Page 31 of Hero on the Road
CHAPTER18
Connor
The bar was, to my surprise, really nice. One of those places that had been designed to look all Old World—hell, maybe it had been built during the old world, I didn’t know—and I gazed around, marveling at the aged wood and leather. This place had to be worth a lot of money, and it was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.
I mean, not that they could pick it up and move it like you would move a piece of furniture. But still.
“Think their bedrooms are this gorgeous?” Olivia asked from my side.
I bit my lip. I didn’t know, but I’d kill to find out. Sleeping in the van was fine—at least it had four walls and a roof—but sleeping that close to Olivia was driving me insane. Everything about the girl made me want to touch her. The soft red hair, her tiny frame, those kissable lips… And worst of all, the way I kept catching her looking at me expectantly, like she she knew I wanted to do something and was holding back.
I wondered if she could read my mind. If she knew that I was dreaming about her almost every night now, remembering how her skin felt when I brushed my fingertips over it and how she sounded when she sighed with satisfaction. Hell, maybe she could see right into my head and hear exactly what I wanted to do to her.
Because every single night I slept next to her, I had to stay awake just to keep myself from turning and taking her in my arms while I slept.
Being on this tour was a special form of torture. I was having the time of my life—despite the situation we were in—and yet fighting my baser instincts every single day. I was furious at the label for landing us out here and every cell in my body wanted to fight them, man to man, for putting Olivia through this. She hadn’t said anything in defense of herself and my mind was screaming at me to stand up for her. Tell them they needed to give her more respect. Take better care of her.
And yet.
And yet their actions meant I had the girl of my dreams right next to me and we got to sing together every day. I saw her laughing and dreaming and composing, and I got to walk along with her through this adventure. I got to be the one saving her. I mean, sort of.
It was like actually being with her, only, of course, I wasn’t. Because she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to be with me, right from the start. Right from the morning when she walked out on me rather than sticking around and at least having breakfast.
And if you’re asking whether I’d brought that up, the answer was no. The tension between us was already sparking with electricity any time we looked at each other too long. I wasn’t going to make that any worse by bringing up our history. Especially when I knew how it would end. Danny had taken me to the side before we left and warned me about starting anything with her. He hadn’t known what happened at Christmas, of course, but I was guessing he could see the way we looked at each other.
“She’s got a history of falling for her singing partners,” he warned. “Don’t go for it. It’ll be nothing but trouble and the label definitely won’t like it.”
I’d been angry at him on her behalf—she’d started a band with her boyfriend, not ‘fallen for her singing partner,’ and it had happened once—but I’d just muttered something conciliatory and turned away.
I had no intention of falling for her again, but he didn’t have to know the actual reason for that.
Suddenly I remembered that the girl I was dreaming about was in fact standing right next to me and had asked me a question, and I turned to her now. “I bet their rooms are twice as nice as this. Let’s find out.”
I wanted a bedroom of my own tonight, and I was willing to sing for that particular privilege. I’d sing all night if I had to.
* * *
“Olivia Johns and Connor Wheating?” the bartender asked. “Of course I’ve heard about you! I follow Uncommon Country!”
I stared at him blankly. “You do what?”
“Uncommon Country! Colin Cravers’ blog! I’ve read all about you!”
Colin’s blog. Of course. Colin had been writing about us nonstop, following us on the road like he was the one managing the tour or something. I just hadn’t realized anyone actually read what he wrote, aside from me and Olivia.
Surprised, I laughed. “If you follow Colin’s blog, I’m guessing you know a lot more about Olivia than you do about me.”
The bartender laughed and nodded, but launched off into his own version of what we were doing—with making appearances outside of our tour and singing on street corners for the common folk—and how we were the blue collar workers of the music industry. The little guys. Everyone in Montana was cheering for us, he said, and taking bets about where we’d appear next. Atomic had been playing our music on the radio and the state was agog with with the idea that we were hitch-hiking down its roads.
“You want to play here? Tonight?” he asked, looking like Elvis had just stopped by and asked to borrow a guitar for an impromptu jam session.
“If you’ll take a show as payment on dinner and a couple rooms,” I said, my heart growing several sizes.
I’d been playing in Nashville for a long tine and had never gotten this sort of response. It felt… weird. But incredibly good.
It felt like we’darrived.
Even if we’d only done it in a tiny town in the middle of Montana.
