by Meg Ripley
“Fran smokes?” I’d figured if anything she took uppers—coke in the bathroom, or Ritalin, something like that.
“Sometimes,” Nate said, shrugging it off as we finished off the bowl and packed another. “She’s more into edibles. Says the high lasts longer and she doesn’t hack her lungs out as much.” I nodded; I was starting to feel the weed more—it was actually better quality than I’d thought at first. Head high, not body—more focused, less like a fucking slug on a rock.
“We gotta find a way to get this shit on the bus,” Nick told me, giggling.
“We’ll see just how much of a partnership this whole two-bands-one-bus thing is gonna be, then,” I said, grinning in the haze.
“Alright, last few hits then we have to head back,” Nate said. “Otherwise someone will notice we’re gone.
CHAPTER THREE
I groaned as I woke up out of a nap I hadn’t meant to take, to the feeling of the bus swaying around me and something digging into my back. “What the fuck, man.” I twisted around and reached under me and found what it was: an Xbox controller. I threw it onto the floor of the rec area and sat up.
“Yo, Jules,” Nick said, coming into the area. “What’s the haps, man?”
“Fell asleep,” I admitted. I looked up and saw that he was filming me. “The fuck, man?” I smirked at the camera. “This is like the fourth time you’ve come to film me. You got a fucking crush on me or something?” Nick laughed.
“Looking for fascinating tour journal material,” Nick said, throwing himself down into one of the chairs. He continued filming. “What do you think about the show in Orlando tonight?” I shrugged.
“It’ll be a show,” I said. “Hopefully this time we get through it without Alex slipping and falling on his ass in a pool of glitter.”
“If they’d given the techs a chance to clean up, that wouldn’t have happened,” Fran said, coming into the rec room. I scowled at her; it had been a week since we’d played the first show of our “partnership” with Juniper Woolf, at Bardot, and while I didn’t exactly hate her anymore, I didn’t think I’d ever be her biggest fan.
“If you didn’t throw around glitter all the time there wouldn’t be anything to clean up in the first place,” I pointed out, keeping my voice as level as possible—I remembered at the last minute that Nick was still filming.
“And now,” Nick murmured in a nature documentary narrator voice, “we watch as the two apex predators confront each other at the watering hole.” I rolled my eyes at Nick’s comment, smiling almost against my will.
“Everything’s cool,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “Fran and I are the best of friends these days, right Frannie?”
“Practically siblings,” Fran said, sinking down onto the couch. She must have gotten her hair touched up before we got on the bus that morning; the deep violet-purple was more vivid than it had been before. Nick turned the camera onto her, and I could see him smirking behind it.
“So, Fran Chambers: how’s the first…three hours of touring life with Molly Riot?”
“Pretty damn good,” Fran said, reaching into a pocket in her skirt and taking out a pack of Pall Mall blues. She shook one free and found a lighter from somewhere else to light it with. One of the rules we’d set was that smoking—pot or cigarettes—should only happen in the rec room. Like a trained monkey, I reached for my own pack and lit up, too. “Looking forward to the show tonight.”
“What about you, Jules? Going to get crazy up on the stage in Orlando?”
“We always do,” I said, shrugging.
“This is boring,” Nick said, ending the recording and standing up. “I’m going to see if I can catch Mark jerking off.”
“That’ll be good for the site,” I half-muttered, taking a drag of my cigarette. I glanced at Fran as Nick stepped through the curtains separating the rec area from the rest of the bus. We were alone, together. Great.
“So,” Fran said, rocking a bit in her chair as she found an ashtray without looking, “I figure now that we have a few moments at least semi-alone, we can hash out whatever the fuck our problems are with each other.”
“That’s direct,” I said. I blew the smoke out of my lungs. “Okay, you first, since this is your big idea: what’s your problem with me?”
“I only get one?” Fran grinned and took another drag of her cig. “Honestly, I just jumped on board the shit-talk train because you said that bullshit in New Times.” I frowned.
