by Davis, Rhona
As I start toward a massive table in the middle of bar Reflex—a trendy yet random roadside cocktail joint just off highway 101—Monica pushes to her feet and hands me a shot.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from her outstretched hand and placing my cocktail down on the table.
“Just a little something to help you sleep. We’re on the bus again tonight.”
Normally the band and select members of crew check into a decent hotel but occasionally, in between cities, they rest up in one of the four tour buses. They’re reasonably luxurious inside, but the bed spaces themselves are tiny and cramped. Last night was my first experience of real ‘roadie life’ and my neck isn’t thanking me today.
“Go on,” she presses, jerking her chin to the tiny glass in my hand. “Down in one.”
I screw my face up and gulp it down as fast as I can. As soon as the heat of the unidentifiable liquor hits the back of my palette, I grimace. “Eww . . . what was that?”
“Rum, Red Bull, with just a dash of tequila.” She smiles. “Yummy, right?”
“Tastes like cough medicine.” I reach for my long island to sooth the burn in my throat.
She pulls out a chair for me. On the table is an array of cocktails, beers, and spirits. The only thing to eat is a half empty plate of cheese nachos with guacamole—food of choice for life on the road. She sinks down on a chair and pats the one next to her. “Come on, we’ve a long night ahead of us.”
I shake my head. “Need to pee first . . . save my place though.”
I’m a little disappointed. The whole band is here but Jay is still AWOL. Probably on the tour bus working on something new, I reason.
As I round the corner toward the restrooms, I bump into someone walking in the opposite direction. “Sorry, I—” My words cut off. Looming tall over me, in dark skinny jeans and a pristine white t-shirt, is Jay.
“Look where you’re going,” he barks.
My cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”
“Just be more careful next time.”
“Of course.”
As he purposefully strides to our table, my gaze follows him. His ass looks so perfect and firm in those dark jeans.
Although I’m happy he’s come along, I’m left mortified by my reaction. Did I just allow him to talk to me like that? Any other guy would be met with a few choice words. I mean, he bumped into me too. He doesn’t need to be so rude about it. I did apologize.
Shaking out of it, I push inside the restroom.
After using the toilet I wash my hands, barely glancing at my reflection. I feel like a hot mess, no doubt helped along by the booze, so I must look like one. I don’t want to see what must’ve greeted Jay just a moment ago.
I dry my hands and head back to the impromptu after show party.
The smile on my face soon disappears. Jay walks away from the table with Mike, the band’s drummer, by his side. They move to the far end of the bar where they look lost in some deep conversation.
“Smooth, Krissy, real smooth,” Monica says. Her words are like a faint buzz as I watch Jay talk with Mike. I can’t put my finger on it but something looks wrong.
“Krissy!”
My gaze snaps to Monica. “What?”
“I saw you, walking straight into Mr. sex-on-legs.”
I blush.
“Oldest trick in the book,” she continues, sporting a wry smile.
I smooth my hair past my ears and take a seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your clash with Tyler . . . you did that on purpose.”
“How could I?” I protest. “I never even knew he was here.”
She smirks. “Suuure.”
“Can we please drop the subject?”
Her shoulders and brows rise. “Okay . . . chill.”
I’m agitated now. Sure, I’m desperate for Jay’s attention, but I don’t want the whole world to know it, and I don’t want my best friend to bust my balls over it either. I’m not a school kid anymore, I’m twenty-three god damn it.
“Pass me another,” I tell her, staring at the tray of shots.
“I thought you didn’t like them.”
“I don’t, but I need something to numb myself from the embarrassment of what just happened.”
She smirks and hands me over another—some kind of reddish blue sludge. I don’t dare ask what’s in it, I just shrug and knock it back. It’s worse than the first one.
My face feels hot. As everyone laughs and jokes around, I turn my attention to Jay. Mike pats him on the shoulder and starts back over.
Jay stays rooted where he is. He looks sullen. Lost.
Suddenly, his gaze fixes on me. I want to look away, but I can’t. Hoping he smiles or something, I’m left crushed when he frowns and storms out the bar.
Jay Tyler: most gorgeous man alive.
Krissy Swinton: clumsy, crazy, desperate fan.
4
Jay
Dead on my feet, I leave the band to their festivities and head for the tour bus. I have my own, separating myself from the rest of the guys. Although we should really share, being all for one and one for all, they’re pretty cool about it. I don’t often partake in the after show parties and I wouldn’t want to be a moody burden to them. They enjoy their booze and pussy too much.
Me?
Grown right out of it. Old before my time, I guess.
Flicking on a light, I kick off my boots and drop down on a chair. My renewed chilled state of mind soon shifts back to the brunette who bumped into me. I’m sure I asked Greg to keep groupies off the tour. Sure, the guys can indulge but that girl looks like a part of Greg and his girlfriend’s clique. The way she stared at me, with unmistakable longing in her eyes, caught me off guard. It’s a look I’m used to but she spiked my interest.
