Bastard.
“Mornin’,” Geoff Finley, the lead singer for Primal Terror said, sitting down beside me. I only nodded; still trying to digest the lump of fat Jose tossed my way.
“Just think about it,” Jose said suddenly before getting to his feet, his laptop tucked under his arm, heading to the front of the bus, presumably to talk to the driver.
“You want one?” Nads Mason, Primal Terror’s bassist asked, indicating a box of donuts. I shook my head, feeling slightly nauseous.
I got up and headed back to my bunk.
Jose thought I should leave Generation Rejects and be a solo artist. He thought Generation Rejects was a mid-level band. But me, well he thought I could be a star.
I was flattered.
I wanted it. So badly. I wanted to reach out and grab fame by its scrawny, fickle neck and make it my bitch. I wanted to set the world on fire and smoke the ashes.
I wanted the money. I wanted the recognition. I wanted the mansion and cars.
I wanted it all.
I wanted to look at my dad’s sanctimonious face and give him the goddamned middle finger. I wanted to look at my judgmental mother and tell her to fuck off. That I didn’t need their approval; that I had done this all on my own.
That I could own the universe.
“You okay, dude?” Garrett waved his hand in front of my face and I realized I had been standing, unmoving, staring into space.
Looking at the guy I considered my brother I felt like shit for even contemplating leaving him and the other guys behind.
I wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for Garrett Bellows and our band.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t sleep much,” I said with a wry smile.
Garrett clasped his hand on my shoulder. “You need to get laid. It’s been what? Two weeks? Three? You’ll get gangrene if you don’t use it, man,” he joked and I tried to laugh. It didn’t really work.
Garrett frowned and peered into my face. I really wasn’t in the mood for his look into your soul and talk about your problems stuff.
“You sure you’re all right?”
I pushed passed him and angrily threw the curtain back on my bunk, climbing in.
“I’m fucking fine,” I said harshly, shutting out Garrett and my guilt.
“Finally,” I said with a relieved chuckle when Vivian answered the phone.
The tour bus had just gotten to St. Louis an hour and half ago. We had all checked into the hotel and I was enjoying some much needed alone time.
I had spent the remaining time on the bus hiding out in my bunk. Mitch and Jordan had tried to get me to jam with them for a bit but I said I had a headache. That I wasn’t in the mood.
Yes, I had officially grown a vagina.
I had practically run from the bus when we pulled up at the Best Western. And now I was in my room, alone, clinging to my phone and entirely too happy just because I finally got a girl to talk to me.
“Sorry. I went out last night. I had one hell of a hangover this morning,” Vivian laughed and then groaned.
I smiled, knowing what her morning must have been like. Vivian didn’t wear hung-over very well. She was mean. And she had no qualms about making everyone within a ten-mile radius as miserable as she was.
But what I wouldn’t give to be in Bakersville with her right now. I didn’t like this crazy confusion swirling around in my head. I liked cut and dry, black and white. I didn’t feel comfortable with the temptation I had been given.
“Sorry, baby. I wish I were there to take care of you,” I said huskily, thinking graphically about exactly how I would take care of her.
I wasn’t sure when things had changed for me where Vivian was concerned. We had been fucking for almost two years now. We weren’t dating. And we most certainly didn’t have a commitment.