Playing the Pauses

by Michelle Hazen

  I take out my phone and pull up the bookmarked page, scrolling so they can see the pictures in order. In the first, Jera is pale, caught in mid-gasp as she looks at her ex-boyfriend. In the next, the ex is on the ground and Danny’s leaning forward like he might go after him again. In the third, she’s dragging him away while his arms are still bent, biceps flexing furiously even in the grainy camera-phone picture.

  “The bloggers are saying Danny was protecting you,” I tell Jera. “And all the fangirls out there are eating it up.”

  “That’s better than them thinking he was some innocent fan, right?” Jax palms some aspirin into his mouth and dry swallows them. “Or them knowing it was just Jera’s shitty ex.”

  “Last two on board,” Reggie calls back. “I’m closing the hatches and if you left anything behind, they’ll be calling you in nine months with cigars and child support papers.”

  “Good to go!” I shout to him, zapping off a quick text to the second bus driver to be sure they’re ready, too. Done with that, I turn to Jera and drop my voice back to its gentlest setting. “Most sites are speculating that there’s something going on between you and Danny.”

  She slumps in her seat with a groan. “Fucking seriously? Again?”

  “I’m irresistible.” Danny smirks. “How could you help yourself?”

  “Nope.” I focus on Jera, waving my finger in a little circle. “Other way around. Everybody knows about Jacob and there are enough shots of you two and little Maya on the internet to show you happily playing house back in Portland. So they’re saying Danny’s in tragic, unrequited love with you, hence the punching of other men and also loaning you his shirt before the first show.”

  Danny’s nose twitches. “Lame.”

  “Whatever.” Jera narrows her eyes at him. “You could totally be in tragic love with me.”

  “I could,” he says. “If I didn’t know your feet smell like cheese and that you kiss like a Disney Princess practicing on her pillow.”

  Jax erupts into laughter and there’s a snicker from the bunks that sounds suspiciously like Dalton.

  “I was fifteen!” Jera squeaks, flushing.

  “No tongue, no fun.” Danny shakes his head. “Sorry, Jimi.”

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing when Jera punches him in the shoulder, the bus engine growling as we pull out into traffic.

  “When do I get a tragic love affair?” Jax asks. “Plus, I’m kinda curious about the Disney Princess kisses. Princess Jasmine was smokin’.”

  “You’re a pair of infants,” Jera says. “Never mind that no one knows how to kiss when they’re fifteen. Can we please focus on how the entire world thinks I’m cheating on my boyfriend?”

  I cringe. “Um, has he called this morning?”

  “Jake’s fine.” Danny leans back and laces his hands behind his head. His knees bump mine under the table and I straighten and cross my legs.

  “Don’t call him that.” Jera pokes Danny with her water bottle. “And like you would know.”

  Danny rolls his eyes. “Jakey poo doesn’t like nicknames,” he informs me. “But he had his five minutes of jealousy years ago, and he’s over it. He’s fine, trust me. Talked to him yesterday.”

  “Look, ancient history is none of my business,” I say, “but if there’s something the tabloids can dig up and splash all over the checkout aisle, on any of you, please speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll call Jacob, but I’m sure it’s—” Jera hesitates and turns on Danny. “Wait, why were you talking to him last night? Did he call you?”

  He shrugs, she glares, and my mind starts cranking.

  I have no idea how much Danny is involved with social media, but my gut tells me not much. Plus, the gossip didn’t really start heating up until this morning, so my guess is their man-to-man phone call didn’t have much to do with love triangles. It was probably either about Andy the Atlanta-stalking-ex or whatever had Jera crying on the phone to Jacob when Danny went to her room the other night.

  I keep my speculation to myself. Until it hits the world wide web or affects a performance, it’s outside my job description.

  “We done here?” Danny’s gaze strokes down my face and I struggle to stay still as goosebumps leap underneath my sleeves. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” I nod toward the bunks.

  As he pushes away from the table, his wide silver ring clicks against the surface and I remember how cool it felt against my skin. I look away and nudge Jax, whose head has sagged back onto the edge of the window behind us.

