Chapter 4
I wake up in the middle of the night, startled that the bus isn’t moving. A peek outside my window produces a view of a shadowy rest area. After tiptoeing to the bathroom and then to the fridge for a bottle of water, I realize Gary is sleeping on the couch in the main room. Stupidly, I had thought we would drive through the night. As if Gary, the middle-aged man of few words, doesn’t need to sleep. It takes me forever to fall back asleep. When I wake up in the morning, we’re rolling again.
I tend to be an early riser. I usually have to get up at five in the morning three days a week to go make desserts at Tony’s. So it’s not surprising that all the band members are still asleep as I tiptoe past the bunk area with a notebook in hand. I find a plastic bowl—not too hard with only four cupboards—and pour cereal and milk. While eating breakfast, I make a list of what I need to accomplish prior to the concert tonight. Interviews took up most of yesterday—all the other band members were more talkative than Sam. Justin and Romeo gave me a ton of information. Both of them seemed super excited about the tour. Gabe wasn’t as open, but he was nowhere near as defensive as Sam was. After eating a ham sandwich for dinner, I’d called Jill, then Bryce before laying out a blanket and pillow on the couch.
My first goal is to use the interviews to create bios for the band members to go with their pictures. I also want to finish the first tour post about leaving home.
I’m still digging into my Cheerios when Sam stumbles into the kitchen area. One side of his head is springy with curls. The hair on the other side is flat and he is dressed in a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and flannels. He searches in the cupboards. Froot Loops in hand, he opens the fridge.
Clearing my throat, I push the milk to the edge of the table.
Sam finally notices me sitting behind him and scowls. I’m not sure if the frown is because of me or because he’s not a morning person. As he collapses across from me in the booth and drops the cereal box on the table between us, I’m guessing both.
I tug my pen from the spiral of the notebook. He stares out the window. I work on my list. He shoves in cereal.
The uncomfortable breakfast continues, with the hum of the highway below us and cereal crunching until Sam unexpectedly asks, “How’d you sleep back there?”
Shocked that he’s talking to me, I nearly drop my plastic spoon. “All right. You?”
He pours another bowl of cereal. “Like shit. Those bunks are narrower than hell.”
“The back couch wasn’t too bad, but I was startled to wake up in the middle of the night at a rest stop.”
He finishes chewing. “Pulled into it around midnight.”
“You nervous about the concert tonight?” I ask. I’m not sure if I keep the conversation going because he’s actually talking to me or because it’s become my habit to ask questions.
He shrugs and scoops up more cereal. “We’ve played some big shows.”
“When the crowd is more than five thousand?”
“No, but I’m thinking it’s all the same if I’m up onstage.”
My head tilts as I imagine the excitement of performing live. “I suppose.”
The bass line from “Higher Ground” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers rings from the pocket of his flannels. He sets his spoon down and digs out the phone. He scowls at the screen and then answers, “What’s going on?”
His gaze wanders to the window as creases form between his brows.
“Why would you assume that? I wouldn’t do that.” He shoves his cereal away. “I haven’t forgotten you.”
I pretend to be immersed in my list and not listening, but it’s hard to ignore the one-sided conversation. Like most waitresses, I’m good at ignoring people, especially customers arguing across plates of pasta, yet Sam’s frustrated tone catches my attention.
“No. No. No. That’s not true.” He rubs his temple. “Are you listening to what you’re saying? What you’re suggesting?” The temple rubbing continues as he listens. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Sam pauses, as if suddenly remembering he’s not alone. “Just a minute.” He scoots out of the booth. “Hey, hey, you need to calm down,” he says, marching toward the back of the bus.
I tap my pencil on the notebook, thinking that Sam has one demanding girlfriend. I wonder what she looks like, if she’s a student, and whether I’ve had any classes with her. Irritated at myself, I toss my pen down. Who cares? I certainly shouldn’t. Still, I can’t stop thinking about it. I wonder why she wasn’t there yesterday to see him off. But then again, Bryce couldn’t make it because of practice, so maybe she had prior commitments too. I glance out the window and wonder why I’m contemplating Sam’s love life.
I don’t want to contemplate anything about Sam.