“What bullshit?” I knew I’d talked a lot of shit about Juniper Woolf in general and Fran Chambers in particular, but I couldn’t remember specifics.
“And I quote,” Fran said, tilting her head back; her neck was longer than I’d ever noticed—and the neckline of her blouse was lower, too. “‘Fran Chambers is nothing but a fucking shill.’”
“Oh,” I said, grinning wryly. “That bullshit.”
“Hurt my feelings,” Fran said sarcastically. “If I’d known you were going to be such an asshole about getting a little glitter to the face I’d have at least made it worth my while—thrown something that’d do some real damage.” In spite of myself, I laughed.
“All right, fine,” I said. “So, your problem with me is that I told New Times—”
“And everyone else who would listen,” Fran cut in.
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “I told them you’re a fucking shill.”
“That started it, yeah,” Fran said, grinning slightly.
“Well for that I am deeply fucking sorry.” Fran giggled, and I had to admit that it was actually kind of cute.
“Your turn,” she said. “Anything other than me throwing glitter at you and piling shit talk in the mags that you have against me?” I thought about it. What did I really have against her? The glitter thing sounded petty the more often it came up. The shit-talking had gone both ways.
“That about covers it,” I told her after a moment. Fran nodded.
“In that case, I regret throwing glitter at you, and I am so very sorry that I let myself descend to your level in shit-talking.” I snickered.
“Okay, we’re done talking about this, right? Water under the bridge?”
“So far under it, it’s basically out to sea right now,” Fran replied. She stubbed out her cigarette and looked at me. “You know—no bullshit here—you’re actually kind of cute when you smile.” I raised an eyebrow at that, but before I could say anything to counter it, Fran stood up and skipped out of the room, calling out a question to her band mate Kieran about whether they had any more Cheez-Its left.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crowd in Orlando was huge; Ron had to change the venue a few days before the show because we’d sold it out as soon as it was announced and people were screaming about it. Fran had been fine playing the first show of the tour in Miami, but as soon as she got a glimpse of the crowd filling up the House of Blues, she’d gone white as a sheet of paper. “You get nervous?” she’d turned on her heel to face me, and instead of pale, her cheeks were bright red.
“So, what if I do?” she’d asked me tartly before brushing past me to the green room in the back. We were sharing that space, too—at least for about half the dates of the promotional tour, since the venues were smaller.
By the time I went back myself, she was nursing a beer, with a shot glass in her other hand. “Who wants to do round three?” she’d asked, looking around the room.
“I’ll catch up,” I told her, sitting down at the card table she’d claimed.
“Double for you first, then,” Fran had said, snagging the bottle of Fireball from her drummer, Jaime. She had poured—a little sloppy, but not enough to be a sign she was actually drunk already—and shoved the glass towards me.
“They’re doing shots together?” I’d rolled my eyes at Nick’s pretend-shocked question.
“We buried the hatchet, remember?” I knocked back the double and put the glass down.
“All right,” Fran had said, filling her shot glass and mine. “
This is the last one before stage, by the way—at least for me.” We clinked shot glasses and knocked back their contents, and sure enough that was the last shot that I’d seen Fran take before Juniper Woolf went on stage, though she kept the beer going at a slow-but-steady pace.
I was shocked that she didn’t wobble or weave at all when it came time to go out; I followed the band a few feet behind and leaned against the wall to watch them play. It was the first time since coming to the agreement with the label about the “partnership” that I’d actually watched Juniper Woolf.
As opening acts went, they were pretty much top-notch. Fran threw herself into the performance and I couldn’t help but grin to myself at how completely nerve-shot she’d been only about an hour beforehand, white with her hands shaking. No one in the audience would ever have a clue that she was even the faintest bit nervous: between the bright green makeup on her face, the tight, low-cut clothes she wore, and the way she ran around, throwing glitter, singing into the microphone like a woman possessed by a pretty tuneful demon, nervousness would be the very last fucking thing anyone would accuse her of.
