Fucking crazy woman. I can’t get away from her fast enough. Running is an option, but it’s hot as hell out here. I wish I’d had my phone on me when those idiots threw me off the bus, and I also have no water. Shit. In this desert heat, I’m parched.
Glancing over my shoulder every so often, I check in case the maniac appears. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, the silver Mercedes slows to a crawl beside me. The redhead rolls down the window.
“You need a ride?” She smiles as if she didn’t almost run me down. She’s crazy.
“No. Get away and leave me alone.”
She stops the car—in the middle of the road. Lunatic. Shaking my head in disbelief, I keep walking, ignoring her, hoping she’ll go away. Getting out of the vehicle, she runs to catch up.
“I’m really sorry. Come on, you need a ride, and I’m going your way. I took my eyes off the road for two seconds, and I’m sorry. I promise to drive within the speed limit, keep my eyes on the road, and obey all traffic signs. Please let me make it up to you.”
Damn, I do need a lift. I’ve been trying to hitch a ride for the past two hours with no luck. Who knew world-famous rock stars could strike out while hitchhiking? I thought cars would be lining up -- turns out I was wrong. Now, do I chance it with psycho woman or keep trekking along this hot, dry highway?
I turn on my heel, and the hopeful hazel eyes of the auburn-haired stranger nail me. It’s hard to keep my gaze on her cute face when her long legs are showcased in tiny jean shorts. It doesn’t help that her button’s undone, exposing a tease of her tanned midriff and black panties. Her tight, threadbare t-shirt and well-worn cowboy boots finish off her youthful, fun vibe.
A warm, soft breeze sweeps her long locks into her face. Brushing the strands away, she nibbles on her lower lip. She appears forlorn, like she’s the one destitute on the side of the road.
My resolve is crumbling with the innocence radiating off her. She may be wacky, but not in a fear-for-your-life sort of way. My guess is she’s just scattered and wasn’t trying to hit me.
Besides, I do need a ride, and I have no cell phone. It’s one long-ass walk to get to the town where the bus is; best-case scenario, it’ll take me the entire night.
“Eyes on the road and no talking,” I order.
“Yes, I promise. I’m Pansy.” She extends her hand.
With a curt handshake, I contemplate lying about my name, but she doesn’t appear to know who I am. She’s a stranger, and we likely won’t be together long enough for her to figure it out—if she hasn’t already.
“Silas,” I introduce myself as I head for the car, thinking this ride might be the beginning of my final hours on this earth. I have no clue what I’m in for with this crazy chick.
We drive in silence for maybe ten minutes—though I might be generously exaggerating—before she starts talking, or more like rambling.
“So, Silas, where are you headed?”
“I thought you promised no talking,” I remind her.
Her pink, bow-shaped lips puff out a sigh as she confesses, “I suck at no talking, especially when I’m nervous.”
Her being nervous leaves me queasy. Fuck. Who knows what disaster she could cause with her nerves frazzled? I imagine a major pile-up shutting down the highway for hours. I better ease her anxiety.
“Next town.”
“What?” She’s puzzled.
“Where I’m headed, the next town.” By design, my answer is vague. “I need to get there fast.”
“How fast?”
Shit, why’d I say fast? “The sooner, the better, but no speeding or driving like a madwoman.”
“Ha. Funny.” She chuckles. “There’s a shortcut ahead that’ll save us about an hour. The road’s desolate, a lot less traffic.”
I like the sound of that. “Fine.”
Anticipating my return to the tour bus is both a relief and a burden. I want to explain to the band. I’m hoping since they have had time to cool down, they’ll be willing to hear me out, but the real question is if they will listen to what I have to say.
“Why were you hitching?”
Sighing, I scrub my hand down my face. She isn’t going to shut up. “It’s a long story, and I’d rather not get into it,” I say, hoping my clipped tone will do the trick. No such luck.
“Just curious, because I can’t figure out why the lead singer of Trojan would be hitchhiking.”
Shit. She’s smarter than she acts. I had no clue she knew who I was. “When did you figure it out?”
“I knew you looked familiar when I first saw you, and then it hit me as we were talking.”
This broad puzzles me. If she knew who I was, I’m surprised she didn’t try to take a picture, ask for an autograph, or maul me—which happens more often than I like to admit. “Why didn’t you say something or go all fangirl?”
She grimaces before glancing back at the road. “Well… I’m not a fan.”
Raising my eyebrows, I laugh. I love how blunt she is. It’s a welcome change from all the ass-kissing.
“Okay, I can appreciate that. So, if Trojan isn’t your kind of thing, what is?”
“Um, I’d rather not say. I don’t want to insult you or tick you off. You’re talented, and millions of people around the world love you guys. It’s just not my thing. Besides, why do you care about what I like? You have countless adoring fans.”
Again, I laugh at her candidness. “True,” I respond unapologetically.
Fame comes with a price, though. In the beginning, I lived for all that shit, the fame and the glory, but now that’s what I want to get away from. It’s why I dropped the bomb on the guys. It’s why I find myself in this car with a pretty, quirky, and possibly crazy woman.
“I do want to know who I’ve lost one potential fan to,” I jest.
Rolling her eyes, she smirks. “My all-time favorite rock star is Eddie Vedder, and before you say anything, I’m twenty-seven, and my older sister introduced me to Pearl Jam. It isn’t the band, per se; it’s him.” Her voice is dreamy, the gifted musician obviously on her mind.
“Good choice. Who else?”
“I’m more a Civil Wars or Lumineers kind of girl.”
Nodding, my gaze lingers on Pansy longer than it should. I find her direct nature refreshing, and she’s definitely interesting, though I’m still a bit leery. She’s unpredictable.
She’s also cute, with creamy skin and a light sprinkle of brown freckles on her cheeks and her small, upturned nose. Together with her doe eyes and dewy glow, she appears younger than she is. I’m guessing she isn’t wearing any makeup, except for a light pink gloss on her pretty bow lips.
Normally, I wouldn’t look twice. She’s too fresh, too bright, too innocent for me—but right now, I can’t stop myself from staring. I’m enjoying the view. Always being on tour doesn’t lend itself to having a girlfriend, so I’ve gotten used to the groupies.
I tend to gravitate toward the in-your-face type of woman—it’s easier to get off and get out. I cringe at that pathetic truth; if I’m honest, it disgusts me.
“You know what? There is one song of yours that I like,” she adds. “Actually, like is too tame a word—I love it. I was so surprised to find out it was a Trojan song.”
Feigning she’s stabbed me in the heart, my hands clutch my chest. “Stop, woman, you’re killing me. This is brutal. You’re worse than our harshest critics.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Well, you can’t leave me hanging. I must know which song you love.” I grin.
“‘Only.’ It’s so poetic and moving, and every single word speaks to me. I totally understand how it is to feel alone all the time.”
Her confession is both unsettling and uplifting.
“I wrote that song.”
A strange tingling sensation fills my chest. Her reverent tone moves me. The song never did as well as we’d hoped, a departure from our more upbeat rock tunes. While the critics loved it, fan reception was lukewarm.
It’s a personal song, one I wrote around the time I started questioning if I still wanted to be the lead singer of one of the hottest rock bands in the world. It can be a lonely life—it’s tough to be thirty, in your prime, and all alone.
“Did you?” Contemplating, she regards me, not the rock star, but me, Silas Palmer, the guy. “It’s beautiful.”