Page 76 of Layla

John

We never make it to the pool. By the time we’re feeling close to satisfied, the sun is already slipping behind the trees outside her hotel room window. But Layla doesn’t complain.

“What happens at the end of this week?” she murmurs against my chest. I’m holding her close in bed, the same way I have been for hours now, my fingers alternating between playing with her hair and drawing little patterns on the soft skin of her back.

“What do you mean?”

She shifts a little in my arms and I realize that she’s worried. Funny how many of her little tells I’ve picked up on in these few short weeks. “The tour is over,” she continues. “Does that mean…”

“The label wants you to have protection until the guy is caught,” I say. “That means I stay. Doesn’t matter if you’re touring or on a break or doing shows in LA. I’m not going anywhere.”

I want to tell her that the label has nothing to do with it. That I would stay whether I was under contract or not. That the thought of walking away from her makes me feel sick to my stomach. That this is already so big for me, that it’s already so much more. But I don’t want to freak her out so I keep that to myself.

She relaxes in my arms. “Good,” she murmurs, making my heart soar right out of my fucking chest. Maybe, I realize, just maybe, it’s already something more for her, too.

We spend the week in much the same way we spent that first day. Longing glances whenever other people are around. Intense, perfect sex every night we’re not on the bus. Stolen, desperate kisses to tide us over in between.

A few times we manage to get away from the tour, just the two of us. A walk through the French Quarter in New Orleans. A breakfast out one early morning while the rest of the band sleeps. I don’t know if I’m eager for the tour to end or not. On one hand, we won’t have to worry so much about getting caught. But I’m still not sure exactly how this will work once we’re in LA. If this was any other security assignment, I would rotate watching her apartment with several other guys whenever she was at home. But Layla isn’t some assignment. I have no intention of keeping an eye on things from outside in a car.

I’m just not sure how to tell her that I basically plan to move in until the guy is caught.

The last show is in Houston. The band has planned a big party at the venue for the openers and all the crew and roadies before everyone flies back to LA in the morning. I spend the night on the perimeter, like always, keeping an eye on things. Keeping an eye on her. My chest clenches to see her so happy. So light. I wonder if this is how she used to be, before the dark threat of a stalker came into her life. I wonder what it would take for me to make her this happy for the rest of her life.

Jesus, I think, as I register what had just crossed my mind. For the rest of her life? We’ve been hooking up for a week. I don’t even know what we are yet.

But I do know, however crazy it might be, that the thought of walking away from her in a week or a month or a year makes me feel panicked in a completely unfamiliar way.

Another thing I know—her shoulder is bothering her. It’s subtle, the way she keeps rolling it, occasionally bringing a hang up to rub at it vaguely while she talks and laughs with her friends. Probably not noticeable to anyone else, but easy to catch when you spend as much time watching her as I do.

When she excuses herself from the group she’s talking to, I follow her. There’s a smaller dressing room behind this one where the band can take showers. It’s more private and a lot quieter than the main room where the party is taking place. And it’s completely empty.

“You know I have to check first,” I say behind her, and she jumps before spinning to face me.

“You scared me,” she scolds. “I just want to pee.”

I hold her gaze. “No one has been back here all night,” I remind her. “I’m checking it first.”

She rolls her eyes, but steps out of my way so I can sweep the room. “All clear,” I tell her after I’ve checked out the bathroom.

“You sure there’re no monsters hiding in the showers?”

I don’t respond to her snark but I don’t leave either. I’m still there, leaning against a wall, when she comes out of the bathroom a moment later. “I’m going to pretend like you’re here because you can’t stay away,” she says drily. “And not because you don’t think I can handle myself in an empty bathroom.”

“Your shoulder is bothering you,” I say, pushing off from the wall and walking towards her. She shoots me a startled look.

“How did you…?” She trails off as I place a palm on the shoulder in question, bringing my other hand to hers and lifting the arm.

“You’ve been fussing with it all night,” I say, rotating her arm while I rub the shoulder, feeling the joint for any obvious problems. “I thought it was feeling better after New York.”

The confusion on her face grows. “I never told you it was bothering me in New York.”

I meet her gaze. “You think I don’t notice when something is bothering you?”

She swallows once, hard, and then again. “You always see me,” she whispers, her voice thick. “How do you do that?”

I rub the shoulder a little harder, using both hands now. “Of course I see you,” I tell her. “You’re all I see anymore.”

She tilts her head up, her eyes fluttering closed, and I’m about to brush her lips with mine when the door bangs open, revealing Dylan. Layla jumps back from me as he mutters, “Shit, sorry. I was going to bring this girl back but if you’re already—” He cuts off as he seems to realize who Layla is standing with. I realize, too late, that my hand is still on her shoulder. His eyes narrow.