Chapter 18
Standing inside the U-shaped configuration of foldout tables that make up our booth, I slide another card through the credit device attached to Romeo’s phone. Selling T-shirts, hats, and CDs is a mind-numbing experience. I’ve come to hate running the booth. But the band has no one else, and the earnings at the end of a night total from about three hundred to a thousand dollars. Not too shabby for an up-and-coming band. I can’t imagine what the other bands pull in. They have multiple booths, with long, long lines.
The next few hours will drag. We just got to Richmond this morning, but right after the show, once the crew packs everything up, we’re hitting the road again around two a.m. to drive to Philly. And we won’t arrive until early morning. I’m not looking forward to the next run of concerts and bus trips we have lined up.
The muffled first riffs of Luminescent Juliet’s “Midnight” echo through the venue as I fold up a T-shirt, slide it into a bag, and hand it over to a guy with a pink Mohawk. He purposely brushes his hand along mine in the process, smiling slowly. “When you’re done, I’d love to buy you a drink.”
My standard concert outfit has become a pair of denim cutoffs, cowboy boots—my dumb ass didn’t bring fashionable yet comfy shoes—and a Luminescent Juliet T-shirt. Of course I have one of each of the three designs, which put the band’s name and logo across my chest. Not the most flattering outfit, yet male rockers seem to like it. I’ve gotten a few compliments on it, and a few propositions like the current one.
I force a smile. I don’t have anything against pink Mohawks, and of course this guy doesn’t know I have a boyfriend. But hello, dude, you could be a serial killer for all I know. “Tempting, but I have to work all night.”
At that moment Mike, the roadie whom Romeo pays to cover the booth so I can take pictures, slips in to take my place. “Hey, Peyton.” He reaches for Romeo’s phone in my hand. “Go on. They just went onstage. I’ll take care of this.”
Mohawk guy frowns.
Ignoring him, I go snatch my camera from behind a bin of T-shirts and then slip out of the booth. Getting backstage is not an easy feat. First, I have to get through the masses in the hallways around the arena. Then I have to take a tunnel that goes under the bleachers and around half the arena. Next come the checkpoints where I hold out the pass around my neck for inspection. Once out of the tunnel, I pass the green room and spot the Brookfield guys being interviewed by the local media.
I pass an area where backstage ticket holders are getting pictures taken with members of Griff.
The excitement on the fans’ faces always gives me a little surge of exhilaration. I’d never been backstage until this tour, but I have been to several concerts. My first was the most exciting. When I was fifteen, my grandpa took me to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers when they were on their Stadium Arcadium Tour. Each time I see backstage pass holders looking giddy and wide-eyed as they meet the bands, I remember how I nearly pissed my pants with excitement during the hour-and-fifteen-minute ride to the Palace of Auburn Hills. My grandfather and I had nosebleed seats, yet we both had an awesome time.
The music from the stage gets louder as I continue my journey, and I hear the guys break into “At the End of the Universe,” an energetic song that I’ve loved from the first time I heard it. Some songs need to grow on you. Not this sucker. Fast and rocking—I immediately liked it.
The area directly behind the stage was a bitch to get into until the roadies got to know me. This is the place where the instruments are tuned and shined up, and where costume changes are stashed. Fans are never allowed here. A few roadies wave to me as I pass but most are busy.
Heading around the back of the stage, I go out onto the floor past the bouncers instead of my usual spot in front of the stage, and I use my concert ID to make my way backward through the crowd on the floor to the sound booth. The perfect place to get pictures of the Luminescent Juliet guys all together, playing onstage. Earlier this afternoon, wearing a smile and a low-cut shirt—a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—I’d stopped by with a large pepperoni pizza to ask the engineers if I could get a few pictures during the concert. Between the pie and the cleavage, it didn’t take them too long to agree to let me into the most off-limits area of all.
Now, here I am, and the engineers at the sound and light boards don’t look too happy to see me. Still, they let me in. I quickly take some pictures of the entire stage. Some zoomed in and others from far away. I get some of the guys on their instruments, others of the silhouettes of the crowd’s heads and arms.
Then I bolt from the sound booth before one of the guys decides to kick me out. I pause at the booth, watching the band. For once, smashed in the crowd, it’s like I’m really at a concert. It’s not a business out here. It’s not a production. It’s music blaring with the crowd swaying and screaming. It’s a different type of energy. And though I know they’re a talented rock band, out here in the mass, Luminescent Juliet seems more real to me. They seem like actual stars. A tattooed shirtless singer belts out lyrics, moving across the stage. A dark guitar player intricately fingers out a riff. A lean drummer moves gracefully around the drum set. And a gorgeous bass player plucks at his strings and bounces while his curls tumble over his forehead.
Sam stands facing the crowd, bouncing to the rhythm as usual. Dressed in gray cargo pants, black boots, and a black tank, he’s looking sexy. His smooth arm muscles bunch as he plucks at his orange bass. During the past three weeks, his curls have grown longer. They bounce with him, falling over his forehead at each beat from the drums.
He’s rock star perfection. Slightly elusive, bigger than life, and totally hot.