Those eyes. Ocean blue. I admit it, she’s pretty cute: short, curvy, chocolate-brown hair and a great, great rack. Would it be so bad if I just marched right back into the bar and dragged her off with me? It’s been a few months since I’ve enjoyed the company of a hot, young piece of ass. I’m starting to drool just thinking about it.
No.
The abstinence has been torture but I’ve stood steadfast in my resolve. Until the right one comes along, no more messing with fans . . . especially after Suzie.
I push to my feet and take out a fresh bottle of beer from the mini-refrigerator that rests beneath the flat screen TV. Just before I pop open the cap, I change my mind and settle for a Pepsi instead. My head hurts; the noise of our band still ringing in my ears, screaming girls, migraine inducing stage lights—I need a sugar fix.
Fuck. I need sleep.
* * *
My eyes snap open. The sound of boots crunching over gravel wakes me. I snatch up my cell from the floor and check the time: 3:04 in the morning.
I groan. Pulling the blanket over my head, I shift left—away from the window and the sound outside.
We’ve parked the tour buses along a grassy verge, halfway out from the next city. Tomorrow we’ll rock into LA and check into a swanky hotel, with gold taps and marble in the bathrooms, a king-size bed, and 24-hour room service. I’m getting cabin fever stuck in here. I used to love staying on tour buses but I hate it now. Especially this one. It’s like a coffin on wheels.
Just as my eyelids threaten to close again, the sound of those boots get closer. I jump out of bed and part the shutters, squinting through the tinted windows. I can just about make out the shape of a female; the light from a phone screen casting a soft glow over her shape.
Must be Monica. She’s always sleep walking.
I pull on my shirt and Adidas jogging pants before heading outside to investigate. Dragging up a pack of smokes from a side table, I step off the bus.
Creeping toward Monica, who stands on unsteady feet by the road’s steel railing, I pull my shirt tighter. The night carries a slight chill, at odds with the soaring temperature of the day just gone. It’s summer but nights out here feel more like early w
inter.
“Monica,” I call out, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
I hear a gasp as she turns. The light on her phone now makes it clear—it’s not Monica, it’s her brunette friend.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, feeling forced to make small conversation.
“No.”
“Me neither. What . . . insomnia?”
“A little.” She pulls a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. She looks messy, dressed in a red plaid shirt, jean shorts, and muddy galoshes. A shy grin plays awkwardly across her full lips.
Fishing out two cigarettes from my pack, I offer her one. She shakes her head.
“Good,” I say, lighting up one of the cigarettes and tucking the other behind my right ear. Taking a sharp drag, I blow out the perfect smoke ring before continuing, “It’s a shitty habit anyway.”
“It’s no good for your voice.”
I glare at her. “Gee, thanks mom.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to lecture you, I—”
I laugh, cutting her off. “Someone needs to. I’m surrounded by ‘yes’ men.” Silence creates a temporary wedge between us and I quickly lose my appetite for the cigarette. Throwing it to the floor, I crush it beneath the heel of my shoe.
“That was a waste,” she says.
“Didn’t you say it was no good for my voice?”
She looks away. With one leg slightly crossing the other, and her arms folded tight across her chest, she looks a little anxious.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Krissy.”
I shuffle a few steps closer and stretch my arm out, offering her my hand. “I’m Jay.”
She giggles before softly taking my hand in hers. “I know.”
There’s something weird going on as we shake hands—a kind of spark. Maybe it’s static from the cuff of her shirt?
“So . . . what do you do, Jay?”
My eyes narrow. She tries to hold in laughter but I beat her to it, chuckling away. Her attempt at banter is geeky as hell but cute. As we continue to make small talk I begin to realize she’s actually all right. She’s funny, shy, and I’m fairly sure she’s not some psychotic fan, which is a plus.
“We’re checking into a hotel tomorrow,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen.
“Yeah,” I continue, “sick of those beds on the bus . . . must’ve been designed for Hobbits or something.”
She laughs.
“You coming to the radio station tomorrow?” I ask, changing my mind on smoking and taking the spare cigarette from my ear.
“I thought it was just for the band.”
“It is just for the band. But you can come along if you want. See how boring the interviews are.”
She smiles. It’s broad and her face lights up with it. She’s a lot more attractive than I originally thought.
“Well?” I press.
She hesitates for a moment, looking down at the floor before fixing her gaze back to mine. “I’ll have to ask Monica if that’s cool.”
“What is she, your guardian?”
“No, but she wanted to take a look around a few of the city’s thrift stores.”
“You guys can do that after. We have two whole nights in LA.”
She pauses. After what seems like an age contemplating my invitation, she nods and flashes that sexy smile again.
I take a long, hard drag on my smoke. “Good. We’ll roll into town by daybreak. The breakfast show starts at ten. Think you can force a little sleep?”
“I’ll try.”
“Well, if you have any problems drifting off then you know where I am.”
Her brows pinch.
“I could tuck you in,” I playfully add.
