Ким Карр - Mended

Shaking off the memory, I divert my attention away from him and try to push him out of my mind. But when he yells, “Come on, motherfucker!” I can’t help but steal a glance. He’s talking to some guy I don’t know and the motherfucker in question is a coin. Watching him as he throws his muscled arm up to release the coin and yells, “Heads,” subconsciously I yell, “Heads” in unison. I know his call—it hasn’t changed. The way his lip curves around the word as he says it gives me a sudden urge to suck on it. Turning, he looks at me and his eyes lock on mine. His mouth forms that same slow, easy grin that always made me weak at the knees. But I can’t smile back . . . I want to, but I’m afraid that if I do I won’t be able to compartmentalize him anymore. What’s between us has to stay professional; if not, things will get too messy. A flash of something mars his finely chiseled face, but he catches the coin without faltering. Covering it with his other hand, he cocks his head and bobs his chin, calling me over. I stay where I am. I hate him. I hate him. I have to keep saying it or I’ll forget.

Shrugging, he lifts his hand. “Heads it is.”

The tall, skinny man standing next him sighs. “Okay, we’ll drive straight through to Denver, but if I crash the bus I’m blaming you.”

Xander lets out an exaggerated laugh and slaps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “First of all, you have Brad, and second, you won’t crash the bus. You’ve made runs like this a million times.”

“Whatever you say, boss man,” replies the man I can now identify as John the bus driver.

Xander walks away. “See you on the bus,” he calls over his shoulder, maybe to me, maybe to John, maybe to both of us, I don’t know. What I do know without a doubt is that I want him. The sound of his voice alone makes every nerve in my body tingle, makes my nipples tighten, and causes an ache between my legs. I stand there and watch him move with that ease he has about him, and I know this is going to be so much harder than I’ve convinced myself it would be.

Later that night, we board the bus and I run for refuge. I have to escape my attraction to him. Being near him only heightens it. I hop in the shower and then get ready for bed. I lie on the mattress in the back bedroom of the bus with my door locked and close my eyes. The movement of the bus should lull me to sleep, but it doesn’t. I can’t stop thinking about him. I picture his long, lean body, his face, the sounds he used to make, and even the way he says the word fuck. I remember the sound of his husky voice in my ear, the way his tone oozed sex. My hands slide down my own body and into my pajama bottoms. I tug the elastic down and kick them off, then spread my legs. And as I lie there alone in the darkness, my hands become his—doing what I want him to be doing so badly at this moment. I come in a shattering climax and sleep finally consumes me.

Xander

The outside passes in a blur as I walk into the front lounge from the galley. As usual, I’m awake before any of the guys. I did my typical tour bus workout in the back lounge—sit-ups, push-ups, and weights that we keep back there. I’ll run tonight before the show. It’s hard to keep a routine on the road, but I try. It helps relieve stress and keeps me focused.

Entering the room, I get a feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face. Jack White’s “Love Interruption” is playing. It’s an awesome slow-burn blues ballad, and the lyrics seem to reflect the way my relationship with Ivy ended. I flip the light on and see her sitting there on one of the benches. Holding a cup with both hands, she’s drinking coffee and staring out the window. I hear soft, quiet notes as she sings along to the song, but she stops when the lights flicker. Her gaze darts to mine for one brief second, and then her eyes swing immediately back to the window.

I clear my throat. “Hey. Good morning.” It seems odd to see her on the bus.

She glances back toward me. Something flashes across her face, but it’s gone before I can pinpoint it. “Hey. Morning.” Her expression is neutral and her voice is low.

“How’d you sleep?”

She sets her cup down. “Great. The quiet of the engine seems to lull me to sleep every time I ride on one of these.” Her tone is sarcastic and I fucking love it.

I offer a smile, holding back my smirk. “Yeah, try sleeping on the bottom bunk with the floor vibrating underneath you.”

“I’ll pass,” she says and turns back to look at the cornfields and lush greenery of the Midwest surroundings.

I pour a cup of coffee and look over my shoulder. Lifting the pot, I ask, “Refill?”

“I’m good,” she answers, covering the top of her cup with her hand.

