Page 42 of Crave

“Shut it, Mik.” I stub out my cigarette and push away from the wall. “I’ll see you there,” I say to Ben, who hasn’t moved. He’s trying so hard to keep his eyes on my face. But they keep drifting to the tattoos curling over my shoulders and the dip of cleavage above my black bra. “Drive safe.”

He nods. Words have clearly deserted him.

*

In San Diego, Ben steps into his performer shoes and inhabits the room a little more. We kill it onstage. I’m constantly aware of his presence by the merch table, and I feel it through my whole body when he takes a step away to merge with the crowd.

The next day, before we can hit the road again, his car breaks down.

“We’ll have it ready for you in a week,” says the mechanic in a jolly voice, like this is good news. Ben has his head in his hands.

“Cheer up.” Jules slings a sisterly arm around him. “You can ride with us. Right, ladies? Plenty of room on the bus. We’ll make a special trip down here on the way back. You can pick up your car good as new.”

“You sure that’s okay with you?” Ben looks up at her hopefully, then at me.

“Of course,” Amanda fills in when I don’t answer. “Right, Kate?”

I spread my hands. “Totally okay.”

And that’s how Ben joins us on the bus to San Francisco.

The next show is more intense. He’s taking possession of the stage. Starting to interact with the audience. Smiling, getting into the give-and-take of throwing your feelings out to the room and having the audience’s feelings thrown right back at you.

After the show, I join him behind the club in what’s become our little ritual. We make halting conversation and I run my finger up and down his arm. His soft hair stands on end and a shudder runs through his lean, beautiful body.

This time, I don’t smoke. If I kiss him, all I want him to taste is me.

Jules pokes her head out the door and rolls her eyes.

“Well, if it isn't the high school sweethearts. Whispering, giggling, passing notes…”

That night on the bus, I stare at his profile against the dark window. The wheels whir on the highway.

I shouldn’t fuck him. I shouldn’tkisshim. We’re on tour together. I’ve seen how screwing around can mess with that dynamic. And he’s a virgin.

I so want to be his first.

I lean over. “Wanna talk?” I whisper.

He nods too fast.

“Back there?” I point to the back of the bus, which is separated by a pair of leopard-print curtains that sway and flutter. He follows me back. In relative privacy, we sit down, our knees touching.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

“Anything.”

He looks down at his lap. “I’m not good with such open-ended options.”

“Then how about we don’t talk?” The butterflies are back, crazed and flapping. “We can just…sit here. Together.”

Suddenly, he takes my hand. He’s nervous; he wets his lips. He’s so earnest and sweet. When I squeeze his hand, he slides his arms around me. I do the same. We hold each other tightly. I feel the beat of his heart against my chest.

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” he confesses. His curls tickle my forehead.

“Never?”

He shrugs, that shy smile fleeting across his face. “I’ve never found anyone I wanted to connect to that much. Music's my love. People are distractions.”

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