Page 9 of Kind of Famous
It was the first time he’d been completely still. His hands settled onto the counter, and all the mischief and mockery drained from his face, leaving behind an open sincerity that sucker-punched me. Time slowed, and I brazenly stared at him, as if he were another photograph posted in some fictionalHot drummersthread. He might not have the glitz of Micah or the glam of Noah, but next to them anyone would appear ordinary. Overall more boyish than his two pretty bandmates, Shane had a rugged build, wide shoulders, and a tight muscle running up the side of his neck. That cord could have spawned a photo thread of its own. I followed the set of his jaw to his mouth, dragged my eyes over his plump lower lip, took in his slightly crooked nose and high cheekbones, and studied the small gauges in his earlobes.
By the time I’d made the circuit back to his arresting eyes, I’d concluded he was very easy to look at. And he didn’t seem to mind looking at me either.
My lips curled to match his. And quite possibly, my cheeks now matched my own hair.
With the unexpected arrival of the boys, Jo abandoned her dinner plans in favor of ordering a bunch of pizza, apologizing to me for the switch, as if I would’ve been eating anything other than takeout back at the hotel. While she made the call, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, freshen up, check my teeth, and freak the fuck out privately.
My brain hadn’t yet absorbed the new reality. These people lived in photographs and videos. They existed as anecdotes from fans who’d made it backstage, onto the bus, or into the hotel. I couldn’t wrap my head around the everyday banality of them.
Once I’d returned to earth, I casually strolled into the kitchen and climbed onto the stool beside Noah, pretty, pretty Noah. Sailor8 on the forum would cream her pants to be close enough to touch his wavy blond hair. She’d demand I sniff him and report back my findings, but that wasn’t about to happen. I was working undercover, and I didn’t want to blow my disguise.
As we waited, Micah set plates and glasses on the kitchen island. He and Jo moved around each other like choreographed dancers, putting out silverware and drinks. All the while, she interrogated the guys on their tour.
“How was it traveling with Whiplash?”
I wanted to gush about what a great score it was for them to open for such a huge band, how it would expose them to even more fans. I waited for them to rave about the amazing opportunity, but they all sort of awkwardly looked in different directions until Micah said, “Noah doesn’t want to talk about it.”
He didn’t laugh, so I couldn’t read if he was teasing or serious.
Jo shot a look at Noah. “Oh, right. Sorry.” I was curious to know what had just passed between them, but she changed the topic abruptly. “How long are you home?”
There’d been something in the forum about tension on the tour. I was dying to ask them to fill me in on the mysterious subtext only I couldn’t decipher.
After a heavy pause, Micah said, “We have to head back out on Sunday.”
Jo sagged. “Okay, then. I’m glad you got home early.”
She reached her arms around Micah’s neck and gave him a proper kiss right there in front of us all.
Noah whistled, and the weird vibe seemed to dissipate with the teasing camaraderie. He suddenly cut his gray eyes over to me, catching me studying his perfect profile. He flashed a wicked charming grin. “So, Ginger Spice.”
I bit the inside of my cheek at the unintended slight. His bratty reputation seemed well founded.
“Where did you say you’re from?”
“I didn’t. I’m from Indiana.”
Noah drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, lips twisted, like he was trying to remember where Indiana might be. “July. We were in Indianapolis in July.”
“Uh-huh.” I wasn’t sure how best to respond to that piece of information.
Shane’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah. Maybe Layla was there.”
“Yup. I totally was.” I laughed.
“Sure,” said Noah, sarcastic, as though reading my response as polite good humor, which suited me just fine until Shane’s mouth squeezed together in disappointment.
“No, I really was.”
The admission of my fan status was worth it if only to watch Shane’s face brighten again. His expressions changed like a chameleon, like a mood ring. And those eyes. Noah’s were a fascinating swirl of gray cold mist, and Micah’s were the clear aqua of island seas you find in travel brochures. Shane’s were the dark blue of the midnight sky. A black ring encircled the universe of his incredible eyes, and, as I lost myself in those depths, he let me drink my fill.
Noah turned all the way to face me, elbow on the counter, blocking my view of Shane entirely. “So, where did we play then?”
Never did I expect I’d be sitting here having to prove my fan cred to a member of a band I was slightly overinvested in.
Without missing a beat, I said, “You played the Lawn at the White River State Park.” Savoring the pearly white grin spreading across his face, I added, “Chain Smoke opened for you.”
Noah swung his head back to face Shane. “Is that right?”
