Aimee and the Heartthrob, page 6
“Well, it was nice of you to check on me.”
“No worries. Anything for Nick’s sister.” Miles noticed how her hand froze on the way to her mouth, and the smile that had been there disappeared.
She folded her arms and sat back. “I’m nothing but Nick’s little sister. Thanks for the reminder.”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, easily catching the frosty edge to her voice.
“Nothing. It’s just I didn’t realize that here, with total strangers, I’d still have that label.”
“But you are Nick’s little—”
“I know.”
Miles stopped to think for a second, while trying not to notice the cute way her eyes went all scrunchy when she got angry. “Well, you are his sister—wait, before you cut me off, I’m saying it because it’s a fact.”
“Perfect,” she mumbled.
He put his elbows on the table. “Nick is my best friend and I’d never do anything he specifically asked me not to. Okay?” She still wasn’t looking at him. “And I would never do anything to piss him off.” At this point, he didn’t know if she was listening to him or not. “Aimee.”
Finally she looked up, though her eyes focused off to the side. “Yeah?”
“Do you know what I mean?”
She shrugged and scooted her fruit to the side of her plate.
“Yesterday, when I first saw you in the conference room…”
Ahh, that got her attention. Her big brown eyes lifted to him. Deep inside them sat a million things he wanted to learn about her, but he also saw millions of things he already knew, things he already liked. Things that made the centers of his palms feel hot when she looked at him. He had to blink to remember his train of thought.
“When I first saw you,” he repeated, “if I’d known you were, I mean, if you weren’t Nick’s sister, I know I would’ve—”
“There you are, Miles Carlisle—finally! I’m Fatima Robins with Teen People.”
Miles and Aimee both sat back and away from each other. He hadn’t realized they’d been leaning in. “Hello, hi,” he said to a blond woman in glasses and a blue suit.
“Please don’t let me disturb your lunch,” she said when Miles went to stand. “We’re doing an in-depth piece on the band. Your publicist said I’d find you here, so looks like you’re my first victim.”
“Okay. Do you wanna sit?”
The reporter dropped into the corner chair. Miles didn’t hate interviews as much as the other fellas, but he didn’t love them, either. He wished instead that his music could speak for him. But he also knew this was a business, so never-ending interviews and photo shoots and appearances were part of the game.
“How did the show go last night?” the reporter asked. What was her name? Robins something? He was usually better at paying attention to names.
“It was awesome,” Miles replied. “Sold out crowd.”
“A lot of girls in the audience?”
Miles opened his mouth to reply, but glanced across the table when Aimee snorted under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” the reporter said, pulling out a notebook. “We haven’t met. Are you the new girlfriend?”
Aimee’s brown eyes bulged wide and her jaw clenched, like she was totally freaked out. No, not freaked, insulted.
Miles knew how to handle questions like that. He’d faced them a zillion times in the last two years. “No.” He did a casual, full-body shrug. “We’re just hanging. She’s a friend from home.”
“I see. And does this friend from home have a name?” She was looking at Miles while actually asking Aimee. He’d never get used to how smarmy journos could be.
“No name,” he replied before Aimee could. “A friend.”
“Yep, just an old friend,” Aimee said, her voice suddenly overly pleasant and singsong as she smiled brightly at the reporter—not at him. Another mood swing. “Actually, not even that. I’m more like a friend of a friend.”
Miles didn’t know if he was supposed to confirm that, so he just nodded.
The reporter wrote something down. “And how did you get to be such old friends?”
“We go way back,” Miles explained, needing to take control of the subject. “Well, as way back as twelve years old. Or, I was twelve and she was eleven.”
“You grew up together,” the reporter said. “What was he like at twelve?”
Miles was about to cut this interview short when Aimee said, “He was a show-off.” She looked at him, a smile on her lips.
Miles couldn’t help chuckling. “I was not.”
This made her laugh. “Yes, you were—”
“Not.”
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. “Oh, please.”
He liked this side of her, a sassy girl who could hang with him, keep up, talk trash. “Okay, so maybe I was a bit of a spotlight hog. Most of that was at your house in front of your family.”
“Lucky us.”
He loved her smile; he remembered it, like he was flipping through a photo album. Maybe she wasn’t so different now. Sure, she’d gotten taller and curvier and her hair had grown long. But the Aimee he used to know had all kinds of sass and was smart and quick. She’d always been like that—Miles just hadn’t appreciated it until now.
“Remember that treehouse in your neighborhood?” he said. “We used to climb it all the time, like our own private fort.”
“You and Nick did. You never let me come.”
Miles shook his head. He didn’t remember it that way. “It was the coolest place, almost like a yearbook. If you had a crush, the thing to make it official was to write your names inside the treehouse. It was like a tradition. Didn’t you ever do that?”
Aimee’s smile was gone. “No.”
“Never?”
“But I suppose a hundred girls wrote your name up there.”
Miles blinked. Where had that come from? “I seriously doubt it.”
“Enough with the humble act.”
The reporter started to laugh. He’d forgotten she was there. “You two really do act like siblings. It’s cute.”
