The whole scene is a bit freaky.
“Sam?” I repeat. My fingers find the main switch, and when I flick it on, the cabin is bathed in light. So is Sam. So is the blood running from his nose, down his chin, and soaking into his shirt.
I’m at his side in seconds, shaking him. “Sam! Sam! Sam!”
His eyes open sluggishly. “Hey, Peyton,” he says. He lifts his head slightly and more blood squirts from his nose.
“Holy shit, Sam!” I’m relieved he’s awake but scared by the sight of all the blood as I jump up and grab a towel from the counter, then press it to his nose. With a shaky hand, I dig my phone out. “We need to call an ambulance.”
“Ambulance? No ambulance,” Sam says, trying to push himself up and touching under his nose. He frowns at the blood on his fingertips but repeats, “No ambulance.”
My phone falls to the floor as I push him back down. “Stay down! You’re bleeding all over!”
“Don’t call anyone.” The words come out muffled from under the towel. “Just get me some ice.”
“Ice? Ice! You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!”
After looking down at his blood-drenched shirt, he tears the towel from my hand and presses it to his nose. Laying his head back, he growls, “Just get me some ice!”
With shaky hands, I get another towel and fill it with ice. He has lost a lot of blood. He needs more than ice. He needs medical help whether his stupid ass realizes it or not. I hand him the ice-filled towel, then pick up my phone from the floor. I get only one number punched in before Sam kicks the phone out of my hand, and the device flies across the room onto the other couch.
Sam pushes himself up. “Do not call anyone.”
I stand there breathing heavily as we stare at each other, trying not to go off on him. “What’s going on?” I ask, though I’m starting to put two and two together.
He sits up fully, but leans his head back and shrugs. “My left sinus membrane may have broken open.”
“Why the hell would your sinus break open?” I ask evenly.
“Maybe the coke was cut with something. Or maybe I snorted too much.”
“I thought you dumped all your stuff,” I say, my teeth clenching.
“Got it from a roadie. Needed a couple hits.”
If he weren’t a bloody mess, I’d smack the living crap out of him. “You said you weren’t addicted.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I need the high. It’s not daily or anything. Just when things get rough.”
“Rough?” I ask, but the answer comes to me immediately. Seth. The never-ending shit with his brother. That is what drives Sam to this.
He stands, then weaves. “I need to get cleaned up before they get back. Romeo will kill me if he finds out. Or worse. He’ll find a new bass player.”
I reluctantly go to his side. “Do you have any more stashed away?”
He doesn’t answer me.
I step away and cross my arms. “I’m not helping you unless you give it to me.”
He weaves. I don’t make a move to help.
My arms tighten across my chest. “There’s no way in hell I’m helping you if you’re going to turn around and pull this crap again.”
Glaring at me, he jerks a baggie from his pocket and holds it out. I distastefully pluck the small bag from his hand with a finger and thumb.
After helping him to the bathroom, the first thing I do before he sits down on the toilet lid is flush the baggie. I help him remove his blood-soaked tank top. I wrap it in plastic grocery store bags, planning to toss it into a trash bin later. Using soapy paper towels and putting them in grocery store bags too, I wipe down his chest and neck as he leans his head back, still holding the ice to his nose. This mess would be much easier in a real bathroom with unlimited water, because he could just take a long shower. But the limited amount of water in here would leave blood all over the shower stall. Or use up the water supply. Neither scenario would be good.
When Sam pulls the ice away from his nose so I can wash his face, a thin line of blood leaks out.
“Ugh,” I say. “If you didn’t have a bloody nose, I’d give you one.”
He grins.
I don’t grin back. Leaning over him, I begin cleaning the mess off his face. The scruff on his jaw tears at the paper towel, but he’s at last cleaned up and no longer bleeding.
When I’m done, he grabs my hand and kisses my palm. “Thank you, Peyton.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. His crystal-blue gaze is filled with soft warmth that is almost melting my anger. And it does, to a point.
I tug my hand from his. “This is the last time I’m covering for you. I’m not playing.” I stand. “Got it?”
Jaw tightening, he nods.
“And if it keeps bleeding, you’re going in,” I say in a steely tone, wrapping the already-bagged shirt and the bloody paper towels into the last plastic bag from under the sink. No doubt Romeo will be asking where all the bags went.
Sam dumps the bloody ice towel into the trash too, then stands and flicks open the buttons of his jeans.
I jump back and crash into the plastic shower wall. “What are you doing?”
“Getting in the shower,” he says, weaving and holding on to the counter for support, as he lifts one eyebrow that matches his cocky grin. “Care to join me?”
“Ah, no.” I angrily snatch the bags from the floor, planning to dump them in a bin outside, as he pushes his pants down and reveals black boxers. “Well, I guess if you can still flirt like an ass, you don’t need an ambulance after all,” I say over my shoulder as I step out of the bathroom.
Chapter 19
Two concerts and two nights later, I wake up and realize the bus isn’t moving. Artificial light shines through the window above the couch. Something clanks below, and I slowly comprehend we’re at a truck stop. Gary must be draining the tanks. I reach down and dig my phone out of my purse on the floor. Five twenty-nine a.m. I check our location with the phone. We’re only two hours out of Toronto. Damn. Still almost five more hours until we get to New York.
More clanking from below ensues and I sit up, burying my head in my hands. I’m exhausted and getting more irritated by the second. These past five days have been grueling. Concert after concert without hotels. Sleep, wake up in a new city, set up, deal with concert, help pack up, and then get back on the road. So I’m excited that when we reach New York City today, we’re staying for three full days. Though I want to sightsee, I might use all the extra time to sleep.
I tiptoe through the bus and retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. On my way back to my little room, a bunk curtain opens.
“Peyton?” Sam whispers.
I ignore him, but a minute after I’m back on the couch, the heavy plastic curtain between the two rooms quietly opens. The leather couch moans as Sam sits down next to me.
“I’m sorry, Peyton,” he whispers.
The bottle of water twists in my hands. I’ve stayed away from him or ignored him and his swollen nose—he told the guys he ran into a wall in the darkened bus—for the past couple of days. Every time I’m near him, my blood about boils because he could have killed himself with his stupid-ass drugs. For him to come in here and ask for forgiveness in the middle of the night has me about to erupt with anger.
He sets his chin on my shoulder. “Please, Peyton,” he begs.
My lip quivers as I set the bottle of water on the table. “So this is the right time for an apology?”
“I couldn’t sleep either. Kept thinking about you being pissed.”
That my anger kept him awake softens me a bit. “You scared the crap out of me,” I whisper, and my voice nearly breaks.
His arms wrap around me, and I’m suddenly pressed to a warm naked chest. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I needed to get away from everything.”