  “There’s bottled water in the fridge,” I tell him gently. “Go sleep it off, okay? You’ve got interviews this afternoon.”

  He hauls himself up with a groan, and then hesitates. “Hey, did you listen to our show last night?”

  “What do you think?” I smile, which is never hard when you’re looking at Jax. Even with a hangover, his chin-length wavy hair and decorative growth of stubble make him look like something out of a menswear catalog.

  Jax glances down. “Do you think it was as good as opening night?”

  “Better,” I promise, and his smile rebounds.

  Clancy comes down the narrow hallway and Jax has to slip sideways to make room as they pass each other. Jera glances around at the packed bus and pulls out her cell phone, opening a text message. I frown sympathetically. No privacy for phone calls around here, especially not the hey-don’t-be-jealous ones.

  There’s a thump of paper as Clancy drops a worn copy of a Louis L’Amour western on the table, but before he can sit, I stop him and gesture to the floor. He grabs the table and lowers himself stiffly to the ground as I scoot to the end of the bench so I can reach him.

  “You’re too good to me, girl.”

  I drop a kiss to his gray hair—thinner every time we cross paths—and start to work the muscles around his old shoulder injury. “Not half so good as you deserve.”

  Jera shakes her head, watching the impromptu massage. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  “Play Chopsticks.” I smile. “Massages aren’t my area usually, but Clancy’s a special case. He gets free shoulder rubs for life because he gave me my first job.”

  Clancy tilts his chin up so he can see over the table to Jera. “Kate here was as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as they come, and she damn near creamed her jeans every time somebody touched a fret.”

  Jera chokes on a sip of bottled water.

  “I hired her because I figured she’d pass out blow jobs like candy,” Clancy says, “and keep my crew happy.”

  “Oh, wow!” Jera sputters out a shocked laugh and I roll my eyes, refusing to look into the bunk area where Danny went.

  “Joke was on me, because she whipped ‘em all into shape instead,” Clancy says. “Eighteen years old, working for flat per diem, and pretty soon she had everybody on that tour running to her if they needed so much as a tissue to blow their load into.”

  I poke Clancy in his good shoulder. “Clean it up a notch, hmm? It’s only Day Five and there are ladies present.” His muscles are starting to loosen, and he rests his head back against my jean-clad knee, giving a soft grunt of acknowledgment that lets me know I just embarrassed him. I wince.

  “So then what happened?” Jera squirms up onto her knees and leans her elbows on the table so she can see him better.

  Clancy perks back up. “The next season, I dug her up a shiny new Ska band touring out of an old Vanagon. They needed a tour manager who didn’t mind lugging amps and living off Ramen noodles in a van with six smelly guys. From there, she traded up to a band with a school bus, and then a manky 80s Eagle rental. Made it to a ’91 Provost the next time we crossed paths.”

  He makes it sound impressive, but if I would have hooked up with the right band to start with, I wouldn’t still be scrambling for every assignment. As it is, the only real break I’ve gotten was from the monkey.

  That was my third or fourth assignme
nt, and I got it by volunteering to take over mid-tour for a band whose drummer wouldn’t travel anywhere without a monkey. Not because he liked the monkey, but because he couldn’t watch porn without the monkey there. My predecessor lost it and threatened to call PETA on behalf of the “traumatized” animal. When I got there, I watched the monkey and he seemed like he was having a damn fine time. So I got the chimp and his drummer a decent porn streaming subscription and a service animal permit to get him through the airports.

  In exchange, I got a raise and my calls for jobs finally started getting returned. Well, sometimes.

  “Next time, I bet it’ll be a private plane,” Clancy boasts.

  I laugh. “Sure thing. Dancing unicorns and fondue fountain included. Now hop up, I’ve got to get some work done so I can earn that private plane tour.” I pat Clancy’s shoulder. He grabs the table and grunts as he pulls himself back up to his feet, rolling his shoulder.

