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I stood there for a moment, touching my lips with a fingertip, and watched the two
of them head toward to the stage, Tristan’s arm draped over AC’s shoulder. I thought
I heard AC say “Nice shirt. Silky.”

I laughed.

Watching the show from the sidelines was an experience. With the VIP cord now permanently
around my neck, one of the roadies actually brought me another beer when he noticed
mine was finished. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a concert from the sidelines,
but it seemed like the first time I’d noticed that my status had permanently been
altered. People fell in behind me, not wanting to block the view, almost hesitant
if they bumped into me.

Pretty different from the mosh pit, I thought, watching the frenzy that was going
on in front of the stage. People didn’t realize how different. You were there, in
front of the crowd, controlling, leading, making it look easy, when in fact almost
every last thing had been blocked out and rehearsed. It was a show, but the trick
was to make it look like you’d just rolled out of bed, had a beer, then strapped on
a guitar, ready to roll, dripping sex. And the boys hadn’t been kidding. If there
wasn’t a Tumblr devoted to either what Tristan was packing or bromance by the end
of this, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. The songs were killer just by themselves,
but did they get a little more intense every time AC sidled up to Tristan, leaning
his head on his shoulder, Tristan’s arm slung around his shoulders? Then AC dropped
to the floor, wailing out a solo, on his knees. As Tristan approached him, he leaned
back, and Tristan straddled him, as AC ran over the strings, increasingly frantically,
his face inches away from Tristan’s cock, staring at it, as Tristan thrust his hips
out, towering over him. So close to what everyone was imagining, what everyone wanted
them to do.

The crowd was shrieking, a wall of cell phones capturing the moment for eternity.
The song screeched to a halt, and AC stood up slowly, swinging the guitar out of the
way, and gave Tristan a full body hug. Maybe I was the only one that saw the moment
of serious pressure he put into it. Maybe not. By that time my ears were ringing and
my heart was beating. They were quite the double act. It struck me what I hadn’t seen
before was how comfortable they were with each other. I wondered if I should feel
jealous, and I wondered why I didn’t.

The rest of the concert went by in a blur. They were playing brilliantly—really doing
justice to Tristan’s songs. The temperature was blistering. The crowd up the front
were pushing up the barriers, and the bouncers holding them back were having a hard
time keeping the frenzy in order. So when AC spun his guitar around to his back, and
rubbed up against Tristan, I wasn’t surprised really when Tristan dove in, and slammed
against him with a fury that looked long-repressed. AC flailed for a moment as Tristan
forced his mouth open with his tongue, and kissed him, hard, as the seconds went past,
and the crowd half-groaned, half-screamed with the sense of relief their contact brought
everyone. They finally pulled apart, AC glancing down noticeably at the swelling that
made his jeans look as though they were going to pull apart at the zip, and gave him
the dirtiest, most knowing smile I think I’d ever seen on anyone. It made me blush,
there was something so intimate about it. And in a flash, it was all over, and the
band was blowing the crowd kisses, throwing guitar picks and drum sticks, and scooping
up the teddy bear with a leather jacket that someone had thrown on at the end.

I felt dazed, and I looked around to see a couple of people who had obviously been
watching me turn away a little too quickly. I raised an eyebrow at one of them who
was slower than the rest. If they thought I was going to be a train wreck, they were
going to be sorely disappointed. I had no idea what was going to happen next, but
as the band ran off the stage, I had a feeling I wanted in, center stage, no matter
what.

