An outdoor concert has a different kind of energy, a different sound. Uncontainable, the music blasts and floats out into the night. The stage looks different. There are no seats or sections. The lights reach through the darkness and never end. Here in Central Park, the backdrop behind the stage is a stand of lush, towering trees. Even the fans are different—their vibe feels more gleeful and carefree. Or maybe that’s just New York.
On the side of the stage, Bryce and I watch Griff. Mike offered to close up the booth for me tonight since my boyfriend is in town. I stayed at the booth halfway through Luminescent Juliet’s performance, though, because it was so busy. Of course, Bryce wasn’t any help. He sat in a folded chair off to the side in the shade, looking annoyed and bored.
He also stayed backstage during most of the band’s performance while I took pictures. Because they were the first onstage, their set started in the setting sun and ended at dusk, which created an unusual lighting situation and the chance to get some unique pictures. I refused to consider Sam in any other way except as a member of a band I work for, even when he winked directly at me.
Now that we’re together watching Griff, Bryce is whining in my ear about being tired and wanting to go back to the hotel. He’s irritating the crap out of me. Our spot on the side of the stage is like being in the first seat directly behind the catcher at a Yankees game. Even hungover, he wouldn’t consider leaving that game. Griff is one of the hottest rock bands in the country right now, but Bryce wants to go back to the room instead of watching the amazing show that’s happening ten feet away from us.
His disregard for music is beyond annoying. His indifference for what I love feels like disrespect to me. But since I can’t take the whining much longer, I tell him that once Griff is done we’ll go.
Our walk back to the hotel is quiet. I’m sure Bryce senses my crankiness. It’s kind of hard to keep it off my face and out of my voice. Once we’re inside our room, as soon as I set my camera and purse down on the dresser, he pulls me into his arms.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick all day. I seriously felt like shit.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “I want to make it up to you,” he says in my ear before his lips slide down my neck.
I’m guessing he’s thinking we should have make-up sex, but the whole situation feels foreign. Bryce and I never fight. We get along. But we usually go out for a few hours and then back to my place—since he lives with three other guys. We’ve never been together for an entire day. And I’ve never been mad at him enough to consider withholding sex.
He presses a kiss to my chin. “Let me make it up to you, baby?”
Standing stiff, I tell myself this is my boyfriend. He came all the way from Michigan to visit me. He’s been hungover all day. He was excited to surprise me. He got us this room. Took me out to dinner.
Fingers digging into my back, he tugs me closer. His body molds to mine and his mouth covers my lips.
And it feels wrong. My insides scream that I don’t want his mouth on mine. He deepens the kiss but I can’t make myself re-spond. It feels wrong, wrong, wrong.
After a minute of my nonresponsive reaction, he breaks away. “What’s going on?”
I shrug. Never having been so turned off by him, I’m not entirely sure. I’m thinking my body’s rejection has something to do with being pissed off. Or maybe that’s what I’m hoping.
“I said I was sorry,” he says, his mouth twisting with anger.
I gape at him. Unfortunately, his apology doesn’t wipe away my irritation—and it doesn’t feel very authentic either. Suddenly fuming, I jerk out of his arms. “So you say you’re sorry and that’s it? We step into the room and start fucking like bunnies?”
“What the hell, Peyton?” He falls onto the end of the bed. “I came here to see you, got us this room, took you out to a fancy dinner, and followed you around all day doing stupid shit.”
I step back as the implication of this confession hits me. “So, like some prostitute I owe you a screw now?”
“I didn’t say that,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.
“No? You sure as hell insinuated it.”
His blond head pops up and he glares at me. “Now you’re just being a bitch.”
My eyebrows arch to my hairline. Fury erupts within in me. “A bitch? A bitch!” I grab my purse off the dresser. “Say good-bye to this bitch, bitch!” I slam the door behind me and march down the hall. I’m so pissed, I can’t see straight.
“Peyton!” Bryce yells from the doorway.
Without looking back, I flip him off. I use the same finger to punch the down button for an elevator, then climb in. No one is in the elevator. I pace back and forth, my hands fisted at my sides. When the doors open, I rush across the lobby, then past the fancy entrance to the spa center to a back hallway. The seating alcove near an exit door is empty. I fall onto a small couch and start to cry like an idiot, my tears a mix of anger and confusion.
Chapter 23
The dam has broken, and though I have little control over my tears—I’m vaguely aware of a few people coming and going behind me—I strive to keep my sobbing quiet. I’m living in a corny, sad song. Getting control of myself, I force myself to slowly stop crying, but I’m still hunched over, a ball of stupid despair, when someone taps on my shoulder.
Fearing it’s Bryce, and afraid of what I might say to him in the moment, I don’t look up.
“Peyton?” a familiar voice asks.
I look up to see Gabe frowning down at me. A girl connected to his hip frowns at me too.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his frown deepening.
I’m very embarrassed—my eyes have to be red and my skin splotchy—and my lip quivers, but I shrug.
His frown deepens even more. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
I look away.
“You two fighting?” he asks, and my lip quivers again as I barely nod. After letting go of the girl’s waist, he bends down in front of me until his elbows are on his knees, his brown shoulder-length hair falling forward. “You going to sit out here all night?”
I shrug again.
His expression turns skeptical. “Want to come to the after-party and watch us sign more shit?”
A party would be horrible in my current state. I shake my head.
Sighing, he reaches behind his back and draws out his wallet, then flicks his hotel card in my face. “Then here. We actually got a semisuite this time. The couch is all yours.”
The couch sounds like paradise. My fingers reach for the card but pause. “Will Romeo care?” I ask since they always room together. “And how will you get back in?”
“Why would Romeo care? And I’ll just get a new key.”
I grab the card. “Okay.”
He slowly stands. “Do you want us to walk you up?”
The girl smooths a hand over her short dress, looking irritated.
“No, that’s all right,” I say, shaking my head again.
He doesn’t look convinced yet says, “Room 1229.”
I stand and force a slight smile. “Thank you, Gabe.”
“No problem,” he says, the crease between his brows intensifying as he again takes in my puffy face. “Maybe you need to think about what you really want, Peyton,” he says, pulling the girl toward the door. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Because I’m seeing something totally different than what you got.”
My nose wrinkles at his insinuation. Bryce and I had a fight. It had nothing to do with Sam. Before I can comment, he whisks the girl out the door. Thankful and irritated with him, I start my trek to the room. Bryce and I are on the tenth floor, so at least there will be a couple of floors between us.