Damn. I have to stop thinking about him as so attractive.
But it’s good to see him having fun after last night. He’d moped through the day, appearing depressed and spending most of it dozing in his bunk, except when he’d come to the back of the bus to tell me his mother had picked up Seth in Detroit. But onstage, he’s energy and grins, his gorgeous body always in motion to the music.
With a shake of my head, I turn to go, but as the band starts the next song, “Trace,” I’m frozen by the sudden, obvious change in Sam. Once energetic and bouncy, he’s suddenly wooden and robotic. Without thinking, I start moving through the crush of people toward the stage. When a girl elbows me, I hold up my pass. Keeping my pass in the air, I move far enough forward that I can see the bleakness on Sam’s face.
His lips are thin and angry-looking. Lines groove his cheeks. And his jaw is clenched tight. He sings the chorus, and the words come from his mouth as if he’s forcing them out. Something is very wrong. I’ve never seen Sam onstage like this. He’s always happy energy, as if there’s nothing better in the world than playing for a crowd. At the moment, he’s dark anger.
As if the song flipped his switch.
I try to recall the lyrics as Romeo plays the guitar solo. Something about traces of a girl being left. A song about the heartbreak of love? Why has it got Sam all tense? Does it remind him of someone breaking his heart? Surely not me. Though he may have been attracted to me, we were never close enough for the kind of heartbreak to show up in a song.
They sing the chorus again: “Gone, gone, gone / nothing left but traces of you. / Gone, gone, gone / But still holding on to these traces of you.” Again, Sam spits out the words.
The song ends, and then—after Justin yells out “Thank you!” and “I hope you like this one!”—they start “Inked My Heart,” their biggest hit, which always gets the crowd going. Sam instantly looks more relaxed. Since the song is slower, he doesn’t bounce, but he’s back near the edge of the stage and flirting again.
Totally confused, I make my way back to the booth. And just in time too. Mike stays and helps me with the fans wanting T-shirts during the lull. Once Griff gets onstage, business dies down immediately. Mike takes off but says he’ll be back in about an hour to help me pack up. I text back and forth with Jill. This being Friday night, she’s out with the girls, so she keeps sending me pictures of drinks and shots. In between reading her incoherent texts, I try to look up the lyrics for “Trace.” Unfortunately, Luminescent Juliet isn’t popular enough for their lyrics to be listed on any websites. Yet.
So I pop in one earbud and listen to the song while waiting on customers. I’ve figured out half the lyrics and typed them into my phone when Mike shows up to help me pack the stuff in bins. Once we get everything on a flat cart, Mike waves at me and rolls the cart away.
Brookfield is playing now and the green room is party central. More band members are hanging out than usual because there’s no hotel to go to, just the buses. I snag a beer and head over to the area where Luminescent is hanging out.
I instantly realize Sam isn’t in the room, which is strange. He always parties after a concert. I inch closer to Justin. When he’s done nodding and smiling at whatever the girl next to him is saying, I loudly ask, “Where’s Sam?”
Justin shrugs. “He took off. Maybe the bus?”
Recalling the weird way Sam acted onstage, I step back and take a sip of my beer. Is Sam depressed about his brother? Or did he leave with someone? When it comes to Sam and groupies, speculation leaves me slightly jealous. An emotion that makes little sense, and that I should not be feeling.
One of the scantily clad women absently pushes me aside in her quest to get near Justin. I move back and let her at him. Though he smiles, I catch a look of irritation crossing his face.
I down the rest of my beer, trying to push the images of Sam and a groupie out of my mind. I shouldn’t be thinking of him. I have a boyfriend. Sam is a rock star. My jealousy does not fit into any part of that equation.
By the time I’m on my second beer—on tour sometimes I feel like I’m on a liquid diet—the concert is over and the room is overflowing. I’m a content but bored spectator, leaning against the wall, until I notice Rick coming my way.
Constantly on the lookout for a piece of ass, some of the other band members in Griff and one from Brookfield have shown an interest in me. Since they hit on anything female younger than fifty, the attention isn’t much of an ego booster—but everyone has left me alone when I showed disinterest and explained I have a boyfriend. Everyone except Rick. He’s about ten feet and four people away, eyeing me.
I cannot deal with Rick tonight.
Screw giving Sam time to screw his groupie on the bus. I shove off the wall, then push my way through the mass and out the door, leaving Rick and his sultry looks in the dust. After tossing my almost-full beer into the trash, I go down a long hall and pass several roadies on my way outside and into the muggy Virginia night.
The hum of the buses’ air conditioners fills the silence in the parking lot. Because the buses are gated off and security guards make rounds around the buses, they’re usually open. I’m hoping that’s the case with ours. Luckily for me, it is. I stand on the cement, holding the door open and debating how to make my presence known before going in. I do not want to walk in on something that will have me wanting to bleach my eyeballs, or cry my heart out. Stepping up, I decide on a door slam—bang—and then shout, “Hello?”
Hearing nothing but the hum of the air conditioner, I yell out another “Hello?”