We all filed back into the room with the food and drink, feeling the high the band
was on. They were all hugging each other, and the bassist and the drummer were waltzing
around the room singing “I want to rock and roll all night and party every day.” Kiss.
I had to laugh. Even James was smiling, as he reminded us we had to be back on the
buses in a couple of hours for the overnight drive to Minneapolis. Someone put on
some music, and the whole atmosphere was this kind of crazy party. There was the usual
contingent of pretty girls, and some enterprising souls from the guest list. The usual
hangers-on, basically. I was ducking grapes the drummer was throwing at me, trying
to throw them back without getting hit, when I realized that AC’s organic wine was
getting to me, and I felt a bit dizzy. Figuring I just needed some air, I slipped
out of the room, and headed to the bathroom. As I walked down the grey breeze-block
corridor, I passed by one of the dressing rooms. The door was just slightly ajar.
I glanced around, and pushed the door open slightly. Then I stopped, frozen to the
spot.

They hadn’t heard me, and I stood there, unable to decide if I should back out quickly
and quietly, or stay, transfixed at the sight. Tristan and AC were leaning against
the far wall, letting it support them from the side. They were looking at each other,
faces nearly touching. My eyes traced down their bodies. Tristan’s shirt was pulled
up slightly, showing a line of skin. Their jeans were unzipped, hanging open on their
hips, belt straps dangling. Tristan’s large hand was between them. His long fingers
were wrapped around both their cocks, stroking them together. AC reached out and gripped
Tristan’s shoulder. His eyes were tightly shut, and he let out a gasp as Tristan began
to speed up his movements. AC’s low whisper broke through the sound of their breathing.
“I’m so close, please, Tristan, please.” Tristan moved closer and finally kissed him,
his mouth on his, a fierceness in his movements as he moved his hand. A moment later,
AC broke away, then his voice shattered, repeating Tristan’s name as he clung to him,
trying to stay upright as a series of shudders ripped through his slender body, letting
out a final cry. Almost immediately, his hands dropped to cover Tristan’s with his
own, finally pushing Tristan’s hands away completely so his hands were sliding over
Tristan, pulling at him slowly, teasing him. Tristan gasped, and thrust against him,
their mouths tangled. Then suddenly he was still, his voice a twisted plea, “oh fuck,
AC, so good, fuck, now” and his dark head fell back, their hands now moving together,
as Tristan came over both of them, AC intently watching him finally lose control.

I silently backed out, pulling the door nearly shut to hide them, while they were
still dazed, and headed, practically tiptoeing, to the bathroom. Once there, I leaned
against the counter, and splashed water on my face, trying to stop shaking. The sensation
thrumming through my body was intense. I could feel my heart beating hard against
my chest. I was powerless. I just stood there, letting the electric pulse run through
me, hip bones jarred up against the counter, arms straight, holding myself up against
the cold edge of the sink, wishing they’d both come in and find me. I turned on the
cold water, and leaned over, thrusting my hips out into air. I placed my head very
slowly under the cold water, until the chill hurt, and the feeling of want seemed
to run through my whole body, as though I could touch my skin at any point, and find
the pressure unbearable.

I finally stood up, shaking my wet hair, and pulled out some paper towels from the
dispenser and squeezed my hair dry. I looked at myself in the mirror, and my eyes
were wide and black, endless holes where my pupils had taken over all except a thin
ring of color. I looked like a wild animal. Who knew what the rest of the band was
going to think—I could only imagine the state Tristan and AC were going to roll up
in. Maybe they would go right to the bus. That suddenly seemed a good idea. I didn’t
want to see anyone but them, and they’d have to draw their own conclusions.

It was a hell of a secret, and now it was mine too.

