Aimee and the Heartthrob (5 page)

She pulled the heavy velvet curtain closed, slid under the covers, and exhaled, staring up at the dark ceiling of her bunk, two feet above her head. Talk about close quarters. She rolled to her side, trying not to hear the thrumming of the concert, the screaming girls calling out for Miles.

Well, it wasn’t such a terrible day,
she thought.
I met five hugely famous pop stars, got propositioned by one in terrible French, hit on by another, and offered sleeping pills—which might as well have been drugs. Not too shabby for my first day as an unwilling groupie.

Not long after, Aimee was fast asleep, barely stirring when the other passengers of
Hanging On
came aboard and the bus pulled onto the road, headed for tomorrow’s stop.

…

The hours following a big show were always raucous. Last night had been no exception. Miles had still been high on adrenaline and everyone was totally wound up, even when they hit the highway. To avoid any incidents with fans,
The One
was always ready to pull out directly after the last note of the show, usually hours before the other buses.

The finale of this concert offered additional challenges. Someone had the
brilliant
idea that they should perform “Women Every Time” (or “WET”) while being flooded by heavy-duty rain sprinklers overhead.

The idea was cool in theory, but no one thought about the huge puddles of what felt like five thousand gallons of water would make, or how slippery the stage would be. In rehearsal, Will was first to face-plant, though it eventually happened to each of them. Ryder proved to be the most uncoordinated, or maybe he did it on purpose in hopes that the number would get tossed. He hated dancing more than anyone.

It was a relief that not all the venues would be equipped for the “rain dance.” The spin on that was, the ticket-buyers wouldn’t know which concert would include that finale. After last night’s show—the first time they’d done it in front of an audience—Miles finally understood the appeal of having five wet guys gyrating onstage in front of girls who’d already been whipped into a screaming hormonal frenzy. He’d almost laughed himself to death when Trevin peeled off his wet shirt onstage at the end, making the crowd go certifiably bonkers. Maybe he’d give that a shot next time.

As they’d been escorted out, soaked to the skin, Miles was able to say a quick good night to Mum backstage, grateful for the millionth time she’d traveled with him since the beginning. He’d never voice this to the fellas, but he sometimes felt sorry for them, being away from their families for so long.

Seconds to Juliet had become a sort of surrogate family; his bandmates were as close to him as brothers, and when LJ wasn’t being a pain in the arse, he was the closest thing to a father figure he had. But real family was irreplaceable.

That was why it was so awesome to have Nick around, even though they obviously wouldn’t be able to hang all that often. Just knowing he was there made Miles feel slightly more normal. Right before boarding the bus, he’d been able to slap his buddy a couple high fives. Then he caught himself looking past Nick’s shoulder, wondering if Aimee had been with him.

He wanted to apologize for mowing her over backstage. He hadn’t seen her as he’d rushed to get his guitar, and barely had time to register it had been her. When he did realize it, it also registered where exactly he had touched.

Well, Nick couldn’t be mad at him for that. Copping a feel had been a total accident; he hadn’t even had time to
enjoy
it. Though the memory—especially when he played it back in slow motion—was pretty frickin’ nice.

The next day, this was still on Miles’s mind when he spotted Aimee walking from the buses to where the craft service tents were pitched in the back parking lot. It wasn’t like he was following her, since he was headed that way, anyway. Though he did enjoy the view of her from the back.

She was in another dress. Miles couldn’t remember ever seeing Aimee wear a dress when they were younger. Maybe she’d been in a tomboy streak. Thank the holy queen she’d grown out of it, because not many girls could rock a pink, flowing dress like this chick could.

The Portland, Oregon, air was chilly. Over her dress, Aimee had on a little red sweater and brown boots with fuzz on the tops. She looked mesmerizing, and he quite enjoyed how just watching her made his breathing slow down. Yes, he was completely aware he wasn’t supposed to think about her like that, but it was only a passing observation.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, making him wonder if maybe she didn’t like the shower on her bus. Or maybe it was broken and she couldn’t wash her hair. He thought about asking her about it when he told himself to shut up. Aimee’s shower, and whatever she did in there, wasn’t his biz.

