by Karina Halle
Except in this case, Graham looked like he didn’t want any attention from me. In fact, I could have sworn he shuddered at my presence and his brows were knit in confusion.
I kept my eyes moving and settled on the last person on the bus. The person sitting at the end of the long couch.
Sage Knightly.
He was leaning against the wall with a book in hand, his long, black-jean clad legs sprawled in front of him. On his feet were his trademark flip-flops, his wide upper body in a wide-collared black shirt that was unbuttoned halfway, a peek of his scruffy firm chest popping through. Tattoos drifted out of the sleeves and onto his forearms. He was looking at me with all the intensity in the world, and in my numb state I couldn’t read any expression on his face. His gray-green eyes were clear and piercing, framed dramatically by his low, strong brows. Black curly hair fell softly on his forehead and onto the sides. His dimpled chin was strong, his bottom lip was full with an upper lip that curved sweetly. His skin was bronzed and looked more exotic in person, alluding to his rumored Hispanic ancestry.
He was the man on my wall.
My musical hero.
My musical crush.
And he was on the bus, sitting there, right in front of me.
No, wait…he was leaving.
With a slight narrowing of the eyes, he finally stopped staring, and after giving everyone what seemed to be a disgusted look, got up and marched down the aisle toward me. He was so tall he almost had to duck down as went by. I leaned against Chip to get out of his way—Sage was built like a brick house and probably would have clipped my shoulder.
“We have your beer!” Chip yelled after him as Sage pushed past me and stomped off the bus. He didn’t even throw us a backward glance.
I looked back at Chip, my heart racing, the urge to vomit teasing me. What the hell just happened there? Did I piss him off somehow? Already?
Also: Holy smokes, Sage Knightly just touched me.
Chip grinned. “Welcome to the band, Rusty!”
“You’re not the guy from Rolling Stone,” Graham said to me, sounding accusatory.
I looked at him, surprised. “Rolling Stone? No, Creem.”
“I thought I asked for someone from Rolling Stone,” he mumbled angrily. Wait, the drummer arranged for this?
“Who cares, she’s hot,” Chip said, putting his arm around me. “Come on, put down the beers, let’s get the introductions over with.”
I put the beers on the table, right in front of Robbie. Our eyes met and I immediately tore mine away, too many weird emotions going through me at once. I was bewildered, shook up, confused, and in disbelief.
“Nice to meet you, Rusty,” Robbie said in his smooth voice. “I’m Robbie.”
He smiled. I was turning into a puddle of swoon.
“Dawn,” I corrected him and immediately felt silly for doing so. Robbie Oliver could call me Pooey-Poo-Poo Smelly Face if he wanted to.
“Rusty it is,” he said, still smiling, still working out those dimples. He scooched over and patted the faded seat next to him. “Come, sit, regale us with your tales of Creem Magazine.”
I made some sort of noise. Chip pushed me lightly into the seat and tossed everyone a Carlsberg, making sure Mickey got his first.
After I had gotten over the fact that Sage had just snubbed me, I was overcome by the girly, juvenile, dimwitted sensation of “Oh my god, I’m squished up next to Robbie Oliver. Oh my god, Mickey Brown and Noelle Clark are sitting across from me, drinking beer. Oh my god, Noelle won’t stop glaring at me. Oh my god, how did this become my life?”
Thankfully I wasn’t able to dwell on it for very long. Chip was shoving a beer in my hand while Robbie started rattling off the questions: How long had I worked for Creem Magazine, where was I from, what was my favorite band, what was my favorite Hybrid album, what was my favorite Hybrid song, and who was the best singer in the world?
Naturally I answered “you” to that last one.
He grinned and patted my hand. “That a girl! Great answers.” He looked at Noelle, who continued to look unimpressed. “See, she’s not a groupie.”
Then he leaned into my hair and whispered into my ear, “Not that I’d mind either way.”
I let out an awkward laugh. Was Robbie hitting on me?
“She’s a groupie with a badge,” Noelle shot in.
I responded with a look that could kill.
“Can I quote you on that?” I asked sweetly, finding my nerve. “Would look real good in the article.”
She narrowed her eyes back at me and I heard Robbie suck in his breath.
Chip laughed. “Wowee, boys, I think we’re going to have an interesting few weeks.”
“I wanted the guy from Rolling Stone,” Graham muttered.
“No one cares what you want,” Robbie yelled at him over my head. He then looked at Mickey. “Boyo, make your girlfriend behave.”
Mickey shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “Whatever, man, Noe can do what she pleases.”
“And what I please isn’t here yet,” she said. She leaned down and plucked one of the stolen mini liquor bottles out of her boot.
“Patience,” Mickey told her and proceeded to roll a joint.
I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I had a feeling it had to do with drugs. Before I could ponder that more, Robbie bumped me with his hip playfully.
“So what do you think, miss rusty journalist?”
I couldn’t help but smile. He had a nice way of making me forget the people on the other side of the table. “About what?”
“Well, let’s start with the bus.”
“I told her we love the piece of shit,” Chip added as he went to sit on the couch beside Graham.
“Piece of shit is right,” Mickey said, not looking up from his joint. “It’s only a matter of time before she goes off the road.”