chapter eleven

Chicago to Minneapolis

I had gone back to the bus, once I’d calmed down a bit. No one else was there yet¸
and I was glad to be alone, at least for a little while. I switched on the light in
what passed for a living room, and made my way past the empty bunks to the very back.
The first thing I saw was a bottle of Wild Turkey that someone had given to the band.
Somehow, it had wound up back here. I stared at it. Sure. The plastic seal on the
top came off easily, and bottle in hand I looked at myself in the mirror. Standing
there, lit by the little fairy lights that ran across the top, the disconnect between
seeing my face and hearing the thoughts hammering at my head made me turn away. I
didn’t want to see myself. I didn’t want to think either. I didn’t even have to look
at the bottle. Nothing was easier, so easy. The first swig went down, slowly, burning
a line through my chest. The second was longer, and sent warmth shooting into the
rest of my body. I suddenly realized my feet were cold. The third one felt good, almost
too painless. I put the bottle down by the bed so I could undress. I fished around
in the suitcase and put on the short, lacy nightdress I’d brought. Then I lay down
on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t know what I was thinking, exactly. It
didn’t matter. I finally pulled myself up, and took another drink. Sitting up was
better, and cross-legged, bottle in hand, I stared into space. After a while, I got
my phone, and putting in my headphones, just set it to shuffle. I couldn’t choose.
And propped up by the pillows, I sat there, in the dimmed light, listening to music,
pulling the bottle towards me when it seemed like a good idea. No one to stop me.
No one to say something pointless. Nothing made sense. Except it did. It really did.
How could I be surprised? All the signs were there, right back to when AC and I had
first talked, sitting in that hotel room in London.

I wondered if I was supposed to be jealous. The idea kept floating around the edges
of my thinking. So I tried it out. “But he’s mine now,” I said out loud to the half-light
of the room. That sounded stupid. We were together. I didn’t own him. “I love him,”
I whispered. That made more sense. I said it again. But that other thought was still
there. I had another drink before I spoke again. “He wants someone else,” I stuttered.
That hurt a little. But it wasn’t someone else, it was AC. But what did he want? How
much? I thought back to the two of them together, the pure pleasure over both their
faces. “I don’t mind,” I murmured.

“Oh, fuck it,” I said to the room. Silence followed, like a shadow in the corner that
had been waiting its turn. I took another burning sip to fill up the gap. Talking
to myself in the back of a tour bus wasn’t going to help or change anything. I loved
Tristan, I cared about AC. They were rock musicians. On tour. I didn’t think rules
applied. Maybe those rules never had to apply. Maybe we could make up new ones. That
made me feel a bit better. I grabbed the bottle and swallowed until I began to cough.
Then I placed it very, very carefully on the side table, so it wouldn’t move, and
wiped my mouth. Nothing mattered. So much better this way. Much better. I pulled the
covers up to my chin. Finally warm. It didn’t matter so much anymore what I’d say
to him when I saw him. I closed my eyes. I had no idea. Nothing seemed clear. Nothing.
Nothing.

* * *

The first thing I noticed, after the slow rhythmic breathing of the body next to me,
was the rumble of movement, the feeling that you get on a plane but slowed down, with
the odd bump in the road. I lay there, and everything that had happened came back
to me, along with a vague dizziness, and a pounding in the center of my skull. I must
have had more to drink than I thought. I guess I’d finally passed out, headphones
on, and hadn’t even noticed their return, or the bus leaving. I rolled over carefully
to look at Tristan. He was so striking just lying there, with his back slightly exposed,
showing a long curved creamy expanse of smooth skin. Tristan had beautiful skin, especially
for a man. The color of it, that pale yet honey tone, the ripple of muscle visible
underneath, alive and warm, was crying out to be touched, to be admired. In a smaller
man, it might have made him look softer. On Tristan’s six foot two frame, it gave
him a slightly otherworldly air, as though he had been sent to us from a planet where
everyone was naturally graceful and sleek, like fine race horses. For a moment I wanted
to pull down the sheet that was covering him, and slide my fingers over that expanse
of skin, going further down, until I reached even more silken skin that would be warm
and cool at once to the touch. It wouldn’t take long to feel him grow hotter and harder
under my touch, still dry and smooth except for the slight bead of wetness at the
top waiting to be smoothed over the aching hardness, sign of more to come, that would
soon be everywhere. Unless he was spent from being with AC. I took a deep breath.
That was a complicated feeling, and it made the pressure in my head worse.