I move to sit across from her. “Mind?” I ask.

She shakes her head. I want to ask her a million questions. I want to know everything she’s done for the last twelve years, but when one of the songs from her first album comes on the radio, I settle for asking one simple question that has been eating at me. Her song “Hit It” surrounds us. The lyrics are about dancing but can very easily be misconstrued as being about sex. Since it doesn’t seem like a song she’d have sung, let along written, I nod toward the speaker and ask, “What made you take that road?”

Her eyes narrow on mine. “What do you mean by that road?”

“Ivy, you know what I mean.”

She turns to look at me full on. The look she gives me tells me right away that she’s offended, and her answer only confirms this. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain?”

Okay, if she wants me to spell it out, I will. I pause for a moment before answering, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this, but decide to just say it. “Why did you choose pop music? You were never one for the verse-chorus structure or catchy hooks like this.” When the hook plays, I lift my eyes to the speaker and add, “You have so much artistic depth. I just never thought you’d sell out for mass appeal.”

With a sigh, she stands up. Hurt quickly passes over her face before hate presents itself. Bracing her hands on the table, she leans forward. “You don’t know what I have anymore,” she says with a shaky voice. Then adds, “I’m going to get ready.” With that she brushes past me.

Rising from my chair, I call, “Ivy, wait. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”

But she doesn’t stop. Instead she hastily pulls the curtain back to huff forward. It’s then that she finally comes to a dead standstill. I’m on her heels and almost barrel right into her. She’s stopped, just staring, and I glance inside the galley to see what has captured her attention. It’s Garrett and he’s awake, doing his morning exercise.

“Is that a sex swing?” she asks him wide-eyed, her cheeks turning pink as soon as the words leave her mouth.

I burst out in laughter. I can’t help it. For some reason being near Ivy makes everything that’s mildly funny seem funnier. It always did.

A devilish grin appears on his face. “No. It’s a yoga swing. But thanks for the idea,” Garrett tells her.

“Fuck, no, not in here,” Nix calls out from behind one of the curtains. “No one wants to see your naked ass in the act.”

Leif comes out of the bathroom wearing some kind of sleep pants that make me laugh equally as hard—they’re baby blue with an elastic waist, and I wonder if they’re Ivy’s. Holding my stomach, I try to calm myself. Garrett gives me a perplexed look. I know he must be thinking he’s probably never seen me laugh this much, and I don’t remember the last time I did. Leif, with his toothbrush in his mouth, shrugs past as if nothing out of the ordinary is occurring and disappears into his cubby. Nix pops his head out and starts talking to Garrett about setting some new rules.

I take the opportunity to get Ivy’s attention. Moving directly behind her, I clutch her arm and pull her back to me. “Can I talk to you back in the lounge?” Her laughter stops when I whisper in her ear, “Please.”

She turns to look at me, her eyes unreadable. “Okay.”

I turn and she follows. I fight the urge to hold her hand. We enter the front lounge again and she moves to one side. I lean against the small counter opposite her. “I’m sorry. That was a shit thing to say. I didn’t mean it like it sounded. What I meant to say was what made you decide to debut with a pop song?”

She sighs and sits back down, sipping from the mug she’d left behind. Silence is all around us before she answers, and the room seems much bigger than it actually is. “First, yes, it was a shitty thing to say. But to answer your question, it was my only choice. I’d been back in LA for six months and hadn’t found a job. I was singing at the coffee shop my mother worked at. Damon had been going in there for years and she had told him about me. He came to one of the open-mic shows and afterward asked to meet with me. When I first met him, I was determined to put out the album I had always dreamed of. He disagreed with my vision. He said the marketability of what I proposed wouldn’t work in the climate we were in at the time. So I left. Then about a week later he talked to my mother. He called me back and agreed to cut a demo of one of my songs. It took another three months before it went out, and I still hadn’t found a job. He finally sent it out, but we never heard back from a single label. In the meantime I’d managed to get a job working for an advertising agency writing jingles—I hated it. A year later I decided to do it his way. And even though the album didn’t hit the top of the charts—I was still happier.”

“That doesn’t make sense. No one was interested in your first song, but he found a label to pick up the album after that?”