Page 38 of Layla

Layla

Okay, this is totally surreal. John is in my hotel room, eating pizza and drinking beer, watching a movie with me. He’s not uptight. He’s not looking at me with that wary, guarded expression that’s become so familiar to me in recent days. Instead he looks relaxed. At ease. There’s an unfamiliar shadow on his jaw—he’s usually so clean shaven. He’s even lost his tie, for Christ’s sake. For John that’s the equivalent to lounging around in ratty sweats. I have to admit, there’s a part of me that’s glad he’s still wearing his dress shirt. The snowy white fabric looks so good stretched across his broad chest that my mouth feels dry every time I look over at him.

Which I can’t seem to stop myself from doing. I wasn’t lying when I said this is my favorite movie. I’ve seen it probably a hundred times. Which is why I’m finding it so easy to ignore in favor of being distracted by John, sitting so close to me on the couch.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Bullshit excuse. The fact that I can recite this movie in my sleep has absolutely nothing to do with how massively it’s failing to keep my attention right now.

I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t believe he’s giving up his night to sit here with me watching such a nerdy movie. It’s not like I’ve been particularly friendly to him today. I basically bit his head off earlier on the elevator.

He just feels sorry for you,I tell myself.He just feels bad because you were so obviously upset about being left behind.

But it doesn’tfeellike he’s just pitying me. There was no pity in his gaze when he showed up at my door. He hasn’t asked how I’m doing, he’s not shooting me those worried looks we all used to give Haylee when we were afraid she was freaking out. He seems…comfortable.

He seems like he’s where he wants to be.

And he brought this movie. He brought it because he noticed me reading the book. Because he knew, somehow, what it means to me. God, I had almost cried when he showed it to me. How freaking embarrassing.

“You want another slice?” he asks, making me jump and tear my gaze away from his biceps, which I was shamelessly staring at.

“Go for it.”

He grabs the last slice of pizza, folds it in half, and shoves most of it into his mouth in one bite. I snort. “That’s repulsive.”

He grins at me, mouth full of pizza, and I mime puking. “Why are men so tragic?” I ask. “I thought I might have a night off from male disgustingness without Dylan and Lance around.”

He chews for a minute then says, “I have to represent my gender in their absence.”

I roll my eyes, reaching for my beer and taking another long pull, trying to ignore the fact that John is watching me. “I don’t know why you’re complaining,” he says. “You don’t really strike me as the ultra-feminine type.”

I make a face at him. “You’re thinking of Haylee. She’s the tomboy of our group.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, laughing a little. “Honestly, she’s worse than the guys. She’s always challenging them to burping contests and showing off her most interesting boogers. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only chick on tour.”

Something seems to spark in his eyes at those words, his gaze drifting down ever so slightly, touching on my lips before darting back up to my eyes. Then he blinks and whatever I thought I saw there is gone.

“Do you have many female friends at home?” he asks.

I frown. I don’t even know how to answer that question, for a multitude of reasons. None more pressing than the fact that I don’t even know where homeis. “Not really,” I say, my eyes drifting away from his gaze to focus on the hem of my tank top. I hate talking about my past. Hatethinkingabout it, even.

“Any sisters?”

I sigh, finally raising my eyes to meet his. “You’re going to tell me that you don’t already know the answer to that question?”

His mouth tugs up in a small smile. “You think my dossier has all that info?”

I point at him. “I knew you had a dossier!”

He chuckles. “I didn’t see any mention of you having siblings in my research, no. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”

Of course, there are plenty of reasons that his research might not have turned up siblings, not the least of which is that there could very well be brothers or sisters I’m not even aware of. A whole army of them, for all I know. That’s always a possibility when you have no idea who your father is. And John would definitely know that I have no idea who my father is.

“I don’t have biological siblings that I know of.” I have no clue why I’m telling him this. I hate talking about this shit. “There are some kids that stayed close with my foster mom, Dee, either before or after I lived with her.” I shrug. “She considers them family, so I guess they are.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re still close with her?”