“This song,” she said, panting slightly still after a leap from the stacks, “is about heartbreak.” The crowd moaned in sympathy. “No! No, don’t feel bad for me,” Fran told the audience. “Feel bad for the guy I wrote it about, because he’s never…getting back…into my life…again.” Jaime counted off a beat and the band launched into an angry, churning, driving song that I faintly recognized; I’d heard it during sound check or something.
She’s actually not that bad, I thought, watching as Fran charged through the song, her voice staying strong in spite of cigarettes and pot and liquor and running. She’s got some pipes, that’s for damned sure. And when she’s not acting like a deranged Pekingese, she’s kind of cute. The thought shocked me; I knew I’d stopped outright hating Fran Chambers, but I hadn’t thought of her as cute until I’d seen her looking so nervous, so daunted by the prospect of the huge crowd. They’re going to make a killing in merch tonight. Probably should tell them when they come off to hang out at the gate, sign a few things—but fuck, they know that shit already. And anyway, all anyone in the audience is going to do is to try and hit on her. I didn’t know why that bothered me, but it did.
“Okay folks,” Fran said, coming to a stop in her antics at center stage. “This is going to be our last song.” She waited for the boos—which I thought more than half the crowd shouted—and grinned that little nose-wrinkling grin at them. “We know who you’re all really here for,” she added, putting her hands on her hips. “Who’s ready to hear Molly Riot?” The crowd shrieked, nearly blowing out my eardrums. “What was that? I asked: who’s here to see Molly Riot?” Another shriek from the audience, and I covered my ears; it was too fucking loud.
As soon as the shrieks started to die down a little, Fran nodded to the audience, lifting her hands in the air to quiet them down further. “Well, we’re looking forward to hearing Molly Riot, too,” she said. “So, this is our last song of the night!” Jaime had been counting in while Fran spoke, so as soon as she finished the band launched into their last song; with a mental groan, I realized it was the one they’d used to make the viral video that got them their contract with the label. But instead of just letting it grate on my nerves, I made myself actually listen to it. Not half bad, actually, once you get past the kitsch stuff, I thought, as Fran went through the chorus and into the second verse. From the point of view of structure, I couldn’t actually say the song sucked at all. Juniper Woolf milked the hell out of it, of course; Jaime played a tight, fast solo after the second chorus, leading into a breakdown as the rest of the band came in one by one. Fran reprised the first verse and then finally came around to the last verse and two more choruses, jumping up and down, getting the crowd to chant the words with her, working them into a frenzy. All at once, the song jolted to an end, the lights went out, and the audience screamed so loudly that I thought the walls would come down.
Fran brushed against me again as Juniper Woolf came off the stage; she was dripping with sweat, flushed all over from the roots of her cartoon hair to the collar of her shirt, grinning with the kind of thrilled, exultant pride that I knew too well. “Good set,” I told her with a grin.
“You bet your tight ass it was a good set,” she shot back, giving me a quick glance with her bright eyes before she followed the rest of the band back down the hall.
They had dispersed to the showers by the time I left the wing of the stage; the rest of Molly Riot were going through the usual pre-show psych-up: mostly comprised of chest-bumps, shit-talk, and the kind of punches a pack of brothers deals out like they give their girlfriends kisses. “We’re good on the set, right? Everyone’s on the same page?” I slapped Alex on the shoulder.
“Even if we’re not, we have this convenient list to look at,” Nick said, flourishing his copy.
“All right,” Alex said, loosening up his shoulders. “Juniper Woolf set ‘em up; let’s go knock ‘em down.”
We were about two songs in when I looked over at the wings; Fran was perched on a stool—she must have gotten one of the techs to grab it for her—and nodding her head along with Mark’s beat, her gaze moving over the stage in quick sweeps. When she caught me looking at her, she raised an eyebrow and lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, looking totally unabashed. I smirked and looked down at my guitar, playing a particularly difficult run that worked with what the rest of the band was doing in a mid-song jam. I looked up and she was still watching me, a little ironic smirk on her lips.
