His eyes bore into me. “Does it feel like that when you kiss him?”
I’m frozen for one long moment. Bryce, my boyfriend, is passed out less than a hundred feet from us as my lips, my body, scream for more attention from Sam. Angry with him but more angry with myself, I push him away.
“You’ve made your point.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m guessing that was the point,” I say in a miserable tone as I open the door to the stairwell.
“Peyton,” Sam says, his hand on my shoulder.
I shake his hand off. “Leave me alone,” I say vehemently. I rush to the door to our room. Though he softly calls my name again, I slide the key card into the lock without looking back and slip inside as quickly as possible.
Leaning against the back of the door, I’m about to burst into tears. What the hell just happened? Why does it feel so familiar to the past?
A loud retch echoes from the bathroom, followed by the splash of spewing liquid. The threat of tears ceases as I thump my head once, twice against the door before I turn toward the bathroom. I suppose that after kissing Sam, not helping my drunken, puking boyfriend would be pure evil.
Chapter 22
It’s late afternoon, and Central Park is full of people: bicyclists, joggers, walkers, walkers with dogs, and tourists. The day is bright and sunny. The trees green and lush. Using the camera hanging around my neck, I randomly take pictures of sculptures, plants, and bridges, but I have a particular destination in mind. “Come on, Bryce!” I call over my shoulder.
Hungover, he has parked his butt on a bench yet again. Wearing shorts that hang low, untied high-tops, and a rumpled T-shirt, he looks like a slob. With a look of irritation at me, he pushes off the bench and slowly follows.
I had a long list of places I wanted to visit today. However, Bryce didn’t get out of bed until after eleven. Trying to be a good girlfriend—instead of the bad one I was last night, who sucked face with Sam—I’ve kept the pace easy for him all day. We went to lunch, then to the top deck of the Empire State Building. Now we’re in the park, and I have a little more than an hour before I have to report to the booth. The concert is in the park, so to save time I’m already dressed in a Luminescent T-shirt, my cowboy boots, and a jean skirt—the shorts are getting a bit too raggedy, even for concerts.
I round a bend and the sign STRAWBERRY FIELDS comes into view. I pause and take several pictures of it. Bryce is behind me, moving at a turtle’s pace. I keep strolling along the walkway and taking photographs. Eventually, I come to the famous mosaic, a stone flower of geometric shapes that contain just one word in the middle: IMAGINE. Giddy to finally be seeing it, I move around it slowly, taking picture after picture. Other tourists are gathered around it too, snapping shots.
Bryce catches up and stands with his hands on his hips next to me. “This is it? This is what we had to trek across the damn park for?”
“It’s a tribute to John Lennon.” I snap another picture. “You know, the Beatles?”
His lip curls as he looks down at the mosaic. “It’s stupid.”
I lower the camera. “He was shot over there.” I point to what I think is the location of his apartment building, The Dakota. “He used to walk through this park right along here.”
Bryce shrugs.
“His music has inspired millions of people. He sang about peace.”
Bryce grunts and pushes sweaty blond hair from his forehead. He has been sweating out alcohol all day. Very lovely. “Who cares?”
Okay, I’m fuming. Big time. Yesterday at dinner, Bryce had stated he wanted to go to Yankee Stadium. Though I have zero interest in baseball, I had agreed. Of course, hungover and dragging ass today, he’d changed his mind, yet I wouldn’t have been bitchy if we had gone.
“Go sit down and wait,” I snap, pointing to the benches at the edge of the walkway.
He looks like he might snap back but instead sighs, stretches in the middle of the walkway, and finally moves to a bench. I take more pictures, even swap cameras with another tourist so we can take pictures of each other sitting at the top of the circle that says IMAGINE.
Done, I pull a map of Central Park from my bag and search for SummerStage, where the concert will take place. With my index finger, I’m tracing possible paths to take when someone steps close to me and says, “Hello, Peyton.”
Glancing up, I almost drop the map.
“Guess great minds think alike,” Sam says.
I’ve tried, somewhat successfully, to keep him out of my mind all day. But now that he’s standing in front of me—with his sky-blue eyes looking slightly mischievous, his dark curls a mess on his head—flashes of our kiss zing through me. Then I recall the words he said right before the kiss, about wanting to “fuck” me, and a sharp pang of lust hits me. I’ve been keeping that locked up tight, especially since I’ve spent the day with my boyfriend, who is edging on the line of losing that title.
I concentrate on slowly folding up the map. “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing as you,” he says, nodding toward the mosaic. “Came to see Lennon’s memorial.” He lifts his phone. “Thought I’d get a picture with it.” Then he gestures to my camera. “But maybe you could, with your awesome photo skills?” He smiles at me, his teeth so even and white that he looks like a model for toothpaste or something.
I’ve always known Sam is good-looking. Right now he’s coming off as can’t-resist hot. It’s like he’s my crack. But crack is whack. And I’m not whacked.
“Sure,” I say, and point to the line of people on the other side. “Get in line.”
He lifts a brow. “Wait with me?”
“No,” I say, then glance over to the bench where Bryce is dozing. “I’ll wait here.”
His gaze follows mine. His eyes narrow on Bryce. “He’s sleeping?” he asks incredulously.
My eyes narrow on Sam. “He’s a bit tired.”
Sam shakes his head sadly. “You’d think he could pull through a hangover for his girl.”
“Go get in line,” I say through clenched teeth, irritated. “I have to get to the booth in thirty minutes.”
He looks to Bryce one last time, shaking his head—which irritates me more, because though Bryce should have known better, his condition is partly Sam’s fault—then he goes around the mosaic to the end of the line.
Four people are ahead of him, so I click through pictures on my camera and ignore him staring at me. But I can feel his stare and it’s doing weird things to my insides. Things that should not be happening, especially given our proximity to passed-out Bryce. At last, Sam steps up to the mosaic. He stands above the IMAGINE looking down, and I catch the shot. Him pensive, eyelids lowered. He looks up and I quickly catch the shot of him gazing at the camera, his expression a mix of openness and yearning. The sight jerks at my heart.
“What’s he doing here?” Bryce asks from my side. Apparently, he woke up. Just in time, I suppose.
“Same as me, he’s a fan of Lennon.”
“You’re both musical nuts, so interested in stones in a sidewalk.”
Ignoring Bryce, I ask Sam, “Were you going to smile?”
He lifts a brow and I take a picture of that. I lower my camera. “Other people are waiting, and I need to get going.”
Sam walks over to us. “Hey,” he says to Bryce before turning to me. “Time to sell the T-shirts?”
“Yup,” I say, twisting the strap on my camera so it hangs at my side, then grabbing Bryce’s hand. “Guess we’ll catch you later.”
Sam stares at the clasp of our hands. “Yeah, later.”
Dragging Bryce down the path, I can feel Sam’s gaze burning into me. I don’t look back. I’m not playing his games. Even if I’m starting to question our connection, Bryce is my boyfriend. Sam is the friend/enemy/sexy rocker I can’t seem to refuse.