Running with Scissors Read Online Free PDF

at the duffel bag. “You want me
    to carry that?”
    “You don’t mind?”
    “Nah, it’s fine.”
    “Cool.” Jude handed it over. “Thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it.” A.J. returned the smile as he hoisted
    Jude’s bag onto his shoulders.
    Outside, as they waited on the curb, Jude turned to him,
    his expression blank. “So how’s the tour been going?”
    “It’s been awesome. Beats the hell out of playing in clubs.”
    A barely perceptible wince flickered across Jude’s face.
    “Glad to hear it.”
    “Thanks, by the way.” A.J. shifted his weight. “For bailing
    us out.”
    Jude smiled. “Don’t mention it. Honestly, I’ve been
    hoping something like this would come along.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yeah. The corporate world is just . . .” He grimaced and
    shook his head. “I was starting to wonder how much longer I
    could handle it before I went on a stapling rampage or threw
    a printer at one of the guys in my cubicle.”
    A.J. laughed. “That bad?”
    24
    “Worse.” Jude sighed. “Okay, it’s not that bad. But it’s definitely not for me. This”—he adjusted the bass on his
    shoulder—“is what I was born to do.”
    “I know the feeling. I was doing retail before I joined the
    band.”
    Jude wrinkled his nose. “Sorry to hear it.”
    “Eh, it was a paycheck. A small one, but a paycheck.”
    “There is that. I’ll be fucking thrilled if I don’t have to go
    back to a day job, though.”
    “Yeah, same here.” An uncomfortable knot grew beneath
    A.J.’s ribs. Jude had been itching for a change. Wanting to get back onstage. What if he liked being back in his old band and
    stayed indefinitely? Beyond the next album and tour? How
    long before he started eyebal ing the drum set?
    No. No. Not going to think about that. I’m part of this band.
    Jude is the bassist. The temporary bassist.
    I’m not going anywhere.
    Please, God . . .
    Oblivious to A.J.’s worries, Jude reached into his pocket
    and pulled out a wrinkled pack of cigarettes. He slipped one
    between his lips, then patted the pockets of his jeans—front
    first, then back, then front again—and cursed around the
    cigarette. “You don’t have a lighter, do you?”
    A.J. shook his head. “Sorry.”
    “Damn it.” Jude shoved the pack into his pocket but kept
    the single unlit cigarette in his mouth. “Fucking TSA took
    mine.”
    “Bastards.”
    “Right?”
    A.J. wasn’t a fan of smoking—it didn’t bother him but
    didn’t do anything for him either. Still, there was something
    weirdly hot about Jude with the cigarette. About this whole
    25
    picture of Jude—clean-cut with some scruff and a hell of a lot
    of ink, standing beneath a No Smoking sign with a cigarette
    hanging from the corner of his mouth and an elbow on his
    bass—that did inexplicable things to A.J.’s pulse. It was a
    damn good thing Jude wasn’t playing his bass just then, long
    fingers on the strings and narrow hips cocked just so . . .
    A.J. shook himself and tried not to pass out from thinking
    about Jude with a bass across his lap.
    Breathe, dude. Get a fucking grip.
    A pair of headlights caught his eye, and he waved at the
    approaching Explorer. “There’s Kristy.”
    “Perfect,” Jude said around the cigarette. “Maybe she’s got
    a lighter.”
    A.J. had never seen Kristy smoke, but she’d pulled stranger
    things from that giant handbag.
    When their manager stepped out of the Explorer, though,
    she took one look at Jude and gave him that bal -withering
    scowl that kept most of the band in line. “Jude Colburn, when
    did you take up smoking again?”
    Jude smiled sheepishly, his cheeks coloring. “Uh . . .”
    She sighed loudly. “Idiot. Well, no smoking in the car.
    You’ll have to wait until we get to the motel.”
    “Motel? They don’t even have a bus?”
    “They do, Princess.” She opened the trunk. “But we’re
    stuck in motels until it’s fixed.”
    “Joy.” Jude hoisted his bag and bass into the trunk.
    “Hey,