Someone to Watch Over Me (38 page)

Sliding out from under me, he inched off the
bed and wrapped the towel around his waist. He looked at me one
last time before limping from the bedroom. “Don’t move. Not one
inch.”

Several minutes later, he came back with two
small bags of food and a box of Snowballs, the latter of which I
hid under the bed. Setting the first bag on the nightstand, he sat
the second and larger bag on the bed and tore it open, using it as
a placemat for the food inside. He handed me the sandwich and stole
a few fries for himself. “Eat something, babe, while it’s still
hot.”

Wrapping the sheet around me, I sat up and
crossed my legs. “I’m really not that hungry.” Despite Tate’s
distractions, the day’s events lingered in my head like a nagging
migraine, which quashed my appetite.

“Carter bought some ice cream. Cooper
special. Closest thing to it, at least.” Tate watched the slight
shift in my expression. “That’s what I thought. Eat something
first. Then you can have the ice cream.”

Scowling, I unfolded the foil wrapper and
took a meager bite, while Tate watched with mild amusement.

“What?” I grumbled self-consciously.

“And you said I haven’t been around Levy
enough to have learned anything.”

“Ha ha.”

Sprawling on the bed next to me, he picked
up another large french fry and dragged it through the puddle of
ketchup. “What was your worst job?”

“What?”

“Your worst job. I’m turning the tables.” He
ate the fry, licked some ketchup from his fingers. “Was it
waitressing?”

“No, I worked at a burger joint one summer.
My first job. It was disgusting. Greasy. The customers sucked.
They’d get all pissy if their order wasn’t right. I mean, you pay a
dollar for a cheeseburger, what do you expect? Scrape the freakin’
onions off if you don’t like them. I swore on principle alone, I
would never eat fast food again. I hate it, can’t stomach it.”

Dawning on him, he stared at the sandwich in
my hands. “But I’ve seen you eat it before.”

“Have you?” My lips curled into a faint
smile. “Diners are one thing, but have you ever really
seen
me eat fast food, like McDonalds or anything of the like?”

“You take Levy there.”

“Right, Levy. He’s a kid. It’s like a rite
of passage for him.”

“What the hell have you been eating then?”
At his sudden change in tone, the smile faded from my face. He was
mad. Whether he was mad at me for some odd reason or at himself for
being unobservant, I didn’t know.

Preparing for an argument, I placed my
sandwich down. “Where do you think all the fruits and vegetables
go, Tate? The others certainly don’t eat them.”

“You can’t survive on
fruit
!”

“Well, I eat other stuff too, but the fridge
is only so big!”

“I’ll buy a new one!”

“Tate!”

“I’ll buy a new one,” Tate repeated, daring
me to object. Damn if I didn’t want to. He was being downright
pigheaded. There was nowhere to put anything larger. The storage
space was sparse enough with the five of us on the bus. Six,
really, including the bus driver.

Eventually, his ire passed. He gestured to
the sandwich in my lap. “I guess you don’t really want that?”

“Actually, it’s not half bad. Everything’s
fresh. Chicken’s char-grilled. I think it’s diner bought.”

“Marshall bought it. Does he know about your
aversion for fast food?”

I shrugged, disregarding the jealously in
his tone. “I never mentioned it, but that doesn’t mean that Em or
my parents never discussed it during one of their powwows.”

“Eat,” Tate pressed. “I’m not angry with
you.”

“You’re making me feel like a dissident or
something. I like food, Tate. I like food a lot. I just don’t like
greasy, dirty griddles. I get oily skin and pimples just thinking
about them.”

Lifting the sandwich from the wrapper, I
took a healthy bite. “Mm dewishous. See? I’m eating. Mm wow…um…you
know…it actually
is
really good.”

Shaking his head, his eyes clouded in an
inward focus. “I just don’t know how I didn’t notice this before. I
feel like a deadbeat.”