Nothing again. I go up the stairs and enter the main cabin. It’s super dark. “Sam?” I say as my hand brushes the wall, searching for the light switches. I hit the first one my fingers find. The light over the kitchen sink pops on, leaving the rest of the cabin shadowy, and I make out a motionless, shadowy figure on the couch.
The whole scene is a bit freaky.
“Sam?” I repeat. My fingers find the main switch, and when I flick it on, the cabin is bathed in light. So is Sam. So is the blood running from his nose, down his chin, and soaking into his shirt.
I’m at his side in seconds, shaking him. “Sam! Sam! Sam!”
His eyes open sluggishly. “Hey, Peyton,” he says. He lifts his head slightly and more blood squirts from his nose.
“Holy shit, Sam!” I’m relieved he’s awake but scared by the sight of all the blood as I jump up and grab a towel from the counter, then press it to his nose. With a shaky hand, I dig my phone out. “We need to call an ambulance.”
“Ambulance? No ambulance,” Sam says, trying to push himself up and touching under his nose. He frowns at the blood on his fingertips but repeats, “No ambulance.”
My phone falls to the floor as I push him back down. “Stay down! You’re bleeding all over!”
“Don’t call anyone.” The words come out muffled from under the towel. “Just get me some ice.”
“Ice? Ice! You’re bleeding like a stuck pig!”
After looking down at his blood-drenched shirt, he tears the towel from my hand and presses it to his nose. Laying his head back, he growls, “Just get me some ice!”
With shaky hands, I get another towel and fill it with ice. He has lost a lot of blood. He needs more than ice. He needs medical help whether his stupid ass realizes it or not. I hand him the ice-filled towel, then pick up my phone from the floor. I get only one number punched in before Sam kicks the phone out of my hand, and the device flies across the room onto the other couch.
Sam pushes himself up. “Do not call anyone.”
I stand there breathing heavily as we stare at each other, trying not to go off on him. “What’s going on?” I ask, though I’m starting to put two and two together.
He sits up fully, but leans his head back and shrugs. “My left sinus membrane may have broken open.”
“Why the hell would your sinus break open?” I ask evenly.
“Maybe the coke was cut with something. Or maybe I snorted too much.”
“I thought you dumped all your stuff,” I say, my teeth clenching.
“Got it from a roadie. Needed a couple hits.”
If he weren’t a bloody mess, I’d smack the living crap out of him. “You said you weren’t addicted.”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I need the high. It’s not daily or anything. Just when things get rough.”
“Rough?” I ask, but the answer comes to me immediately. Seth. The never-ending shit with his brother. That is what drives Sam to this.
He stands, then weaves. “I need to get cleaned up before they get back. Romeo will kill me if he finds out. Or worse. He’ll find a new bass player.”
I reluctantly go to his side. “Do you have any more stashed away?”
He doesn’t answer me.
I step away and cross my arms. “I’m not helping you unless you give it to me.”
He weaves. I don’t make a move to help.
My arms tighten across my chest. “There’s no way in hell I’m helping you if you’re going to turn around and pull this crap again.”
Glaring at me, he jerks a baggie from his pocket and holds it out. I distastefully pluck the small bag from his hand with a finger and thumb.
After helping him to the bathroom, the first thing I do before he sits down on the toilet lid is flush the baggie. I help him remove his blood-soaked tank top. I wrap it in plastic grocery store bags, planning to toss it into a trash bin later. Using soapy paper towels and putting them in grocery store bags too, I wipe down his chest and neck as he leans his head back, still holding the ice to his nose. This mess would be much easier in a real bathroom with unlimited water, because he could just take a long shower. But the limited amount of water in here would leave blood all over the shower stall. Or use up the water supply. Neither scenario would be good.
When Sam pulls the ice away from his nose so I can wash his face, a thin line of blood leaks out.
“Ugh,” I say. “If you didn’t have a bloody nose, I’d give you one.”
He grins.
I don’t grin back. Leaning over him, I begin cleaning the mess off his face. The scruff on his jaw tears at the paper towel, but he’s at last cleaned up and no longer bleeding.
When I’m done, he grabs my hand and kisses my palm. “Thank you, Peyton.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. His crystal-blue gaze is filled with soft warmth that is almost melting my anger. And it does, to a point.
I tug my hand from his. “This is the last time I’m covering for you. I’m not playing.” I stand. “Got it?”
Jaw tightening, he nods.
“And if it keeps bleeding, you’re going in,” I say in a steely tone, wrapping the already-bagged shirt and the bloody paper towels into the last plastic bag from under the sink. No doubt Romeo will be asking where all the bags went.
Sam dumps the bloody ice towel into the trash too, then stands and flicks open the buttons of his jeans.
I jump back and crash into the plastic shower wall. “What are you doing?”
“Getting in the shower,” he says, weaving and holding on to the counter for support, as he lifts one eyebrow that matches his cocky grin. “Care to join me?”
“Ah, no.” I angrily snatch the bags from the floor, planning to dump them in a bin outside, as he pushes his pants down and reveals black boxers. “Well, I guess if you can still flirt like an ass, you don’t need an ambulance after all,” I say over my shoulder as I step out of the bathroom.