I spent the rest of the set alternating between paying attention to the crowd and watching Fran watch me, like I was two different people trapped in one body. I showed off for her, I showed off for the fans, I showed off for myself; it all blended together in my brain as the sweat started pouring down my face, down my back, as my fingers moved on the guitar, as my foot tapped the beat. It was weird; I’d never really liked being watched from the wings—it was usually Nick or Alex who got the most attention, if someone was tagging along or backstage. But I guess I thought it was only fair for Fran to watch me after I’d spent the whole Juniper Woolf set watching her antics; and it was almost like I took it as a challenge to be wilder, more aggressive.
By the time the set ended we were all every bit as soaked in sweat as the band before us had been; I was tired—but restless at the same time. “No partying tonight, guys,” Hannah told us as we piled into the green room.
“What? You’re fucking kidding me!” Nick and Mark both scowled at Ron’s assistant. “We’re in fucking Orlando,” Nick added.
“We have to get across the damn country,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. “Load up the booze from the green room and party on the bus if you want to, but we’re getting on the road as soon as the crew gets everything packed up.” I shrugged it off; I’d be high for hours whether we went out or not, but at the moment, the only thing that mattered to me was getting a shower and some dry clothes on.
Juniper Woolf had disappeared; Hannah said that they’d gone to the front of the building to sign a few things and meet a few of the fans, milling around after the end of the show. “Dibs on shower!” I grabbed my backpack from the chair I’d left it in and headed in that direction, trying not to think of Fran flirting with a bunch of sweaty, boozed-up fans. She can take care of herself, I reminded myself. She’s played all over Palm Beach and Dade County. She knows how to handle it. But a different kind of question wriggled into my brain: She’s not going to bring some poor sap onto the bus with her, is she?
CHAPTER FIVE
The bus was quiet; the rest of the guys had gone off to their bunks—first Alex, and then Nick, predictably to call their girlfriends before they passed out for the night, and then Dan, and finally Mark. The members of Juniper Woolf had disappeared at some point, too, though I couldn’t remember when. I reached over onto the table for my pack of cigarettes; it was empty.
“Fuck,” I muttered to myself. “That’s as
good a cue to turn in as any, I guess.”
“I’ve got a couple of cigs left in this pack,” Fran said, stepping into the rec area. I nearly overturned the fucking ashtray at the sound of her voice; she snorted, waving the pack of Pall Malls and coming further into the room. I scrubbed at my face; I was still maybe half-drunk, but my temples were already starting to throb with the hangover I’d have in a few hours. Fran threw herself into the chair next to mine, and I took in the sight of her; she’d changed clothes at some point after getting on the bus, into a pajama set that seemed designed to be demure and alluring at the same time: a pair of loose, soft-looking shorts that just barely covered the curve of her ass, paired with a matched spaghetti-strap top that clung to her tits, the hem floating around her hips. If it were an inch or two longer, it’d look like she wasn’t wearing shorts at all. It’s a bit chilly in here, I thought, noticing the sight of her nipples straining at the fabric of her shirt.
“Thanks,” I said, when Fran took one cigarette out of the pack and handed it to me. “Note to the wise: the more often you change clothes, the sooner you’re out of clothes.”
“I know,” Fran said, lighting a cig of her own. “But I can wear pajamas a few times over.” I took a drag of smoke and considered for a moment.
“So, how was autograph signing?” I kept looking at her legs—smooth, longer than I would have thought they’d be, toned. Bet they’re warm to…especially along the thigh…the inner thigh…right before you get to… I gave myself a shake; why was I thinking about that shit?
“Same as it is down south,” Fran said with a shrug. She flicked an ash into the ashtray.
“I didn’t see anyone bringing a fan on the bus,” I observed.
“Jaime might later on; he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Fran said. “Nate does. Kieran actually has a boyfriend.”