“Tate,” I said. I paused, swallowing the
monstrous bite of chicken. “There are plenty of things that we
don’t know about each other. We’ve only just met. Granted we have a
lot in common, I imagine we’ll be figuring each other out for a
while. For example, my favorite color is blue. My favorite place is
anywhere outdoors. Get me out in the sun and I’m happy as shit. I’m
practically photosynthetic. I love flowers but I hate lilies. I
think they smell like cat piss. My favorite food is ice cream. It
makes everything better, and I mean
everything
. It doesn’t
matter how bad your day is—ice cream heals all wounds. Christmas is
my favorite holiday. I once saw the Easter bunny when I was little.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do believe in aliens. I love dogs,
but I’ve never had one. Should I go on?”

“You didn’t tell me when your birthday
was.”

“My birthday?” I asked dumbly. This wasn’t
going to go over well. If he was annoyed over his lack of knowledge
regarding my dislike of fast food, he was sure to be furious over
this little fact. It was my bad, I suppose. I’d let the day pass
without a word.

I hadn’t done it purposely, but it fell on
the weekend in New York, when he had done the double set of
concerts at Madison Square Garden. Between eloping, the suspected
pregnancy, joining the tour, and Marshall’s confession, my birthday
had completely slipped my mind.

“You know—the anniversary of your birth,” he
prompted. “Typically comes around once a year…”

Averting my attention, I poked at the
lettuce overhanging my sandwich. “September eighteenth.”

“Cooper.” There it was, the ‘tone.’ Fries
forgotten, he also gave me the ‘stare.’

Peeking up from under my lashes, I felt an
immediate surge of guilt. The sentiment was unwarranted. I had
forgotten. I hadn’t intentionally kept it from him. “What?”

“That was over three weeks ago! Why didn’t
you say anything?”

“We slept most of the day, and you had a
concert that night. We were busy. I forgot. It’s not a big
deal.”

“Not a big deal? It was your birthday!”

“Tate,” I said with solemnity, “everyday is
my birthday since I met you.”

I
had told him flowers. He bought me a dozen roses in
blood red.

They came wrapped in a state of the art
Prevost tour bus.

The thing was nicer than any home I ever
lived in and probably cost twice as much too. It sported a plush
leather sofa and two recliners in the living area, a large maple
galley with granite counter tops, a backlit, natural stone
backsplash, a convection microwave oven, an induction dual burner
cooktop, and—as promised—a full fridge. Better yet, it had heated
floors and central air.

To make room for a desk, Tate had one row of
bunks removed, which left two large bunk beds for Levy. Levy, of
course, chose the top bunk, which Tate had thoughtfully outfitted
with a guard so that he wouldn’t fall out. If I could only keep him
from climbing out…

The rear stateroom was fitted with a five
layer ceiling with ribbon lighting, a queen size bed, oodles of
cabinets for storage, soundproofing for a quieter ride, wall to
wall carpeting, overhead storage and a lighted vanity. But the best
part of all—in my opinion—was the master bathroom. It had an
upgraded rain shower with side sprays, natural stone flooring,
natural stone backlit panels, a large, maple vanity with granite
counters, a vessel sink and a second toilet.

Yes, a
second
toilet. The living room
had its own bathroom.

This wasn’t just a bus. It was a work of
art.

The lights were everywhere. They were in the
ceiling, in ribbons and abundant little LEDs. There was lighting in
the floors on the walls, under chairs and cabinets, in backsplashes
and framing the TVs.

And then there were the surfaces. Grains
upon grains of wood in maple finished the walls, cabinets and
doors. Burl inlays bedecked the cabin doors. Natural stone covered
the floors, backsplashes, counters and walls. Upholstery festooned
the windows and accents.

My eyes didn’t know which direction to
turn.

Everywhere I looked, I found televisions,
monitors and speakers. It was as if Best Buy vomited in the bus.
The bedroom had a flat screen. Each bunk had its own DVD system.
The kitchen had a small TV and the living room had a large one,
though they were technically one room. There was even a larger
monitor at the desk for my laptop so I had a place to work.

All of this, I had objected to at first
sight. I didn’t want to come between Tate and his friends. They had
been together for over half of their lives. They were a unit, a
band of brothers.

Once they physically ousted me from the body
bag and reclaimed their man-cave, I renounced my objections. I
understood. I wasn’t dense. They wanted their bus back. The guys
weren’t ready to resign the single life, and I was stunting their
lifestyle. With me out of the bus, Carter could curse a blue
streak. Shane could go back to smoking his weed. Jake, I wasn’t
aware that he had any faults, except that he occasionally swore and
he sided with the other idiots, but whatever.