“Good morning,” he said, when he got close enough to speak. She was in the middle of tugging her sweater sleeve back up over her bare shoulder where it had slid down. It was that exact moment he pictured her naked in the shower. Heat rushed through his body, settling low in his stomach, and he felt his face go red. “So, h-how did you sleep?” he asked, unable to look her in the eye.

Such a clever greeting, tool bag. No wonder you haven’t been able to write a complete song in months.

“It’s one in the afternoon,” she said. “And I slept fine, thanks. It’s kind of cool waking up in a new place.”

“Yeah, it is,” he said, finally able to look at her. “But it can be a blur. Real easy to forget what city you’re in when all you see is the inside of a venue.”
How did you get so smooth? And how did you ever con Nick—and the world!—into thinking you’re any kind of player?
“Have you eaten yet?” He pointed toward the tables set up with food, steam coming out from under the lids.

“That’s why I’m here in the food tent.”

He chuckled and pushed up his sleeves. “Oh, right.”

“Don’t you guys ever stay at hotels?”

“A few times a week, but only when the schedule allows for it. If we have back-to-backs in one city, we can. But like last night, we had to drive straight on. I think we’re staying at a hotel tonight.”
Bloody hell, you’re talking a lot
. “More than two or three days on the bus is rough—for everyone, even for the crew. LJ tries to make all of our schedules less hellish.”

“I can see how that’d be hellish,” Aimee said. “Nice that LJ’s looking out for you.” She got in line behind two girls from the wardrobe crew and dished up a bowl of fruit. “Aren’t you eating?”

“We have food on our bus.” He made a face. “The stuff they set out here, I don’t really like. Reminds me too much of what Ms. Fletcher gave us at Pali High.”

Aimee stared at him for a moment, then blinked.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I sometimes forget we went to the same schools.” She smiled, then her nose wrinkled like she was smelling Ryder’s feet. “Remember that assistant lunch lady at Pali?”

“Ms. Styles?”

“Yeah!” Aimee’s eyes lit up. “She would slop out that disgusting stewed spinach like it was her mission in life to make someone in line blow chunks.”

“Right?” Miles laughed, noticing how Aimee’s hair turned a little red in the sunlight. He wished he could reach out and touch it again, remembering how it smelled like vanilla. What would happen if he did? Just a few strands. Would it count if Nick wasn’t around? “And what about that torn hairnet she wore every day?” he added before he really did reach out and touch her.

“And her mole?” Aimee’s cute little nose wrinkled again.

“How was she even allowed to serve us food?”

“Who knows!”

He smiled at her and crossed his arms, fighting to stifle that urge to hug her again. “But I shouldn’t have compared the food here to Ms. Styles’s. It’s not bad. I guess we’re spoiled on the bus.”

“You’ve already had lunch?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, then. I’m sure you’re super busy.”

Was he being overly observant, or did Aimee’s moods turn on a dime when she was around him? “No, it’s fine. Do you want a sandwich?”

“Um.” She gripped her tray and didn’t move for a second. “Sure.”

Miles loaded up her plate then pointed at an empty table by a row of trees. It was late enough that most everyone had already eaten and was off setting up for tonight’s show. He hadn’t meant to rush over here just to sit with her. He did have things to do. But should he go off and ditch her when she didn’t know anybody, and Mum was dealing with the fan club stuff?

“Are you settling in okay?”

She speared a grape. “So far.”

“And your bed’s, um, comfortable?”

“It’s fine, kind of cramped, though. I kept waking up.”

“That’s because you’re tall, your legs are so long. Oh, I mean, not that I noticed your long—your legs or anything else.”

What was happening to his mind? Just because a seriously hot girl sat across from him bathed in sunlight with her sweater sliding off her shoulder didn’t mean he was licensed to turn into a babbling idiot. “Anyway, yeah, the bunks are pretty small.”

“Well, it was nice of you to check on me.”

“No worries. Anything for Nick’s sister.” Miles noticed how her hand froze on the way to her mouth, and the smile that had been there disappeared.

She folded her arms and sat back. “I’m nothing but Nick’s little sister. Thanks for the reminder.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked, easily catching the frosty edge to her voice.

