my face, and when it lands on my lips like it did earlier, I almost beg him to kiss me, consequences be damned. So what if I fall for someone who only wants my body? So what, when that man is him?
His hand glides down my body at a torturous pace as if the pads of his fingers need to memorize every inch of me. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, his expression lost in another dimension. Goose bumps cover my waist, then my thighs, where his fingers caress my skin before stopping at the bottom edge of my pajama shorts.
On an inhale, my lips part, and just as I move to shatter this never-ending wait and kiss him, it’s as if a light turns on in his head. First, his hand lets go of me like I’m a burning object, and then he scoots away and turns on his back so he’s facing the ceiling. I follow the bob of his throat that looks almost painful. “Don’t worry,” he says after an eternity. “I’ll behave.”
I remain where I was, both hoping he’ll come back and thanking him for being stronger than me.
“Good night, Lilianne.”
After a breath, I flip to my back too, our bodies now separated by enough space that I can trust myself again. “Good night, Carter.”
I don’t fall asleep for a long, long time.
Chapter 27
It’s rare that the living area of the tour bus is empty, and while I love hanging out with everyone, I cherish those precious moments of quiet. This morning, we stopped at a rest area to shower and shop around before our stop in Nashville tonight, and since I didn’t feel like spending money I don’t have, I decided to come back early and enjoy an empty bus. Carter came back with me, but he’s been in his bunk for a while, maybe napping or reading.
My father’s guitar sits in my lap as I strum it mindlessly, something I’ve gotten in the habit of doing, all the while reading on my computer. I didn’t plan on landing on the AA website, but one thing led to the next, and my screen quickly went from my YouTube page to this article on the signs that someone close to you might be suffering from alcohol dependence.
Personality changes. High tolerance to alcohol. Drinking all day. Impulsive decisions.
Nothing about this sounds like him. Maybe I could recognize my father in tiny details here and there, but he’s never been inappropriate at home or in public. I don’t think I ever even saw him drunk.
“What are you doing?”
I jerk at the sound of Carter’s voice, slamming my computer shut in a way that clearly makes me look guilty. I’m not sure why I’m hiding this. He saw what I saw in that bedroom. He knows the questions running through my head even if we don’t talk about it.
“Nothing,” I still lie.
“Find anything interesting?”
So he did see what I was scrolling through.
I shake my head.
Carter doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t look away as if he thinks I’ll crumble under his stare and spill everything that’s been going through my head since we found those flyers, and I won’t. It doesn’t matter that I’ve started to have some doubts about whether there’s a possibility that Carter’s right and Dad might have had an alcohol problem without me knowing. I’m not acknowledging it.
After what must be a long thirty seconds of staring, he looks down at my hands on the guitar and says, “Lilianne, I need to—”
The front door of the bus bursting open interrupts him. We turn to find a panicked Bong step inside, Joe in tow.
“We’re fucked,” Bong yelps, breathless.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, already on my feet, guitar discarded.
“Emmett’s sick.”
“Sick how?”
He must realize I just tensed up because he gives me an apologetic look. “Like throwing up everywhere. Food poisoning or something.”