“Such pessimism,” Robbie scolded him. He took a big sip of his beer before looking around, admiring it.
I did the same, if not just to take the pressure off of me. The table we sat at was small and kind of cramped, but would do to have a bite or play a game of cards. The carpet of the bus was this dirty green that matched the velour of the couch cushions. It probably sat three people comfortably and looked long enough that even the 6’3” Sage could stretch out on it. Above the couch were cupboards and a small stack of 8-track tapes and books. Further back, there was a closet, and then two bunk beds tucked into the side. Behind Noelle and Mickey was another set of two forward-facing seats, and behind that a tiny kitchen consisting of a mini fridge, sink, and one burner. I couldn’t tell what was in the back but I assumed it was a bathroom and more beds. It was a nice bus…or it would have been in 1965. Now it was down at its heels, a victim of too many wild tours.
“Our driver’s pretty cool too,” Robbie went on to say. “He used to drive around Elvis. He has many stories. We have yet to get him drunk to hear them, but we have plans. Ain’t that right, Boyo?”
Mickey nodded and lit the joint at his lips. After inhaling and passing to Noelle, he let out a slow puff of air that drifted off into the bus’s already smoky atmosphere. “Yeah. If Bob doesn’t have a heart attack on us.”
“So why did they send you here?” I heard Graham say from beside me.
“Pardon me?”
“Creem,” he explained, nostrils flaring slightly.
I gave him a look. His harping on about this was getting on my nerves.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Jacob arranged this, why don’t you go ask him?”
Okay. So chiding the members of the band that I was supposed to interview probably wasn’t the best idea.
And then I remembered. I looked beside me at Robbie, still finding it unnerving that he was just inches away, our hips touching on the seat. “Speaking of Jacob, he’s outside the gate. He gave me his pass because I didn’t have one. He said he wants one of you to go get him.”
Robbie shook his head and reached over for the joint da
ngling from Mickey’s slightly shaking fingers. “Rusty, don’t worry about The Cob. That’s rule number one on the bus. Having Jacob around is like having a creepy babysitter who owes money to the mob.”
“I swear Jacob is the mob,” Mickey said in between coughs. “Even the names rhyme.”
“That’s brilliant,” Robbie told him, blowing smoke in his face. “You should start writing lyrics for the band.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Mickey replied.
“I’ve tried. My dick was too big.” Robbie leaned back in the seat, his legs spread open, knee bumping against mine. My goodness he had on tight pants.
I looked away and cleared my throat.
Noelle got off of Mickey’s lap, making annoyed noises.
“I’ll go get Jacob,” she said, reaching for a pass that was hanging off a cupboard knob. She looked back at Mickey and he tapped the side of his nose.
“Could you two be any more obvious?” Graham said.
“Shut up, Graham,” she retorted over her skinny shoulder and flounced down the stairs and out of the bus.
“You do drugs, Rusty?” Mickey said with glazed eyes.
I could feel everyone looking at me.
“I smoke a little dope from time to time,” I admitted.
“No coke?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Acid?” asked Chip.
“Quaaludes?” asked Robbie.
“No.” I felt like I should elaborate with some excuse but there wasn’t really much to say other than the fact that I didn’t do hard drugs. I’d seen what my mother had gone through on prescription meds and that was enough for me.
Robbie put his hand over mine and squeezed it. It was warm, and his lovely well-formed fingers were delicate and soft. “Good for you. More for us then.”
He took another toke of the joint then added, “But don’t quote us on that.”
“Yeah, maybe don’t quote us on anything until we say when,” Mickey mused, suddenly sounding concerned.
“You’re just thinking about Noe. Your woman is going to get in trouble,” Robbie said to him.
“No,” Graham spoke up. “You’re going to get us in trouble. You always do. Starting with hitting on the hack here.”
I shot Graham another glare. Did he and Noelle make some sort of deal to tag team me?
Robbie took his hand away, looking chagrined.
“Sorry, I can be too friendly.”
Chip snorted. “That’s an understatement.”
“I do mean well,” Robbie continued, good naturedly. He looked over at Graham. “And I think you need to mind your manners over there. Oh wait, forget it. You don’t even have a soul.”
Clearly having enough of our company, Graham got to his feet with a sigh and looked down at us. “We all lost our souls when we joined this band. And despite what Mickey says, I think you should quote me on that.”
He pointed at me, his nicotine-stained finger right in my face, then left the bus. Now it was just me, a buzzed Chip on his fourth beer, a stoned Mickey, and Robbie.
At least the atmosphere wasn’t so volatile. I felt my body relax for the first time since stepping on the bus.
Or maybe it was the fact that the thing was now hot boxed.
Either way I took the opportunity to start setting some ground rules.
“Look, I’m sort of new at this going on the road with a band thing,” I told them, trying to get my brain to think straight. I figured being honest couldn’t hurt in this situation, or at least with these guys. “So I am not sure what the rules are about this sort of thing. I know I’m going to be traveling with you for most of the tour. I’d like to interview everyone separately at one point, and maybe do one together—”
Robbie sucked in his breath at that. I continued, my voice shaking with nerves.
