The van pulled off the interstate and parked at a rest area in Alabama…Mississippi…hell, Jay didn’t know where. He hadn’t looked up from his acoustic and notepad since they left Georgia that morning.
The heat of the summer sun baked the windows, and the A/C cranked on high. With his guitar cradled in his lap and his socked feet on the dash, he was too comfortable to move. Laz and Wil were out of the van before Rio killed the motor. The tight quarters and endless driving must have been wearing on them.
Rio lingered, as did his stare.
Jay didn’t look up from his scrawled lyrics. “Don’t you need to hit the head?”
A huff. Rio wadded up his envelope of flavored candy sugar he’d been licking out of for the past hour and threw it at the windshield. The crumpled ball bounced off the dash and fell amongst the litter on the floorboard.
A smile pulled at Jay’s lips. “Who took the fun out of your Fun Dip?”
“You did, Jay. That’s who.”
Rio’s glare eclipsed Jay’s periphery. Was the big guy seriously pouting? Jay twisted in the seat to face him. “How did I do that exactly?”
“You’ve been strumming funeral hymns for five-hundred miles. I’m about to off myself emo-style.”
Friggin’ drama queen. And it wasn’t a funeral hymn. “Just don’t do it while you’re driving”.
“Which song are you working on?” Rio arched his neck to look at Jay’s notes, his tanned bald head catching the glare of the sun.
Jay angled his lyrics out of view just to be a dick. “Whichever one I want.”
“You can work on whatever you want…as long as it’s Cuntapus.”
How could Rio say that ridiculous word without busting a smile? Yet he maintained his unflinching glare.
Jay tucked his pencil behind his ear and dug his phone out of the console. “I will never write a song about cunt, *, or any other term for the female anatomy.” He wanted to be taken seriously as a musician. Not sell out with shocking song titles.
Rio’s half-growl, half-groan was a heavy, continuous reverberation as he stretched his ogreish biceps toward the roof. The dude was big and carried his intimidation the way he carried his muscle mass. Viscerally and without force. It just sort of clung to him, much like the rough-hewed women who made up a good portion of their fan base.
“I want high energy.” Rio glowered and stressed every syllable. “Lots of aggressive, wet dripping beats. I want Cuntapus.”
Said the drummer who could tap out a mellow ride with more dynamism than the fast double strokes of a punker. He met his glare. “No.”
The sudden tilt of Rio’s lips cracked his stony mask. “I guess you can’t write about cuntapus when you aren’t getting cuntapus.”
Whatever. After a month of celibacy, he was used to their taunting. Especially as the sexual offers heightened with The Burn’s skyrocketing notoriety. Hot girls, too. As in big-tittied, tight-bodied, wild-in-the-sack kind of girls. They cornered him after shows, in parking lots, and followed him into the fucking bathroom. He moaned inwardly.
Just made him want Charlee more. And dammit, he would come to her as a clean and deserving man. Thank Christ the clinic in Florida confirmed he was free of STDs.
With all his focus on seeing her again, his neurotic episodes and bouts of depression had become less frequent. How was that possible?
His youth counselor had used terms such as PTSD, internal and external triggers, and cognitive behavioral therapy. It was difficult to identify what cued his internal trigger. Sometimes all it took was the recollection of a memory. His external trigger was simply a hand, intentionally placed on his body. When he was unable to manage his environment, rather than turning to drugs like he used to, he simply thought of Charlee.
He tried not to think about what might’ve been going on with her and her boyfriend or if there would be any room for a rising musician in her life. The possibility that he could win her on the other side of their tour was enough. One more month.
Gah. Another month. Impatience buzzed through him. “How about we make St. Louis our next stop and I’ll write your damn song.”
“You know we can’t do that. We’re booked every night along the Gulf until we return to L.A.”
Disappointment sunk him into the seat. They were opening for some of the biggest rock bands in the business, and concert goers had begun to take an interest in them. If he bailed out, he’d be bailing on his friends. A venue cancellation would void thousands of ticket sales, and the penalties would be monstrous.
Rio’s grin widened. “I guess if you’re going to compose while you’re hung up on a girl, just try to save your menstrual tearjerkers for your jerk off sessions.”
“Where’s the faith?”
“I have faith in you, but we’re not a soft rock band.”
“I’m not writing soft.” He traced a finger over the fret of his guitar. “It’s a rock ballad.”