I reached my hand out to pull the sheet away then stopped. No, it wouldn’t be fair.
He was only just now getting some sleep. He was in the middle of a tour, with more
still to come. Exhausting him, or worse, testing him, wasn’t going to help. I crawled
out of bed slowly, before I could change my mind. I wanted him to be happy. I needed
to see how he was going to act, without my prompting, or demanding explanations that
I already knew didn’t really exist. There was only one explanation. There was only
ever one. He wanted to do it. And if exhaustion and stress meant he was more likely
to start using again, then I would do whatever it took to help him, even if that meant
AC helped too, even if it hurt. Which it did, a little.

I managed to extricate myself from the sheets without waking him, and putting on my
leggings, a t-shirt and a big sweater, padded across the carpet to the bathroom. Looking
at myself in the mirror, I could see my own lines of stress. I was worried about him,
worried about us, worried about the tour, worried about the blog that I was dutifully
writing up every day and sending over to Dave. Dave. For a moment, I thought about
calling him. No. Dave was not an answer to this. Dave was work. Work was a good thing,
giving me something else to think about. Or not. I shut my eyes. AC’s face as he watched
Tristan come flashed across my mind. The two of them. Unbound.

I took some painkillers for my head, and sprayed my face from the bottle of Evian
that I kept in the bathroom, fresh pure water at a premium on a tour bus. I needed
water. Stumbling out past the bunks, the snoring and sense of warm man heat told me
they were all asleep. I turned on the kettle, and boiled water for a cup of tea, then
went over to the sofa. The rays from the rising sun were just starting to arch into
the bus, stripes of warm yellow light that lit up the small living room and made a
pattern on the wall, as the sun shone through the skylights and windscreen and tinted
windows of the bus. I had my notebook with me as I sipped my tea and watched as the
glow through the glass became clearer and whiter, and the sky turned from pink haze
to bright blue space. Sunrise was over so quickly. It seemed to me that once, long
ago, dawn had lasted longer.

Later, when the boys were up, drinking beer, watching DVDs, and trading insults, everything
would seem normal. Normal for a tour. I closed my eyes for a moment, and thought about
enjoying the calm. But it didn’t take long before I had reached for my notebook with
a sigh. I traced the soft surface of the lined pages. “Nothing,” I whispered, “matters.”
I stared into space.

What had Dave said? “Just send what you see, and let me worry about the structure.”
I had thought it odd at the time, but I had a feeling he knew what was coming down
the road better than I did. He’d been pretty insistent. “Just observe. Write down
what you notice and send it along. Every day. I know how tours get. You’re going to
get wrapped up in the stuff on the road, no matter what you say now.” So every day,
I had been sending him something, however small. It was a lot like a tour diary. Fuck,
it was a tour diary. And I would have to keep sending him my little observations,
now even more heavily edited. I wondered how much he knew, and if he would work out
what the hell it was all about. Maybe one day I would even be able to tell. When it
was over. Because Dave hadn’t been wrong. I was right in the middle of it, and I couldn’t
see anything.

Normal. For a tour. The band had called it a night probably only a couple of hours
ago. It was 6 a.m. The end of the day for them, the beginning of the day for the rest
of the world. The real world, which apparently was out there somewhere. People going
to work. Getting up, making breakfast, waking up reluctant children, putting on their
masks, preparing themselves to face the day. Off to work, waiting for the weekend,
which was
…
when? I realized with a start that I had no idea how far away the weekend was, because
I had no idea what day it was. I flipped through the book to see if I’d written down
dates but in the collection of notes and description, but that had stopped pretty
much right away. It hardly mattered, my life was here on the bus. I put down the pen,
and buried my face in my hands. Maybe I did need to call someone. But my phone was
in the bedroom. And I didn’t want to think anymore. So I got up and sat down closer
to the front, so I could look out the window at the road.