I think it bothered me more than it bothered
Tate. Of course, getting another bus had been his idea in the first
place. He claimed he was providing for his family or some other
honorable motive that I couldn’t argue. Personally, I think he just
liked to take advantage of the privacy Levy’s naptime provided. We
took advantage of Levy’s naptime quite often.

Ok, maybe the bus wasn’t so bad. Who was I
kidding? I
loved
the bus.

“Coop.” Nibbling at my shoulder, Tate made a
last attempt at rousing me from the bed. I had been tired as of
late, and increasingly so each week. Tate’s progeny was sucking the
life out of me. “We’re gonna be late if you don’t get up.”

Peeling one eye open, I found Tate staring
back at me. “Mumphle.”

“I know. I know. You think I’m awesome, but
we don’t have time for sex right now. We really need to go.
Besides, Mini Cooper is up.”

Actually, I had said, “I’m up,” but the
signals that ran from my brain to my mouth never worked first thing
in the morning. It came out a husky, “Mumphle.”

Purring, I rolled beneath him, molded to his
curves in hopes of buying a few more minutes of time to lounge in
bed. Our ‘honeymoon’ was coming to an untimely end.

Tate’s hand found my hip, slipped downward,
cupped my ass and lifted me to him. He rolled his hips in a slow
circle. “Maybe we can spare a few minutes.”

My eyes flashed open.

“Ha. No.” Tate made no effort to hide our
indiscretions. The second someone opened their mouth to hound us on
our punctuality, he flashed that wayward smile of his. Anyone with
half a brain could deduce the reason we were running late. “I won’t
be blamed for picking your dad up late at the airport.”

Tate’s dad and Jake’s sister were flying in
for Thanksgiving dinner. My parents couldn’t make it. They’d had
six inches of snow the day before. Dad had fallen while clearing
the driveway and broken his pelvis. I had wanted to fly home and
offer my support, but dad insisted that I didn’t, that there was no
reason for me to miss the holiday. With all the meds he was taking,
he would be sleeping or grouchy, and not up for company.

“Just let me brush my teeth.” Tossing back
the covers, I slid from the bed and shuffled into the bathroom,
yawning and narcoleptic. Now, a month after moving in, I felt at
home. My stuff had designated spaces, even my toothbrush. It sat
right next to Tate’s on the vanity.

“I don’t know why you put yourself through
the torture.”

“Because I’m meeting your dad for this first
time and my mouth tastes like dick.” Squeezing a small dab of
toothpaste onto my brush, I slipped it between my cheek and gums
and began to scrub. I gagged more often than not when brushing my
teeth in the morning.

Tate gave me a look that insinuated he was
biting his tongue over the latter. “You don’t have anything to be
nervous about, Coop. It’s just my dad. He’s going to love you.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the
cleanest, friendliest little airport that I’d ever seen, not that
I’d seen that many airports. But when I pictured airports, they
were all large, intimidating establishments like Philly
International. This was more like a shopping mall with airplanes. I
mean, you didn’t even have to look for parking. It was there for
the taking.

We found Tate’s father at the bar nursing a
beer beside a younger, blonde-haired girl with sun-bleached
curls—who I assumed was Jake’s little sister—and an anxious looking
Emily.

Emily.

I hadn’t talked to Em since I left.

I had talked to Molly, my parents and
Marshall because, well, frankly, I didn’t have a choice, but I had
avoided Em, Garrison and Billy. It wasn’t fair to take things out
on them, but neither was lying to me. I had felt humiliated by
their conspiring, and cynical over our supposed friendship.
Seriously. What friends kept secrets of that magnitude? I told her
everything.

Looking at her now, however, my doubts
evanesced. She obviously cared. Anything she had done, she had done
to help me, including placing herself in danger. Grant could very
well have turned on her if she had attempted to stand in his way. I
had no doubt she would have.

Nevertheless, seeing her was a surprise.
Tate must’ve invited her.

Tossing back the rest of her drink, Em
squared her shoulders. She rose from her stool, a little wobbly in
the knees. “I just flew on the smallest plane in the worst
turbulence I’ve ever experienced to come see you. Don’t even think
about avoiding me.”