Within the hour, Romeo holds his morning meeting. I’d hoped to get some material out of it, but the meeting is pretty boring. The guys talk about a song list until they all agree. Romeo reminds Gabe about keeping the tempo so they don’t “crash,” whatever that means. I’m guessing the implication is that he and Sam won’t be able to stay with the beat unless Gabe provides a strong lead. They spend another twenty minutes choreographing Sam’s, Romeo’s, and Justin’s onstage movements. Although not every second is accounted for, I’m surprised at how much they do plan out, even moving around to show and explain to one another what they envision.
Lunch is another round of sandwiches. I opt for peanut butter and jelly this time, with a side of raw carrots. There’s not much junk food on the bus. I guess that’s not surprising, given all of Romeo’s research. He probably read somewhere that bands don’t perform well if they live on Cheetos and canned ravioli for six weeks.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room, working on the bios and the blog post. I look through the pictures I took yesterday and decide which ones to put up. Only one shows a girlfriend. From ages twelve to sixteen, I was in luuuve with a whole bunch of hot musicians, and I never wanted to know if the objects of my affection were in relationships. I’m guessing that filling up the posts with lovey-dovey pictures isn’t the thing to do. Especially because Luminescent Juliet is composed of four hot guys.
I’m aware their looks are part of their appeal. Romeo with his swoop of dark hair and intense dark eyes. Justin’s gorgeous model look, complete with blond hair and tattoos. Gabe’s lean, rocker body and harsh face framed by brown shoulder-length hair. And Sam, with his sculpted profile, curls, and muscular build. They’re like a grown-up boy band that’s way past cute and into full-on sexy. Luckily, I have a great boyfriend. Though he’s good-looking too, I learned long ago that looks aren’t everything. Real communication is more important. So I’m completely immune to hot-looking guys, especially to Sam.
Late in the afternoon, I go to the front room to show Romeo the first post, but he is on the phone, his face angry and tense. With an equally strained expression, Justin paces the length of the aisle from the kitchen to about five inches behind Gary’s seat, then back again. Gabe is attacking the couch with his drumsticks. Sam sits in the kitchen booth with his feet up and his head back, looking unfazed, reading a book. Since he’s the only person not in the middle of a freak-out, I’m guessing he’s the best one to talk to.
“What’s going on?”
He lifts a brow at me and tilts his head toward the window. “You haven’t noticed the lack of speed?”
I glance out at the bumper-to-bumper traffic around us, and realize that we’re moving at the pace of a turtle. I shake my head. “Guess I was too absorbed in my work.” When Justin paces past me to the end of the bus for the second time, the implications hit me. “Are we going to make the show?”
Sam shrugs, then yawns. “Not sure, but there’s not much we can do now, is there?”
Ignoring his nonchalance, I do the math. We left Michigan yesterday at one. Even with a long stop for gas, we must have done ten hours yesterday. The trip to Denver takes eighteen hours. We were supposed to get there at four o’clock, which would have given the band three hours to do sound checks and get ready before going onstage at seven. I glance at the time on my phone. Three o’clock. Denver has to be hours away, because the landscape around us is rolling hills. Out the front window, the mountains are visible in the distance, but getting to them might take forever.
Romeo glances out the window and swears. I shut my laptop. I’m guessing he’s not going to be interested in checking the post right now. Sam goes back to his book. Justin continues pacing. Feeling a little anxious, I head to the back room and put away my computer. The bus comes to a complete stop and someone up front yells out, “Fuck!”
Sitting on the couch, I use my phone to check our distance from Denver. According to the map, the journey there should take a little less than two hours. I glance out the window. The horrendous traffic could easily eat up the next two hours. Whoever made this schedule is an idiot. It doesn’t allow much time for error.
The bus doesn’t move. I look at my phone again, glance out the window, and then clench and unclench my hands repeatedly. There’s nothing else to do.
Sam comes into the back room. He nods toward the TV and puts his book on the table. “Mind if I watch? Gabe’s couch drumming and the nonstop bitching up front is getting on my nerves.”
“Be my guest,” I say, shaking my head. How can he be so calm? This is their first show. “This really isn’t fazing you?”
“Nothing I can do. I can’t worry about everything in life,” he says absently, grabbing the remote and starting to flick through channels. He props his feet on the table, next to his book. I glance at the cover: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It must be funny, because I faintly recall that Sam used to carry around books, even at parties, and they were always humorous. He would read lines to me from them. Sometimes I would get the humor; other times I just laughed at the goofy way he read the lines. I’m suddenly annoyed that the only side of him I ever see is the grumpy one. The fun-loving side of him seems to be gone.
