My attention drifts to the pretty girls in the front row again, and I wonder if any of them will be coming back with us. Ever since my drunken night with Shawn, there’s been nothing to stand in the way of groupies and him after shows. I’ve made a habit of ending the night early just so I don’t have to see him go home with them.
“There will probably be some fans hanging out near the bus,” Mike adds, answering my unspoken question: Shawn won’t have to take them back to the bus, because they’ll already be there waiting, like hot and fresh delivery. “But it won’t be anything too crazy.”
AND HE’S RIGHT—it isn’t anything too crazy. After the show—a loud, manic, incredible first show of our tour—my tired muscles carry me across the parking lot and I realize that what is crazy is how groupies can dress in public without getting arrested. My eyes rove over tits hanging out of tops, asses hanging out of skirts, bellies on full display. A few of the girls have their boyfriends’ arms draped around their shoulders, but I’m guessing that isn’t going to stop them from slipping the guys their numbers, not if I’m judging by the desperate way they shouted at the band from the crowd tonight, or the panties that kept flying onstage.
I root a hair tie from my pocket and pull the thick of my long purple-and-black hair up into a knot on top of my head, casting a glance at Shawn while I fight with the flyaways. I wonder which hair color he’ll opt for tonight. Bottled red? Boxed brunette? Bleached blonde?
My eyes swing back to the group clustered in front of the bus, and I try to concentrate on only the fans—the ones with their tits and asses covered, the kids wearing gear they’ve purchased from the merchandise booth during other tours, the ones who look like a hot mess because they moshed their asses off inside and didn’t immediately run to the restroom afterward to straighten their hair extensions and reapply a metric ton of makeup.
Everyone applauds and whistles as soon as they spot us, with the groupies already pushing out their chests and playing with their hair. Adam uncomfortably hugs one who throws herself at him, and then he has to physically peel her hands from around his neck when she won’t let go. Joel sticks to one-armed hugs and his slip-away maneuver, intentionally throwing all of his attention at the fans who aren’t half-naked. Mike, the trooper that he is, intentionally intercepts the most desperate of the groupies when they won’t let go of Adam or Joel. And Shawn gives a lot of attention to the groupies too, but he looks much happier to be doing it.
I smile for pictures and sign things—and try not to glare at the blonde who’s busy taking a selfie with her lips on Shawn’s stubbled cheek.
“Do you three want to see the inside of the bus?” Driver asks the three bodies in the three smallest skirts after all of the fans have gotten pictures and autographs. He’s playing the role of recruiter, which I don’t doubt he’s done a thousand times before. It’s probably in his job description: find hot chicks for Shawn to bang, invite them on bus, drag them off afterward.
Shawn’s eyes dart to me at the same time mine dart to him. “Oh, uh, not tonight,” he stammers, shaking his head at Driver. “I told you, not this tour.”
Not this tour?
Not this tour.
It hits me then, why he’s saying no. It’s not because he doesn’t want them to come on board. It’s because he thinks I don’t want them to. He thinks he’s doing me a favor. Like he’d be hurting my damn feelings. Like I have feelings.
I deliberately roll my eyes at him and smile at Groupie One, Groupie Two, and Groupie Three. “Shawn’s just a party-pooper. Come on, I’ll show you where he sleeps.”
ON THE BUS, I walk the slut parade back to the bunks, pointing out Shawn’s bed and ignoring the irritated look he gives me as I play the role of tour guide.
“Where does Adam sleep?” the bleachiest bleached blonde asks, casting a flirtatious smile over her shoulder at Adam, who isn’t paying her even the least bit of attention. He’s sitting on a bench next to Mike, his black-painted fingernails typing texts back and forth with Rowan.
“Adam sleeps with his girlfriend, Rowan,” I answer in a no-nonsense tone that shuts the girl right up. They always want the lead singer first, always—because they think he’s the fastest way to get their name in a song or their face in a gossip column.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Undeterred, she turns that flirtatious smile on Shawn, just like I knew she would. “But you don’t have a girlfriend, right?”
Shawn tears his gaze from her to shoot me a cold stare that I return with an oversweet smile. I continue leading the girls to the kitchen, where he leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Joel locks himself in the bathroom, probably to call Dee, while I pour the groupies drinks.
I offer Shawn a drink too, but he’s a statue. With the way he’s looking at me, I’m guessing the only thing he wants is to tape my big mouth shut or kick me off this bus. But I keep egging the girls on, like I have something to prove. Because I feel like I do.