Launi

To say I'm nervous about seeing Rye on the bus would be an understatement. I know that it's my job to post content and sell a story, but I did him a little dirty last night with the video of the girl he was dancing with. It was technically fair game as it was in public, but it didn't feel right I hadn't run it past him before. I didn't expect to see Tinsley and I know he had to deal with the aftermath of the coverage instead of being able to enjoy his time with her.

I roll my bag up to the bus and the driver helps stow it underneath in the bins. I keep just my phone and a small ring light with me. The drive is going to be short. It's a few hours to the next stop, the Moda Center in Portland, Oregon. Once we get to the location, we will check into a hotel and I can get some behind the scenes footage with the guys out on the town. The plan is to not venture too far given their high profile, but a nice dinner and a few drinks will give me the opportunity to show a side of the guys the world doesn't always get to see.

"Great job last night," my dad says as he rolls up behind me, his hair tussled and the smell of old alcohol still emitting from his pores. "The club footage was all over my feed this morning," he tells me.

"Right time, right place," I say, waiting as the driver loads my dad's bags. I feel guilty even though it was the right move for the band's brand. "He pissed?" I ask.

My dad chuckles. "Something's got him stirred up this morning. Not sure if it was the surprise guest or the video. Either way, not your fault. That's what you're here to do. He's going to have to grow some thicker skin."

I know he's right, but when I see Rye walking towards the bus, his hood on and his jaw tense, I freeze. His eyes find mine and we lock in a stare. I'll just apologize. And maybe he can do the same for trying to control my free time.

He doesn't wait for the driver to lift his bag, instead he does it himself, ignoring me completely. It's as if he doesn't even want to interact. That would be fine with me if I weren't contractually obligated to spend time with him.

"Rye," I say, but my throat feels tight with anxiety causing his name to be more of a hushed whisper.

He stiffens. His whole body appears tense. Slowly he turns his head towards me. His mouth I parted, his eyes dark and intense. His lungs expand slowly, causing his chest to grow as he stands up to his full height. I rock back slightly on my heels unintentionally. His presence is so overwhelming.

"Look," I start again, "I'm sorry." And I am. I mean it.

"For what?" he asks, but he doesn't wait for my response. It's as if he can't get away from me fast enough. What a jerk. Are we back to arguing children?

"I should have ran the video by you first," I say. I'm annoyed as I quicken my step to keep up with him as he steps up to the bus door. What's his problem? I'm apologizing and he's making me chase him like a petulant child.

He stops at the bottom of the stairs and motions for me to go before him. What a gentleman. I roll my eyes.

"Don't care," is all he says.

I turn quickly to argue and he's begun his step up, our bodies colliding on the bottom stair. At this level, I am looking him straight in his eyes. He steadies himself by gripping the emergency handle and then holds my arm above my elbow to make sure I don't go tumbling either. For a second his eyes dip to my lips and his grip tightens. He can't even look me in the eyes. Why can't he just admit he's pissed and we can both get over it?

"Grow up," I mutter and shake my arm from his grip.

He throws both hands up in front of his chest as if to accentuate his hands are off me. "Calm down," he responds with a smirk. His brows raise briefly in a dare. The last time he told me to calm down, he had cut the ends of my pig tails off to use as hay for his toy soldier's horse. I had screamed and cried and ran to tell on him, but our families were too busy to care about our squabble and my own father also told me to "calm down."

"You haven't changed," I tell him, my own face just inches from his. I can't believe I felt bad for anything I'd done. He deserved it in spades for what he had put me through as a child.

"Knock it off," my dad calls from inside the bus. "You two are giving me a headache like when you were little."

"Yea, Rye," I practically sing. "You're giving everyone a headache. Nothing new."

Rye's eyes narrow on mine. As a kid, he wanted to play drums so desperately, but skill takes time to build. He used to sit behind his father's drum set when the band took a break and give it his all, only to be told he was giving everyone a headache. The little Launi inside me felt very vindicated in that moment.

As a step into the living area of the bus, all eyes are on us. Everyone seems tired and already annoyed. My skin flushes from embarrassment. I swear I'll pull myself together and remember my age so this won't happen again. I won't let Rye pull me down to that level. I make my way to an open seat near the bunks and try to shrink down to not be noticed.

Rye holds himself up proudly. He gets a few pats as he walks past his band members. He did a hell of a job last night and he should be proud. The first show was a great success and I'm sure that helped bring down the pressure on everyone else. The bus lurches forward as we start to drive away. There are a few conversations happening as the loud diesel engine begins to build in speed.

I pull my phone out and start a text to Parker. I hope her trip is going better than mine. Before I can send the message, Rye stops beside me. The other members are distracted as he slips his crooked finger beneath my chin and raises my gaze to his.

"Don't be mad at me, Launi. I was just teasing. I don't give a fuck what you post. We're both here to do a job," he says in a low voice only I can hear.

I can't speak. My mouth is dry, and I swear my face is burning where his skin touches my skin. His face is so close to mine I can't take it all in at one time. I have to decide between his piercing eyes or his lips as the words slip out low and slow in a way that I swear I can feel low in my gut.

Before he stands back up again, his hand moves lower, his fingertips dusting the sides of my throat before he pulls it back as if I were just imagining it. Maybe I was.