“What do you have to worry about?” I ask, ticking off the options in my head. Getting laid? Partying? Maybe grades?
“You still interviewing, Ms. Couric?” he asks snidely.
Yup. He’s nothing but a total jerk when he’s around me. Twisting away from him, I check my phone. We haven’t moved much.
Sam keeps flicking through channels.
I watch too. Well, kind of. Mainly I’m trying to understand his indifference. I’m betting his demanding girlfriend sucks all the energy for worrying out of him.
An hour passes with me checking my phone and glancing at the latest channel Sam has landed on. The bus alternates between a stop and a crawl, once in a while rolling forward suddenly in a spurt. As it nears five o’clock, we’re a little less than an hour away. We could make it. Like minutes prior to seven.
Sam gets a call and within seconds, he’s arguing again about trust.
Feeling as if I’m unintentionally eavesdropping on his dysfunctional relationship, I decide to get ready for the show. My suitcase is under the bus, and my backpack has a limited wardrobe, but there’s not going to be enough time to unload the suitcases, which are behind the instruments, before showtime. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.
In the bathroom, I drag on a pair of low-riding jeans and a Clash T-shirt emblazoned with the cover of London Calling, which I usually use for sleeping. The shirt is big, so I tie it at one corner, leaving a slice of my stomach showing, which I never do, even though Jill is constantly telling me to show off my abs. They’re quite toned because I’ve been working out three times a week since senior year of high school. After sliding my flip-flops back on, I wash my face with as little water as possible and then apply some makeup. Lastly, I scrunch my hair and add gel. Without electricity, there’s not much else I can do with it.
When I head out to the front room, the guys are still despondent about the traffic jam. Justin now sits on the couch across from Gabe, whose sticks continue thudding on leather. Romeo’s still on the phone. Since there’s no sign of Sam, I’m guessing he’s still watching TV in the back room.
I see mountains surrounding us when I look out the window.
I check my phone for the time and the distance. Ten after six and only twenty-two miles left.
“You should get ready,” I announce to no one in particular.
Justin’s expression is mocking. “Our clothes are underneath the bus.”
“You don’t have anything up here?”
Gabe hits his sticks together with a loud thwap. “No stage clothes.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my backpack to my shoulder, “maybe you’ll have to go for the college student look tonight.” I glance at my phone. “We should make it. We have a little over twenty miles left, and we’re moving now.” I look again at the traffic outside. It’s not fast, but it’s moving.
Romeo puts down his phone. “She’s right. Get dressed.”
“What about a shower?” Justin asks.
Turning toward the front window, Romeo says, “There’s enough water for everyone to have just one. Pick before or after.”
Frowning, Gabe says, “Definitely after playing the drums.”
In the back room, I find Sam dozing, legs propped on the table, his hands folded across his lap. Seeing his face so tranquil startles me for a moment. With his long, dark lashes and his full, chiseled mouth, he’s all male but somehow sweet.
Using my foot, I tap his foot resting on the table. His eyes flutter open, then his gaze turns hard as it focuses on me.
Sweet? Please. What was I thinking?
“You have about forty minutes to get ready. Forty-five minutes until you’ll be onstage.”
His eyebrows shoot up in a question.
I gesture to the pajama bottoms he’s still wearing. “What I’m saying is, you might want to change.”
I move to the corner where my stuff is piled, but stop just short of bending down when I sense his gaze on me. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes are roaming my body.
My gaze turns pointed. “You need something?”
His eyes continue to travel over me slowly—too slowly. My arms itch to wrap around my body for cover because his deliberate gaze is starting a flutter in my stomach, butterfly wings gone crazy . . . I resist tugging my shirt down over the inch of skin showing above my belt and glare at him.
“Nice shirt,” he says with a grin.
Though I know he’s a Clash fan too, it’s completely obvious that my shirt is not what he’s checking out. “Thanks,” I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.
His gaze sweeps over me again. “You’ve filled out since high school, huh?”
When he met me during my senior year, I was living on carrots and celery. My goal now is to eat reasonably and maintain a healthy weight, not to look as skinny as a teenage model. But he’d better not say I’m bigger or something. My body image issues from high school still linger, and they can creep up on me.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “You’ve finally got an ass.”
My jaw drops and I grab the remote from the tabletop to throw at him, but he’s up and off the couch before I can toss it.
“A seriously hot ass,” he says under his breath, then steps through the door.
Shocked, I drop the remote, which lands on the floor with a thud.