Even in the dark I can see her flawless complexion turn beet-red. I suppress my amusement, take another drag on my smoke, and head back to the bus.
I think I’m gonna have fun with this one.
5
Krissy
You’re listening to ATT-Rock, the station with all the rock . . . ALL THE TIME, and that was Sweet Agony . . .
“I can’t believe he asked you to come along to the interview,” Monica raves. “He never asks any of the crew, not even Greg.”
“I know.”
“So, what happened last night?”
“I don’t know . . . we both couldn’t sleep and got talking. It’s like we’re connected somehow.” I feel like an idiot as soon as that thought spills from my mouth.
“Good sign, babe.”
“You think?”
Monica winks at me and smiles.
We’re both stood behind a coffee shaded plane of soundproof glass, looking in on the band’s interview. They’re just wrapping up a half hour chat and acoustic performance for the breakfast show. ATT-Rock is the biggest rock and alternative station on the West Coast—actually, one of the last. On radio, and steaming online, they have thousands of devoted listeners who’ve turned their backs on the commercial junk the more mainstream stations pump out.
Jay looks at me through the glass divide and pulls a goofy face that’s meant for the DJ. The host wasn’t looking and it makes me giggle like a giddy school girl.
It’s nice to see him happy. He’s like his old self again, when their stunning debut first broke eight years ago. Of late, especially the last year, Jay’s been more of a quiet and introspective guy—you could say moody, so it’s cool to see some of the character that first made me fall in love with the band shine again.
My cellphone beeps in my pocket, stealing my attention away from Jay’s antics. I look at the screen and tut. It’s mom, asking me if I’m safe. It’s only been a couple of nights. You’d think I was stuck out in the Australian outback, with half a flask of water and a torn up map as my only guide. I long for the day when she treats me like an adult.
“He’s got it as bad as you,” Monica teases. “He’s hardly been able to stop glancing over since we first got here. Shit, I’ve never seen him so hyper.”
“Stop it. He’s just messing. Anyway, what makes you think I care?”
“You care,” she nonchalantly says, her gaze now stuck on her own smart phone.
“He was an ass in that bar.”
She sighs, still rooting through her phone. “So? He didn’t know you then.” Putting her phone away, she looks at me like she’s about to drop some life affirming bombshell. “Whatever you two talked about last night, all alone under the stars, has obviously got him interested now. I wasn’t so impressed when I first met you, either.”
My brows meet. “What do you mean?”
“You were a freak.”
“Thanks!”
She smirks. “But then I got to know you . . . Krissy, stop beating yourself up. Whatever happens, happens. Just go with it.”
I shrug and study Jay again. He removes his headphones and pushes from the stool. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt—that shows off his exceptionally toned body—a cool pair of dark jeans—complete with funky leopard print belt—and a classic pair of Ray Bands that dangle from the neck of his tee.
He’s every inch the rock star.
If you met this guy, even fleetingly, on the street, you’d be in no doubt as to what his choice of profession is.
As he shakes the DJ’s hand, I can’t help but marvel at the tight muscles of his arm—the sleeve of tattoos makes him look extra manly and ripped.
God, I wonder what he must think when he catches his reflection in the mirror each morning. If I was him I’d never leave the house.
I blush just imagining what he looks like climbing out of a nice cozy bed . . .
Monica’s waves her hand in front of my face. “Hello.”
“Huh?”
She grins. “Just bringing you back down to earth.”
“Sorry, I—”
“No need to explain. You were busy perving . . . totally get it.”
I straighten up. “Was not!”
“Anywhoos . . . are we heading out to the city now, see what we can find?�
�
“Sure.”
“Good. I’m dying for a latté.”
Walking out to the main foyer of the radio station, the band all pile out of the studio. Suddenly I feel self-conscious, wishing I never wore my hair back in a scruffy ponytail or worn these denim cut off shorts—the same ones from last night.
“Krissy,” Jay calls, walking briskly toward me.
“Yes?”
“Wanna join me for some late breakfast?”
Dumbfounded, I look at Monica.
She shoves me. “Of course she will. Thanks, Jay. I thought I’d never get rid of her.”
I glare at her.
“Good,” Jay says, his eyes finding mine. “See you down stairs in five?”
I nod—fast. My mouth is too dry to form words. The corners of his lips pull up as he strides away.
When he’s out of view I strike Monica on the arm. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you should find out what’s going on with him. I told you before, he’s so into you.”
I feel sick. Sick like good sick . . . but still sick.
“What about our bonding?” I ask.
She tuts and shakes her head slowly, probably embarrassed for me and my stupid excuses. “We have three weeks on tour. Plenty of time for shopping. Greg texted me anyway. He has the day off from duty and wants to take me surfing with some of his old buddies.”
“He knows people everywhere.”
“That’s life on the road for you.”
“I’m nervous, Mon . . . what shall I do?”
“Stop being such a pussy.” She checks her cell again. “Anyway, would love to hang around and chat, but I’ve got me some waves to catch.”
Oh.
My.
God.
6