“Good morning Hank,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him, although I knew from
experience he had an eerie sixth sense of when and who was up in the bus behind him.
I guessed it came from a lot of practice driving a behemoth of a bus, containing precarious
and volatile cargo, and judging from some of the experiences he had told me about
with other bands, a necessary precaution.

“Good morning Lily. Up early, as usual.”

“Went to bed early.”

“You were the only one. What’s up, road fatigue?” His voice sounded friendly, almost
sympathetic. Or maybe I just needed a friend.

“I guess.” I took a deep breath. “I guess it’s harder than it looks. Touring. Moving
from place to place.”

“Ya think?” He chuckled. “I think you’re a natural. Like a duck to water. Looking
at you, I thought, she’ll be off like a shot, once she hears the talk, sees what goes
on. She’s a nice girl. But look at you. Still here.” He stopped talking for a moment,
to pass a truck towing a car. When we were back in our lane, he started again. “Smarter
than you are nice, or so it seems.”

“Smart? Smart enough, I guess…” I trailed off.

He looked at me in the rear view mirror. “Smart enough to have seen enough. Not to
judge. Not really.”

“I suppose I want love though, just like any nice girl.” It felt like a confession.

Hank didn’t seem to mind, and treated it like the question it was. “It depends how
much love you want. How much you need. How much you’re willing to ask for.”

“But…” I stopped myself. “It’s hard to ask.” I glanced over at him, and caught his
eye in the rear view mirror.

Hank looked back at me. His expression was stern, but his eyes were soft. “My advice,
Lily, is this. Don’t ask for what you’re not going to get. Be happy with what is in
front of you. Don’t do things because you’re supposed to.”

I sat up, surprised. He smiled at me, before his eyes went back to the road. “How
did you know?” was all I said.

“You’re not the only one who keeps their eyes wide open. Eyes open, mouth shut. It’s
kept me alive this long. I recommend it to you. You’ll never know what people think
unless you give them a chance to tell you,” he said.

A wry expression twisted my mouth into a small smile. “Eyes open, mouth shut. Ok.”

“That’s the ticket. And I don’t mean that fool writing you do. No one pays attention
to writing. They know it’s all lies anyway. But say the right thing at the wrong moment,
and that’s all you get remembered for.”

“Is that what happened?” It popped out before I had a chance to think.

Hank didn’t seem bothered. “Yeah, close enough. Close enough. But you know, some things
aren’t worth fighting for.” He jerked his head towards the back of the bus. “Him,
I don’t think you need to fight. That’s the one good thing about these free spirit
types. If they want to go, they do.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“He’s the kind that will always do what he wants. He’ll hate you if you make him choose.
Don’t do it, girl.” He chuckled again. “Unless you want to learn to drive a bus.”

I laughed. “Now you’re talking.” And I asked him some idle questions about gears,
and the test to be a driver. It wasn’t what either of us was thinking about.

* * *

We’d been sitting in silence for a while, Hank watching the road, and me going between
writing a few lines, and turning up my headphones, gazing out the window. There was
a steadiness to it, the exit signs at regular intervals, the switching back and forth
between the lanes, all the while going forward, the lines ribboning out beside us.
It was hypnotic.

I hadn’t realized that I’d dozed off, but I was suddenly conscious of a warm body
next to me. I opened my eyes, slowly becoming aware of everything around me, where
I was, what was happening. I looked up, and there was Tristan, looking a bit sleepy
himself, wearing only a white t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. He seemed larger
than life, slightly unreal but still skin and muscle and blood pulsing through his
veins. It was hard to reconcile everything I knew with his physical presence. He smiled
at me when he saw I was awake.

“You can only sleep on sofas now, out here with Hank. I told you this would happen.”
He grinned. Lower, he whispered to me, “Are you all right? You were really out when
we crawled in last night.”

I curled myself up against him. “I’m ok.” It didn’t sound convincing, even to me.
“I guess I didn’t sleep well, for all that.”