  “I’d be as spry as a thirty-year-old if I only took jobs with you,” he says with a fond smile.

  “You’d be as spry as thirty if you’d lay off expensive tequila and cheap women.” I scoot past him, taking my purse with me so I can text my mom—and her neighbor, for the real scoop—once I get up front. I’m not as anxious about her as I was last night, though; the busy hum of a tour bus always seems to smooth the sharp edges of my nerves.

  Clancy takes my seat and picks up his paperback, but from the glance he shoots toward Jera, I’m betting he’ll be back here all afternoon, feeding her war stories from his golden days on the road.

  Most of the crew is up front on the couches by now. Jayna claimed a perch in a high bunk with her face in a tattoo magazine, and Jax is passed out in a middle one. Across the aisle from him, Danny lounges back with a sketchpad propped on his knees, his studio headphones draped down around his neck. I suppose it would have been too much to ask that he be listening to music instead of the very unglamorous story of my career so far.

  I glance around, looking to greet the latecomers. The first is Red, a fortyish Japanese guy with cat’s eyes contacts and a predilection for chain-heavy clothing. He’s reading something with monster trucks on the cover, so I just smile at him and turn to the last crewmember I haven’t spoken to yet. “No hard feelings, Pete?”

  Pete’s brother was a guitar tech I sent home yesterday, after Jax assured me he could be responsible for tuning his own instrument and setting up his effects pedal.

  “Ah, road jobs are like beautiful women, sweet thing. They come and go as they please.” Pete gives me a smile that showcases a crooked front tooth.

  I smile and keep on my path toward the front lounge, my whole body waking up like I stepped into a bubble of sharper air as I pass Danny’s bunk. He reaches out and I startle, jerking to a stop. To anybody watching, his arm would seem like it was draped casually at the edge of his mattress, but I can feel—acutely—the stroke of his thumb over the front of my arm. It travels down and lazily back up before I remember to step away.

  I let just the hint of a cough clear my throat before I ask, “What’s up?”

  His eyes narrow, his focus so intent that it’s like he’s drawing my thoughts straight out of my head.

  “How are you?” he murmurs, and I catch the slight crease when he bites the inside of his lip.

  The center of my chest aches, just a little, that he’s worried about me.

  “I’m good.” I can’t quite meet his gaze as I add pointedly, “Everything’s working out just fine.”

  “Yeah,” he says, his eyes dropping. “Good.” He flips the pencil over in his other hand, the eraser nudging the edge of his sketchpad.

  I nod, squashing the urge to steal a glance at what he’s drawing, and I keep going toward the front. That’s it, then. It’s behind us. That’s good.

  Chapter 7: You

  Three days later, the bus already smells like a month’s buildup of liquor-soured sweat. The air hums with bickering and the U2 cover Jax has been strumming over and over for the last couple hours.

  I prop my ankle boots on the bench across from me, pausing to consider my wording as I compose an email to a promoter who wants me to increase the maximums on his advertising allowance. I would do it in a heartbeat if I thought it would go to more exposure and not straight into his pocket in the form of several creatively named “expenses.”

  I could do this tonight in my hotel room, but it’s easier to focus amidst the soothing clamor of the bus. At least as long as Danny’s not in the same room.

  Lately, I find him watching me all the time, but we haven’t spoken. He ignores the budget check ins Jera and I have, and he naps through Jax’s excited pestering about ticket sales and publicity ops. Mostly he sketches or disappears into his headphones, but the moments when he emerges have frequently become the focus of my camera phone.

  I’ve been blowing up the band’s Instagram feed with backstage and tour bus pics, feeding all the fans who’ve tuned in to gossip and speculate about Jera and Danny. Yesterday’s photo was on hour nine of a twelve-hour haul, when Danny started a leg-wrestling contest right in the middle of the brawl that was building between Pete and Dalton. The picture captured the front lounge packed with bodies like a mosh pit, everybody laughing and pumping fists in the air as Danny bounced back to his feet. His beanie was tugged halfway off wild black hair, exhilaration bleeding through his grin while he tossed insults at Rex, whose tree-trunk-length leg had just flipped him fully ass over teakettle in the bus aisle.

