Okay, I took it way too far. I try to salvage things. “I mean, he’s like a brother to me.”
“Who’s like a brother to you?” Adam says from over my shoulder.
“You,” Scott says. “We’ve found one girl who hasn’t fallen for the infamous Rees charm. She says she prefers businessmen to rockers. She must not know about the size of your wallet, Rees.”
Adam cocks his head. “She’s got plenty of her own cash, Scott.” It’s a mild rebuke but enough of one that Scott tosses his rag down and pretends someone else needs his attention down the bar.
“Was he hassling you?” Adam says quietly after Scott moves away.
“No. Not at all. I was…caught off guard and said some dumb stuff.” I can’t look at Adam. I’m too embarrassed.
“I doubt that.” He shifts slightly, as if he’s about to run down Scott and demand an apology.
I reach out to grab his wrist and then back off at the last minute. “No. Seriously. I was asking questions about you and he said I must have a crush. I told him no and then decided to add an asinine bit about how I prefer the office types over the band types.”
Adam’s face is impassive. Unlike Davis, whose every emotion is readable from a mile away, Adam’s expressions are hard for me to decipher. Is he offended I
“And is that true?” he says.
“No. I don’t have a type. I—” I break off because my entire experience with the opposite sex was two awkward attempts at dating with the Marrow episode sandwiched in between. I know that none of those experiences give me a healthy outlook on relationships, men, dating, or romance in general.
“Because of Marrow?” Adam guesses.
He’s too damn intuitive for his own good. I scrub my finger against the lacquered bar top for a second before answering. “In part. But even before then, I’ve never been good with guys.” My finger pops up to adjust my glasses. “Marrow only made it harder.”
“He’s not here now. You don’t have to be afraid.”
“I’m not. Actually, I—”
“Afraid of what?” A new guy pops up. “Hey, Scott, grab me whatever you got on tap. The good stuff, though. Not any of that watered-down shit.”
Scott waves a hand of acknowledgement. The new guy is one of the musicians in Threat Alert’s band. He plays the same kind of guitar that Rudd does. The guitarist turns around and leans his elbows against the bar top. I’ve heard them call him Albie, short for Fat Albert. I had to look that up on Wikipedia and I still don’t know where the connection comes from. Albie is short, thin, and mayonnaise white.
Adam’s normal poker face holds a mild hint of annoyance.
“Rees,” Albie says, tipping his thin chin up. “Landry, right?”
I nod and stick out my hand. He gives it a dismissive look before addressing Adam. “Hollister thinks we should play a joint song. Kind of ease from one band to another. You guys can play ‘Fine Games’ with us.”
“We can, can we?” Adam says. The chill in his tone is enough to send goosebumps skittering up my arms.
Albie doesn’t even notice. “Yeah. After all, the crowds are coming to hear us. They’ll want you to play one of our songs.” He spins around. “Where’s my drink? Scott, buddy.” The bassist tips his hand toward his mouth. “Need my beer. Shit,” he shakes his head. “The wait staff here sucks.” He stomps down to the end of the bar to confront Scott directly.
Adam slides his hand under my elbow and helps me off the stool. “Not all musicians are assholes like Albie, Landry.”
“I know,” I say in surprise.
He sighs. “Do you?”
I don’t know how to respond to that so I keep my lips zipped shut.
Adam only sighs again.
* * *
Two days later, we’re on the road speeding toward Charlotte. The guys are sleeping. May’s somewhere in eastern Mongolia. An unfortunate number of places there do not have any internet access.
I’d go talk to the bus driver, but I don’t want to bother the guys. They need their sleep. The last couple of shows haven’t gone as well. Albie keeps bugging Adam about doing some cross-band stuff. Adam keeps putting him off.