“Nah, Rudd’s marketing is important, too.” Adam cocks his head. “You bothered by Rudd’s techniques? Because I can tell him to knock it off.”
“Not at all. He comes off as harmless. I’m sure that if I returned any of his passes, he’d run away screaming. I’ve developed a pretty good radar when it comes to guys.”
“Oh yeah? Where do I fall?”
“What’s the Byronic saying? ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know’?” I quip.
I sense his frown rather than see it.
“Is that how you view me?” There’s almost a hint of hurt in his voice.
I hurry to assure him. “No. It was a stupid joke. There was this poet in London, and he was all the rage at the time—”
“I know who Byron is,” he cuts in. “You afraid of me?”
“No. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I was.”
“Good. Good.” He adds the last one almost as an aside.
In between the tall bus and the long van, almost no light creeps in, but the dark isn’t scary. I tip my head back against the bus and stretch my legs out. They barely reach Adam’s calves.
“Your legs are really long,” I remark.
“Or yours are really short.”
“I’m above average in height for women,” I inform him. “You’re the one who’s freakishly tall.”
“Six three is not freakishly tall.”
“The average height for a man is five feet nine inches. At six three, you’re eight percent taller than the average man.“
“Are you just pulling these stats out of your ass?”
I snicker. “Nope. It’s fact. I’m on the computer a lot, remember?”
“Right. Well, I don’t think I qualify as freakishly tall. Like, no one is going to pay to come see the six-foot-three-inch man.”
“If you were displayed in a community of Lilliputians, you would be freakishly tall.”
“You’ve got me there.” His shoulders shake again. He reaches up and grabs his cigarette. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s your cancerous lung problem, not mine.”
“I know. I keep trying to quit. I used electronic cigs for about six months, but it’s not the same.” He flips the cigarette in his hand. “Maybe after the tour is over.”
We share a look and then say, “Nah,” in unison.
I wish I could sit next to Adam in this dark, safe place forever. Or for another hour or so, at least.
“How long have you smoked?” I ask.
He digs in his pocket and pulls out a matchbook that says “Dance’s Hall” on it. “Since I was a kid. I think I was nine or ten when I had my first one.”
“That young?”
“My dad toured for most of my life.” He jerks a thumb
toward the bus. “Think what’s going on inside the tin can is shocking? That was nothing compared to what Dad and his crew got up to.”