Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

Davis’s band plays second-to-last, with Threat Alert closing out the night. Personally, I think FMK should be the closing act. They get people out of their chairs and onto the stage. Threat Alert has only the one song that anyone appears to like.

I’m a computer nerd, not a musician, so I keep my observations to myself, but Rudd makes the same observations each time we kick out the last of the partiers.

“Why don’t you ask Hollister to move us to the end of the rotation?” he says to Adam as we roll toward Evansville, Indiana. Three shows are behind us: Kansas City of the great barbecue; Springfield, the birthplace of Lincoln; and St. Louis, where we stopped so that the band could take pictures next to the base of Arch.

“Time’s not right,” Adam answers cryptically.

I shoot a questioning glance at Davis, who shrugs. He doesn’t know any more than I do.

After Evansville, we move on to Louisville.

“Threat Alert’s bringing the whole vibe down,” Rudd complains over breakfast.

Adam merely shrugs and continues eating his pancakes.

The sixth show takes place in Lexington, Kentucky. The accents here are

thick and charming. I spend an inordinate amount of time chatting up the bartender as the bands set up, mostly because I’m so thrilled to be out of the bus. So thrilled that, for the first time, I’m not nervously waiting for Marrow to waltz through the door.

It helps that I haven’t gotten any text messages from him since I left, which means he doesn’t have my new number and quite possibly still thinks I’m in Central City. Besides the monotony of the miles that pass between tour stops, I’m the most content I’ve been in a long time.

The band gets along great. When they’re not sleeping, they either play music or cards or video games. The bus has satellite so we can watch Netflix at any time. It’s pretty much a rolling hotel. Food’s not great. No one on the bus can cook much of anything and after I burned some toast, Davis won’t let me near any of the appliances.

I wrinkle my nose. I don’t blame him. The smell of burnt food didn’t leave the bus for two days. The only person not hassling me about it is Adam.

Adam. I sigh moodily. I had hoped that in close quarters, with so much forced closeness, I’d end up hating him. At the very least, I’d be irritated by something he did. Like he’d talk too much or he’d be moody or he’d pick his nose. I pray for some dirty habit, but one hasn’t shown itself yet. He’s been nothing but generous and kind and thoughtful. He’s always checking in to see if I’m bored—as if he’s worried I need entertaining. I’ve pretended that my current project—one that involves debugging an update for Peep—is all-consuming, when in reality I can’t concentrate on anything but him.

“Don’t like your drink?” Scott, the bartender, asks me.

He wipes down a nonexistent spot next to my hand.

“No. It’s great.” I take a giant sip to show my approval and end up choking on it.

Scott smirks, but drops the cloth to pour me a glass of water. “Here you are, slugger.”

“Thanks,” I sputter. I pat my throat. “Went down the wrong tube.”

“It happens.” He settles his meaty forearms on the counter. “How’s the tour going?”

“Good, I think, but I don’t have much to compare it to.”

“First tour?”

“Yeah. My brother’s the singer,” I feel compelled to add.

“Threat Alert?”

“No, FMK.”

“Ah. Adam Rees’s band. They’re good.”

“You know him? Adam, I mean.”

Scott’s mouth quirks up knowingly. “Got a crush on Adam? They all do.”

All? I hide my wince by taking another sip of water. “No. You’ve seen these musicians. They’re all little boys once they put their instruments down.” I lift one shoulder. “Once you’ve been on tour with them, all the magic is gone. The music scene really isn’t my thing. I’m more into the guys wearing suits and ties than ripped jeans and T-shirts.”

Scott straightens, his warm face growing noticeably cooler.