“—and I’m also just going to absorb the atmosphere, the feeling of your shows, what life on the road is like, what life in Hybrid is like.”
“Do we get to approve what’s written?” Mickey asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Well...no.”
Mickey shook his head and put the joint out on the table, adding to other burn marks. “I don’t know man, whose idea was it again to have a journalist with us?”
“Graham,” Robbie said. “But we all agreed. Even Sage.”
“Actually, I don’t think Sage ever did agree,” Chip put in. He was now lying down on the couch, a beer balancing on his belly. “In fact, I think I remember him saying, ‘You guys are all fucking idiots to think this wont fuck us royally’ and then he threw a book at Graham.”
Mickey let out a short and stupid laugh. “Oh yeah. Fucking Graham.”
Robbie turned to me. “We think Graham had this idea that if he got this dipshit ass-kisser journalist from Rolling Stone, that he’d come and focus just on him. You know, this ass has got a wicked hard on for drummers or something.”
I looked down at my hands. “Guess I kind of ruined that.”
“You didn’t ruin it, Rusty,” Chip said. “It was Jacob’s call in the end, and I’m sure getting a writer who’s an actual fan of the band—the whole band—won’t hurt us. Plus, like I said, you’re hot.”
I gave him a wry look even though he was watching his beer can rise and fall.
“Hot and smart,” Robbie added.
“Dude, stop hitting on her,” Mickey said.
“Why? Jealous?”
“If I were jealous, Noe would have both my balls in her purse already.”
I cleared my throat. “So, just to be clear, I will be observing you all, but you can always ask for things to be off the record.”
“Can everything be off the record?” asked Mickey.
I couldn’t help but laugh. He really was worried.
“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’m just saying…”
“She’s saying watch what you say and try to keep your drug use hidden, you moron,” said Chip.
“Drug use?” Jacob’s booming accent rolled into the bus.
We all turned to see him walk onto the bus and up the stairs.
He smiled down at me. “Thanks for coming to get me, Dawn.”
“I sent Noelle!” I said defensively. I felt secretly delighted that we were behaving like chums already instead of strangers, like arguing with Hybrid’s manager was something I normally did as part of Dawn Emerson’s normal life.
“You should have sent a cat, it would have gotten to me faster,” he said, taking a seat beside Mickey with a groan, like his bones were tired.
“Where is she?” Mickey asked.
“Oh, she and Graham took the flat of beer to the dressing room. You boys realize you can go hang out there too. Might be better since we’re about thirty minutes away from showtime.”
“Did you do soundcheck already?” I asked.
“Yeah, this afternoon,” Robbie said. That disappointed me. I’d always wanted to see the band—any band, actually—during soundcheck. It was like an extra special, private performance.
“How did it go?” I asked.
Robbie shrugged. “It went…”
His eyes flew across the table to Mickey’s and they exchanged an unreadable look. Finally Mickey looked at me.
“Noe can’t play the bass unplugged so we have her doing simple notes on the keyboard. She’s not too happy about it.”
“And Graham is being a shit at keeping time on those fucking tambourines,” Robbie added.
“And I have no idea how to get Robbie’s voice so it doesn’t overshadow everyone,” Chip said with a sigh.
Jacob looked at me and smiled, opening his hands in surrender. “So you can see, you’re about to witness one hell of a show.”
“The only person who knows what they are doing is Sage,” Robbie admitted.
“And me,” Mickey put in. I caught the slightest trace of bitterness in his voice, and the quick look he shot at Robbie only added to it.
“Of course, you,” Robbie comforted him.
He turned to Jacob expectantly. “So, boss, should we go do this or what?”
“Take your time,” Jacob said, twirling his gold rings around his thick fingers. “I’ve already got the money for us from the owner, so if you want to go at things half-arsed, be my guest.”
“So passive aggressive, Jacob,” Robbie chided him softly. “I don’t think I like this side of you.”
Jacob tilted his head and winked at me. “Just trying to keep the peace with the writer here.”
Robbie put his arm around me and shook me slightly. “Good old Rusty, already keeping everyone on their best behavior.”
When I got over the embarrassment and wanting to squeal like a girl at the fact that Robbie Oliver had his arm around me, I couldn’t help but wonder—this was their best behavior?
How long would it be before I saw them at their worst?
Five
The rest of the evening went quite well. I didn’t see the band at their worst (I knew that would come later) but I did get to enjoy one of the most memorable shows of my life. I guess they could have sat around and banged pots and pans and I still would have thought it was awesome just because I was there, and for once, I was special.
With the band getting ready for their acoustic set, I ended up following Jacob around like a lost puppy. I didn’t mind it. There was something about Jacob that made people pay attention to him. He seemed to know everyone at Red Rocks and I didn’t doubt he probably knew everyone in the music industry. With him I felt strangely protected, as if he had taken a shine to me, and it made me feel important. Though it was sad that all I wanted at times was for Todd or Ryan to see me, see how far I’d come. Todd because he’d shit himself with jealousy, and Ryan because I wanted him to know what he was giving up. He thought I was going nowhere? Well once he saw the article in Creem Magazine, the article I wrote, he’d see how wrong he was.