  The day before that, the photo I posted was intense: Danny’s eyes locked with Jax’s as they rocketed through a banjo-style pick-off on two acoustic guitars, their fingers moving faster and faster until I wished I’d opted for a video instead of stills. It was also the only moment all day when Jax’s manic energy wasn’t irritating the shit out of the roadies.

  This morning, though, it was Danny who was twitchy, discontent pouring off him until I found my own toes squirming inside my shoes. At least until Jera broke out the Sharpie—because apparently tattoo artists can’t doodle on paper.

  I tinted that photo in soft sepia, Jera’s eyes far away as she gazed out the window with Danny’s head bent over her arm. Lines rippled out behind his marker, half her arm already covered in a twisting current of ink that was somewhere between a typhoon wave and a tornado.

  Twitter erupted over that one, but fortunately, Jera doesn’t seem to have checked her phone yet. Instead, she’s been reading in the back lounge with me, her tank top showing off her temporary full sleeve tat. I have to admit, it’ll look great under the lights at tonight’s show.

  My tablet slides across the table when the bus makes a sharp turn. I catch it and peek out the window as we pull up to a bank of diesel pumps, the wind outside sending an abandoned McDonald’s cup skittering across the pavement.

  “Thank God.” Jera tosses her e-reader onto the table. “Think I can con the boys into running a few laps around the truck stop?”

  “Yeah, they aren’t the best at sitting still, hmm?” I stand, straightening my swingy wrap sweater over my tank top and leggings. It’s warm outside, but I always get chilled in the air conditioning of the bus. Besides, I miss this sweater in the summertime: it’s the perfect shade of misty gray to match my eyes and make them look arresting instead of boring and washed out.

  “Usually it’s just Jax.” Jera pauses as Pete springs out of his bunk and lands in the aisle in front of us. “I don’t know what’s up with Danny today.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Reggie hollers. “And you’ll absolutely hitchhike if your ass isn’t back on the bus in eighteen.”

  Once inside, I grab an iced tea for me, Reggie’s favorite flavor of Dentyne Ice, and a couple more little notebooks for Jera. If she has a song idea and no paper handy, she’s not against writing on clothes, people, or pieces of the bus. The sun bakes in through the large windows at the front of the store, and I fold my sweater over my arm as I wait in line.

  Once I’ve paid and I head back outside, a hand
comes over my shoulder to push the door open for me. I glance up and my heart slams once when I recognize Danny, juggling two overstuffed plastic bags in one hand so he can hold the door with the other.

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, as if we haven’t been within ten feet of each other almost every minute for the last seventy-two hours. I glance down at his purchases and can’t help but smile at the giant bag of Funyuns poking out the top. “Your arteries aren’t going to last until Nashville if you keep eating like that.”

  He follows me outside. “More like I’m going to starve if I have to consume another baby carrot. The catering has been all sandwich trays with plastic-looking cheese and mountains of broccoli.”

  Most bands are stoked to get past the cold pepperoni pizza level of their career, but something tells me Danny’s not one of those. “Cold cuts were what was requested in your rider, right?”

  “Which was probably one of the papers Hank was shoving in my face for months before the tour, right?”

  “The rider is the paper that determines how your entire touring life will go.” I struggle to hold back a smile. “So yes, a little important.”

  As I reach for the railing to pull myself back into the bus, he clears his throat. “Can I talk to you?”

  Crap, did he hear me and Jera talking about him being restless? I should know better than to think a whisper is a guarantee of privacy. Just because your whole world shrinks to bus size doesn’t mean the laws of sound bend to fit as well.

  “Of course.” I step back from the stairs, leaving my iced tea just inside the door.

  “Let me just drop this stuff off,” he says.

  “I’ll take ‘em.” Jayna snags the bags out of his hands and takes the bus stairs two at a time.

  “What?” Danny asks, catching my wide-eyed look that flicks between them.