“Yeah, adorbs,” Aimee said under her breath. She shot Miles a look, and there was hostility behind it. He had no idea what was going on, and when she stood to leave, he didn’t stop her.
“It was nice to meet you,” Aimee said to the reporter. “I’m sure you have a million questions just for Miles. Ask him about the time he was running to catch a football and fell in my mom’s rose bushes. Twenty stitches on his butt.”
After she walked off, Miles sat there, dumbfounded. He had no idea what had set her off. They’d been getting along, for five whole minutes, then she went back to the snark.
His interview continued for a few more minutes, until Ryder walked by, probably on his way to sneak a beer behind the buses. Once the reporter roped him into sitting down, Miles left, looking around to see where Aimee had gone, but she’d vanished.
He wanted to go after her, ask her why she’d gone all snarktastic in front of a reporter. He wanted to track her down, pull her somewhere private, and get to the bottom of it. As “old friends,” didn’t he deserve that much?
But getting Aimee Bingham alone—while in that dress and showing her shoulders—wasn’t a smart idea. He’d been far too jazzed with himself those few times he’d made her smile, even laugh. Seeing her happy felt like a major accomplishment, one he wanted to experience again and again. But shouldn’t.
Chapter Five
Aimee made a beeline for the bus and did her best to stay hidden the rest of the day. She had a ton of books to review for her vlog, and with Becky down for at least a few weeks, she knew she should get going on that—though she wouldn’t even think about adding anything about S2J to Becky’s “celeb gossip” page. It wasn’t like she didn’t have millions of hours of free time now, trapped in boy band touring hell.
The new book she started held her interest for a few hours until she tossed it aside and grabbed her phone. She posted some comments on Tumblr, liked a few pix on Instagram, but when Twitter friends started asking where she was, she couldn’t help posting one tiny tweet: Can’t believe where I am. @bexthebabe will be so jelly. #backstagepass #allaccess #closetsuperfan #eeep. Before anyone could reply, Aimee grinned and shut down social media.
With no car and no one she knew in Portland, she headed for the arena, telling herself she didn’t have to actually watch the concert. She could find a corner and read another chapter. But the hope of finding anywhere quiet in three square miles was going to be impossible. This venue was larger than the one in San Francisco, and before Aimee knew it, she was walking in circles. Luckily, she ran into Deb.
“Hey, you lost again?”
“Sort of. I was on the bus all afternoon and wanted to find a quiet spot.”
Deb lifted an eyebrow. “So you picked the biggest concert arena in Oregon?”
“Well…”
Maybe Deb could see that she secretly kind of wanted to watch the show, or the parts she’d missed last night. Not that Miles was the only one onstage. All of S2J were really talented and good looking and… She had to tell her mind to zip it.
“You know you really came here for Miles,” Deb said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“To watch him, I mean. This concert’s special. The guys worked hard. It’s a great show, and you’ve got this amazing behind-the-scenes hookup.”
“Yeah, well this ‘hookup’ was pretty much forced on me.” Aimee sighed, the giddiness she’d felt when she’d posted that tweet already gone. “My parents do Doctors Without Borders every summer, and I always stay with my grandmother. Their schedule got messed up, so they shipped me here.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
She pulled at her ponytail. “It’s complicated.”
“Your relationship with Miles?”
Aimee felt a warning shiver. She didn’t want to say too much.
“I saw you two at lunch,” Deb added. “The boy was practically jumping through hoops. I’ve never seen him try so hard.”
“At what?”
“Making someone laugh.” She loaded makeup brushes into the same box as last night. “What happened with you guys? I promise it’ll be just between you and me. I’m no gossip, I swear.”
“Nothing happened. He’s Nick’s friend, so…”
“So what?”
This was getting frustrating. “So he’s never thought of me as anything but his best friend’s little sister. I’ve never meant anything to him besides that.”
“And you know this, how?”
She blew out a breath, feeling stupid tears behind her eyes as she recalled, too vividly, her enlightening conversation with Nick two years ago. Well, it had certainly shed light on Aimee’s childish hopes of Miles ever liking her back.
“I just do. It was from a very reliable source.”
“But that makes you sad.” Deb tilted her head. “You…liked him?”
“Well, duh. He’s freaking Miles Carlisle.”
Deb started to laugh. “Bet that’s been building up inside of you for a long time. I think it’s healthy to get it out. Therapeutic. You should tell him.”
“No way. It was a long time ago, when he still lived at home, before any of this.” Aimee waved her hand around, like the fact they were backstage at a concert was explanation enough. “I don’t care about any of this. I liked him…before.”
Deb leaned a hip against the table. “That’s so sweet. You’re like Chris O’Donnell’s wife.”
“Why?”
“Because she was with him before he got famous. And they’ve been together forever and have like five kids.”
Aimee folded her arms and gazed out into the hall, hating this conversation like poison. “Well, Miles and I aren’t together, and we never will be. He’s got billions of girls out there screaming and crying and wanting him, and back home, he was a complete assjacket to me.”
“Assjacket, eh? Can I quote you on that?”
Aimee swung around to see that reporter from lunch scribbling in her notebook, a huge smirky grin on her face. Her stomach dropped. Of all the times to get loud and pissy about Miles, now was the worst.
