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4
SCAR
“Welcome home, milady.” Boone extends his arm out in a flourish, gesturing to the open door on one of the three tour buses parked around the back of the stadium. He mocks a bow forward as I step onto the bus and I can’t stop the grin that catches the corner of my mouth.
Yes, Boone is being Boone. But I can tell that he’s making an effort to get me excited. I haven’t been on a tour before and even if I don’t want to admit it, I’m nervous. I’ve spent so many years writing and selling songs behind the scenes and I was happy with that. But there is a whole different kind of rush that comes with being not only the voice behind the words, but also the face of them.
The first thing to greet me as I climb up the few steps of the bus is a whiff of wicked strong cologne. It’s kind of like those stores that used to be in malls that were so dark you couldn’t tell what you were buying and had bass music pulsing through them at 10:00am on a Tuesday morning.
The second thing to greet me is two bare chested men. One is sprawled across the sleek black sofa on my left, booted feet kicked up on the cushions, a beer in one hand and a phone in the other. The other one is standing at the small dining table on the right, chopping a pineapple into quarter sized cubes.
The one cutting the fruit must feel my eyes because he immediately looks up and jumps back at my presence. He still clutches the large knife in his hand, although I think it’s from me startling him and not in a threatening way.
His brown eyes are wide, assessing me, as he says, “Can I help you?”
Before I can answer, Boone pops in behind me and the man in front of me visibly relaxes. The guy on the couch still hasn’t bothered to look up from his phone, clearly very engrossed in whatever conversation he’s having with the person on the other end.
“It’s okay, man.” Boone throws one arm around my shoulders, the other held up at his side. “This is Scarlett.” He gives me a little shake as if I’m the new kid being introduced to the class, and I use my foot to step lightly but pointedly on his toes. He lets me go and pushes me aside, shooting me one of his signature smirks.
Boone crosses the few feet over to the counter and nabs a few pieces of fruit, popping them in his mouth and not bothering to swallow before he continues the introductions. “Scar, this is Hayden,” he says around a mouthful of pineapple, pointing to the one in the kitchen area.
“Hey.” Hayden wipes his hands on a towel before stepping forward and offering me his hand. “Nice to meet you, Scarlett.” His voice is deep but soft, like a weighted blanket.
“Scar,” I correct. “Nice to meet you too,” I shake his hand and try to keep my gaze fixed on his eyes, but as he pulls back, I can’t help but sneak a peek at his heavily tattooed chest, admiring the artwork that spans across his body. He’s lean but toned, his time spent working out apparent by the dips of definition on his torso and arms. When I bring my eyes back up to his, his cheeks are flushed and he reaches for the t-shirt hanging out of the back pocket of his joggers.
“Sorry,” he says as he pulls the shirt over his head. “We weren’t expecting company just yet.”
I shrug. “Nothing I’m not going to be seeing a lot of soon.”
He averts his gaze, running his hands across the sides of his pants before slipping them into his pockets.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this rockstar’s a little shy.
“And that one over there is Walker. Walker”—he points at the one on the couch—“Scar.” He points back to me.
Walker’s attention is finally pulled from his phone and when we make eye contact, his body goes rigid for the briefest of moments before he jumps to his feet. Now that he’s standing, I can tell how tall he is; a good eight or so inches above my 5’6” frame.
I immediately feel myself wanting to shrink, my body canting into a submissive stance in front of this man. It’s not just because he’s taller than me or that his broad shoulders cut a powerful picture. It’s that he has an aura about him, a cool sort of confidence that speaks without him even needing to open his mouth. He has a presence about him that makes you take notice.
This man was born to have people notice him.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin, refusing the pull of my body.
“Welcome to the family.” He smiles, extending his hand and I shake it without a word. His hands are calloused and rough against the softness of my own.
I know a few of their songs, but they’ve never been a band that I’ve paid much attention to, even with them being very popular mainstream. So I can’t be certain what role Walker and Hayden play in the band, but judging by the fact that as soon as we break our handshake and Walker immediately starts tapping his fingers against his jeans, I’d say it’s a safe guess that he’s their drummer.
Unlike Hayden who moved to put a shirt on after we got introduced, Walker seems to be in no such rush. Instead, he leans against the counters and crosses his arms across his bare chest. Whereas Hayden looks like his muscle definition comes from weight training, Walker’s arms are thick, corded, and built from years of playing drums. I’d bet money on it.
His pale chest is free of tattoos but he has patchwork ink running down the lengths of both of his arms, all in black and gray.
I didn’t realize I was zoned out of the conversation until a piece of pineapple flies across the front of my face, narrowly missing the tip of my nose. I shoot a look over to my right to locate the source of the flying fruit, although I already know the culprit.
Boone widens his eyes innocently, holding up two empty hands. “Wasn’t me.”
Shooting him a look that tells him there’s no way in hell that I believe him, I look back at Walker to find him grinning.
“Something funny?”
