Page 61 of Layla

Honestly, all I want to do is go back to the hotel, take a handful of Advil, and try to get some sleep. But John is standing just down the hall, glaring at me, and something in me seems to snap.

I’m so fucking tired of all of this.

So, I smile up at Conner, squeeze his hand, and murmur, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

* * *

As we’ve donea few times before on the tour, both of the bands gather in our dressing room for a post-show party. Well, it’s more the opener than Intrigue. Haylee already went back to the hotel, presumably to call Lennon. Same for Lance—Willa and Simon are rejoining the tour in the morning and he doesn’t want to be hungover when they get here. So that leaves James, Dylan, and me, plus the guys from Downlow and a bunch of roadies. And, of course a shit ton of people with backstage passes who I’ve never seen before.

I started drinking again as soon as we got to the room. It’s the best way I can think of to stave off the headache and the queasy feeling, at least for now. James is getting cozy with some big-haired blond in the corner. Dylan has set up a little dance floor for one—I can’t help but laugh every time I look over at him. He’s attracted a bit of an audience with his moves and seems totally at ease dancing all by himself. I wonder how much he’s had to drink.

As for me, I have Conner draped all over me. He’s been getting progressively handsier the more we drink, inching closer and closer to me on the couch until I’m basically on his lap. He keeps brushing his lips across my neck, giving me shivers, and he smiles in that sly way every time he notices my reaction. He kind of looks like a cat when he smiles like that. A very attractive, very aggressive cat.

I know that John is somewhere in the crowded room, keeping an eye on things. I don’t let myself look for him. I don’t even want to think about him.

“You about ready to get out of here?” Conner whispers in my ear, giving my hip a squeeze that would be impossible to misread.

“Sure,” I say, even though I really don’t want to. It’s loud in here and too crowded but right now that’s a good thing—it’s easier not to think with all this chaos around me. But when Conner squeezes my hip again, his fingers splaying around to my ass, I start to consider other ways to keep from thinking. Like losing myself in this man in bed. “Let’s go.”

I make it all the way to the door before John stops me. I don’t want to look at him, so I focus on a spot near his shoulders. “Heading to the hotel.”

Even without looking at him I can tell his eyes have gone to Conner at my side. He stands very still, quiet for a long moment, before he grits out, “I’ll call the car.”

Conner slips an arm around me, and I feel dizzy again. Dizzy and really sick to my stomach. Too much fucking tequila. I lean into him, but that only seems to make me feel worse, his non-familiar smell surrounding me, one hand way too close to my ass.

John is talking into his walkie in a low voice. Finally, he shoves it into his pocket. “Car’s here.” Every word sounds like he’s forcing it out past unwilling lips. But he doesn’t lecture me about the drinking or the guy at my side, merely gesturing for us to head down the hallway in front of him.

“This guy is scary as fuck,” Conner whispers in my ear. “He looks like he wants to take my head off.”

“That’s just his normal face,” I mutter.

“Can we lose him?”

I shake my head. For some reason, the thought makes me feel a little panicky. Like something bad might happen if John isn’t with us. Which is stupid—there are plenty of security guys who could accompany us back to the hotel.

Maybe John is getting the same strange feeling, because he’s the one who slips into the front passenger seat of the car. From the set of his shoulders, I’m guessing he’s pretty pissed, but he doesn’t say anything.

Not that I would have an easy time noticing any potential conversation in the front seat. Conner has taken the opportunity of the dark interior to up his game—a lot. His fingers keep drifting down towards my cleavage while he brushes his lips over my cheeks, my neck. “You’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs, loud enough for John and the driver to hear.

I pull away a little. “Head’s pounding,” I explain, trying to smile.

“We’ll get you something to feel better back in your room,” he purrs, voice full of dirty promise. My eyes drift up to John’s shoulders in the front seat. Even in the dark I can see how tense he is.

We make it back to the hotel without Conner doing anything too inappropriate. The elevator is another story. He keeps putting his hand up my dress, running his fingers over the back of my thigh, and I’m glad John is standing in front where he can’t see.

“Wait,” I say, my voice tight, as I bat his fingers away. He complies immediately, grinning down at me.

“Can you blame me? You look incredible in that dress.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the elevator wall. What in the hell am I doing? I’m not even having fun. My head hurts, my stomach is in knots. I hate the way that John is standing there, so tense, not saying a word. Does he think I’m trying to make him jealous? Is that what I’m doing? Jesus. I am not supposed to be that girl. Playing around with a guy to make another guy jealous is way too much like using someone, and I don’t use people. My sex life might be prolific but it’s always based on a mutual understanding.

I take a step away from Conner, needing the distance. Before he can pull me close again, the doors open and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Until we step into the hallway and I realize John is going to walk me right to my door. With Conner. And then he’ll go into his room, right on the other side of the wall.

Fuck. What am I doing?

“Where’s your key?” Conner says against my neck, and I realize I don’t have it. Without a word, John pulls his from his pocket, opening the door without looking at me.

“After you,” Conner murmurs, but I take an involuntary step back, knowing John will insist on checking the room first. God, this is a nightmare. Conner doesn’t seem to notice, his hand drifting from my arm down to my hip.