“Tell me more.”
But Aimee automatically slapped a hand over her mouth, preempting any more talk.
…
Miles was panting for breath, with a huge smile on his face, as he left the stage. The show had gone off without a hitch, rain dance and all. Nate was the one to tear off his shirt at the end this time. He’d gotten bigger cheers than Trev, and when he’d tossed it into the crowd, mad mayhem had broken out. Good for baby brother.
After changing out of their wet clothes, they had to get through one quick round of interviews before their work was officially over. Miles felt his smile quirk up a notch as he neared the interview room and saw Aimee. She wore jeans and a plaid top; not a dress this time, and he caught himself being bummed about that. She really did have great legs.
As he got closer, his smile dropped, because Aimee had the classic deer-in-the-headlights expression going. In fact, she looked cornered…because she was literally being cornered by that reporter from lunch.
“What’s going on?” he said, breaking from the guys.
When Aimee saw him, her face went pale, and then splotchy pink. “Nothing.”
“Ah, Miles. We were just talking about you.” The reporter nodded at Aimee. “Well, she was.”
“You were?”
“No,” Aimee said. “I mean, I didn’t mean to say…anything.”
“What did you say?” Miles shifted his weight, not liking how concerned Aimee looked, but since when was it his job to protect her from reporters?
And what could Aimee Bingham say, anyway? He’d never had any drama with her, nothing embarrassing or tragic that she could spill to the world.
Or wait. Maybe she did know.
Maybe she knew about what happened way back five years ago, all the trouble he’d been in. Nick swore he’d never told anyone but his parents, and Miles believed him. But Aimee could’ve found out somehow. Was that what she’d just told this hounding magazine writer? Had yet another girl in his life burned him, turning his private business into a Yahoo! news headline?
His stomach dropped. Not again.
“She said you were an assjacket to her.”
Wait. Which part about him getting arrested had to do with being an assjacket to Aimee? “I was?” He peered at Aimee, who was looking even more embarrassed. “When?”
She shrugged. “Before.”
“Today at lunch?” he asked. “Or last night?”
“Last night?” the reporter repeated, perking up.
“Sorry, Aimee, I couldn’t see in the dark. Did I leave a mark on you, or a bruise on your, um…” He shot a quick glance directly at the area in question, making his entire body flush hot. “Or scratch you there—”
“No!” Aimee blurted, crossing her arms. Her cheeks were two dots of red and spreading fast.
“Scratching each other in the dark.” The reporter was writing in her notebook and grinning. “This is great stuff. Though I believe her assjacket comment had to do with something you did to her when you lived at home. Since she swears she hasn’t seen you in two years.”
“Because that’s the truth.” Aimee sounded defensive, which made Miles defensive.
“Then when was I an ass to you?”
“Assjacket,” Ryder corrected, then nodded at Aimee. “Nice one, sweetheart.”
Aimee’s face went redder. “Never mind, it was nothing, forget it.”
“I think you should tell him,” Deb, one of the makeup girls, said. Miles hadn’t realized they had such a big audience. “Therapeutic, remember?”
“Tell me what?” he asked Aimee.
But she wouldn’t look at him. She glared at Deb, then threw shade at Ryder when he snickered. Then she dropped her gaze to her shoes. This was going nowhere.
“Come on.” Without thinking, he took Aimee by the hand and tugged her away. He had to tug more than he expected, because she didn’t seem to want to go with him. He didn’t care, he needed to get to the bottom of all these questions.
While breezing past LJ, he said, “That reporter back there”—Miles nodded behind him—“make sure she knows anything Aimee says is off the record.” He didn’t wait for LJ to reply; his manager would take care of it.
Keeping a tight grip on Aimee’s hand, he pulled her around a corner, trying not to notice when she momentarily stopped fighting and readjusted her fingers around his. He registered each of them individually, and felt her thumb as it slid across the back of his hand, making his own hand prickle with heat.
“Where are you taking me?” she said.
But he wasn’t going to say a word until he knew they were alone. When he found an empty dressing room at the end of a hall, they finally were. He flipped on the light with his elbow, kicked the door shut behind them, dropped her hand, and folded his arms. “Well?”
Aimee started at him for a beat, then folded her arms right back. “Well, what?”
“You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Miles sighed. “Drop the act, Aimee.”
“You mean the act that I’m pissed because I’m here against my wishes?”
He glanced at the closed door. “I’ll let you out when we’re done.”
“I don’t mean this room. I don’t want to be here. Isn’t that obvious?” When her voice echoed off the walls, she shut her mouth, looking regretful.
Before replying, Miles stopped to think, remembering what Mum had said about why Aimee would be on tour with them. Her parents having to be overseas last minute or something. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, assuming anyone would be stoked to travel with them. Because it was bloody amazingly ill.
But…maybe Aimee didn’t feel that way.
“Your parents sent you here?”
She stared at the wall, locked her jaw, and nodded.
“You didn’t want to come?” When she rolled her eyes, he said, “Obviously you didn’t.” But he still didn’t know why. And why was her bitterness aimed at him? Like it was personal? Like he—personally—was the reason she hated being there.