“Nothing. It’s just I didn’t realize that here, with total strangers, I’d still have that label.”

“But you
are
Nick’s little—”

“I
know
.”

Miles stopped to think for a second, while trying not to notice the cute way her eyes went all scrunchy when she got angry. “Well, you are his sister—
wait
, before you cut me off, I’m saying it because it’s a fact.”

“Perfect,” she mumbled.

He put his elbows on the table. “Nick is my best friend and I’d never do anything he specifically asked me not to. Okay?” She still wasn’t looking at him. “And I would never do anything to piss him off.” At this point, he didn’t know if she was listening to him or not. “Aimee.”

Finally she looked up, though her eyes focused off to the side. “Yeah?”

“Do you know what I mean?”

She shrugged and scooted her fruit to the side of her plate.

“Yesterday, when I first saw you in the conference room…”

Ahh, that got her attention. Her big brown eyes lifted to him. Deep inside them sat a million things he wanted to learn about her, but he also saw millions of things he already knew, things he already liked. Things that made the centers of his palms feel hot when she looked at him. He had to blink to remember his train of thought.

“When I first saw you,” he repeated, “if I’d known you were, I mean, if you
weren’t
Nick’s sister, I know I would’ve—”

“There you are, Miles Carlisle—finally! I’m Fatima Robins with
Teen People
.”

Miles and Aimee both sat back and away from each other. He hadn’t realized they’d been leaning in. “Hello, hi,” he said to a blond woman in glasses and a blue suit.

“Please don’t let me disturb your lunch,” she said when Miles went to stand. “We’re doing an in-depth piece on the band. Your publicist said I’d find you here, so looks like you’re my first victim.”

“Okay. Do you wanna sit?”

The reporter dropped into the corner chair. Miles didn’t hate interviews as much as the other fellas, but he didn’t love them, either. He wished instead that his music could speak for him. But he also knew this was a business, so never-ending interviews and photo shoots and appearances were part of the game.

“How did the show go last night?” the reporter asked. What was her name? Robins something? He was usually better at paying attention to names.

“It was awesome,” Miles replied. “Sold out crowd.”

“A lot of girls in the audience?”

Miles opened his mouth to reply, but glanced across the table when Aimee snorted under her breath.

“I’m sorry,” the reporter said, pulling out a notebook. “We haven’t met. Are you the new girlfriend?”

Aimee’s brown eyes bulged wide and her jaw clenched, like she was totally freaked out. No, not freaked, insulted.

Miles knew how to handle questions like that. He’d faced them a zillion times in the last two years. “No.” He did a casual, full-body shrug. “We’re just hanging. She’s a friend from home.”

“I see. And does this friend from home have a name?” She was looking at Miles while actually asking Aimee. He’d never get used to how smarmy journos could be.

“No name,” he replied before Aimee could. “A friend.”

“Yep, just an old friend,” Aimee said, her voice suddenly overly pleasant and singsong as she smiled brightly at the reporter—not at him. Another mood swing. “Actually, not even that. I’m more like a friend of a friend.”

Miles didn’t know if he was supposed to confirm that, so he just nodded.

The reporter wrote something down. “And how did you get to be such old friends?”

“We go way back,” Miles explained, needing to take control of the subject. “Well, as way back as twelve years old. Or, I was twelve and she was eleven.”

“You grew up together,” the reporter said. “What was he like at twelve?”

Miles was about to cut this interview short when Aimee said, “He was a show-off.” She looked at him, a smile on her lips.

Miles couldn’t help chuckling. “I was not.”

This made her laugh. “Yes, you were—”

“Not.”

She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Oh, please.”

He liked this side of her, a sassy girl who could hang with him, keep up, talk trash. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit of a spotlight hog. Most of that was at your house in front of your family.”

“Lucky us.”

He loved her smile; he remembered it, like he was flipping through a photo album. Maybe she wasn’t so different now. Sure, she’d gotten taller and curvier and her hair had grown long. But the Aimee he used to know had all kinds of sass and was smart and quick. She’d always been like that—Miles just hadn’t appreciated it until now.