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AC gave me a look. “Performing. Exactly. Playing to the crowd. Being outrageous.”

This was not going the way I had thought it might. Of course AC would never say anything.
Not without Tristan on board. The loyalty between them ran deep. Everything I was
saying sounded wrong anyway.

“I wish we were going now. I feel like every place we stay I want to leave.”

He grimaced. “Yeah—and we’re on the bus with bass boy.”

I finished the beer. The end always sucked. I needed a shot. And another beer. Maybe
they’d cancel each other out. The bus. The fucking bus and all of us on it. I’d forgotten
all about that in the interim luxury of hotel life and separate rooms. Well, that
wasn’t going to work. “Look, AC, I know Tristan won’t care. He can get them to do
this. We need another bus. I’m going to go talk to him. Hang on.” AC looked startled,
but I mouthed at him “be right back.” Getting up, I went and dropped my empty bottle
off at the bar, and picked up two more. I looked down at the main room. Tristan was
over on the other side, chatting to the guy by the decks. They were nearly ready to
start, so I didn’t have a lot of time. I quickly found the exit to where the regular
people were, and went down the stairs to the main floor. There was a lot more air
down here. Sliding in between the crush of people, I made my way through the crowd
over to the stage. One of the bouncers approached me, but I flashed him the laminate,
and waved over at Tristan. He waved back, and I hopped up onto the raised area where
the computers were, and walked over to him.

His smile was quick and brilliant, and just as quickly hidden. He glanced around,
like he was looking for someone, but turned back to me when he didn’t see anyone.
“What’s up, Lily?”

I handed him one of the bottles. “Brought you a beer. AC’s upstairs. He knows I’m
down here. I’ll go get him for the set, not to worry. But can I talk to you for a
minute?”

“Yes, of course. Yeah.” He excused himself and we went out to the little back hall
at the side of the mini stage. “What’s up?”

I didn’t want to waste time. “Look, can the tour afford another bus?” He looked surprised,
but remained quiet. “AC really doesn’t want to sleep in the same space as Jack.” Tristan
raised his hands to stop me, but I didn’t want to be interrupted. “He won’t tell you.
He doesn’t want to be a burden, believe me. But he is more than a little unnerved
by what was said.”

Tristan looked serious. “I’ll ask James. It’s a little last minute, but we might be
able to get one to meet us tomorrow. Or a driver and car until they sort it. It’s
only another week, not even.” He was thinking out loud. “People will party tonight
while they are doing the load out. Then either crash right away, or hang out. AC can
come sleep in our room. Or not sleep. Watch some movies or something. An all-nighter.
Like the old days. Yes.” He looked happier. “A car at least. Maybe they have a bus
they need to move. Nothing fancy.”

We stood there for a minute, and I was turning to go, when he reached out to stop
me. Suddenly I was wrapped in his arms, pressed against his chest, his lips on my
forehead. He held me like that for a moment, before his hands dropped to my hips,
and he made me face him. “You know, Lily, you’re an incredible woman. Person. I was
wondering if you were going to be jealous, possessive. Most people are. But you’re
a fighter. And loyal. To my friends too. I like that.” He kissed me. “Lovers, and
mates.” He held me to him again, and whispered in my hair. “I’m fucking lucky, is
what I am. And you…are very special.”

chapter thirteen

Minneapolis to Kansas City

We were all sitting in the new bus—AC, Tristan, and I, heading to Kansas City. After
the DJ gig in Minneapolis, the three of us went back to the hotel in a cab. We didn’t
even say goodbye. James was given the task of telling them we’d see them in Missouri.
I had glanced at the drummer’s face as we left the club. Judging by his expression,
I think he had wanted to say something to Tristan. The bassist, Jack, just looked
angry. There had been an unspoken understanding that it would be a good idea to stop
socializing with both of them, the bassist and the drummer, despite only one of them
being at fault, and only see them at sound checks and the actual gigs. We were closing
ranks. It made sense, mostly. As we were all yoked together for a few more days, no
one wanted a repeat incident. Looking at Tristan, I didn’t think a round two would
end as peacefully, despite his calm reassurances.

Tristan’s long legs were stretched out, tightly encased in his usual black jeans,
his booted feet crossed on the table. The wide screen was playing some car chase movie
that he wasn’t watching. AC was sitting at the kitchen table, back leaning against
the wall, his legs bent, feet on the bench, looking at his laptop. I was reading a
book I’d picked up in the last truck stop we’d been through—nothing spectacular, but
I was vaguely curious to see how the spy was going to escape his double life. I laughed
to myself—life and art mixing yet again. Playing the public role, getting used to
the photographers rushing us as we went in and out of hotels, the obligatory night
club visits, posing against the backdrop of advertisements, being sure not to block
any of the logos, while we attempted to look at once mysterious and approachable.
The zeitgeist, the tone of the age. Anyone could reach out to us, ask for an autograph,
send a tweet—as long as it didn’t say anything, and they kept their distance. As much
as Tristan wanted the connection with the fans, and with everyone on the tour, it
was time to put up some walls.

Besides, the electronically fabricated closeness was only an illusion. There was some
connection to reality, like the tweets that mentioned fellow musicians, or artists
whose work we wanted to bring some attention to. We. Actually, at Tristan’s suggestion,
I had taken over doing most of the tweets. James was delighted to not be burdened
with any more work, as sending out press kits to radio stations and checking on us
seemed to exhaust him. For my part, I was happy that he had one less instant input
to the media circus that was keeping an eye on us. Even so, when we switched from
one bus with all of us crammed in, to one for the band, and one for the three of us,
someone had leaked the arrangements to the gossip columns. Dave had texted me as I
was getting on the new bus. I had a feeling I knew who the leaker was, but then again
I now had a choice of enemies to pick from. Why and who was his final question by
text. Complicated and not sure yet was my response. Dave hadn’t replied, but that
didn’t mean he wasn’t doing some research.

Then Annie had called us frantically from Chicago, and said she was flying into Kansas
City to manage the PR for the rest of the mini tour. She suggested we abandon the
bus, and fly to Houston from Oklahoma City, then have a driver take us to Dallas,
and on to the last date in Austin. We’d kicked that idea around, and finally agreed.
That left us with only two more nights on the bus. I wasn’t sure I’d miss it. I didn’t
have the same romantic feeling about life on the road that I’d started out with. And
I missed Hank. AC looked anxious, and I wondered if I had been the only one this morning
who had noticed that he and Tristan were barely touching, saying “excuse me” if they
needed to go anywhere near each other. Considering they had been falling all over
each other every time one of them made a joke, or imitated the front desk reception,
who seemed to have permanently established themselves as Tristan’s least favorite
people, the sudden distance and silence felt ominous.

If the traffic was ok, we were due to arrive just before 4. Enough time to do the
sound check, then get some air, or come back to the bus. That left three hours to
go. I turned a page, then turned it back again. And another. I looked at the words
in front of me. I hadn’t really been reading, just looking at the type, thinking.
Sighing, I started again at the last place I could remember. The book was fine. I
wasn’t. The tension was making the air thick with unspoken feelings, misery. I gave
up on the book, and put it down, breaking the spine with a low crack. Tristan winced.
I shrugged an apology. “Anyone want tea?” There was silence. I tried again. “Beer?”

AC threw me a wan smile. “Yeah, I will, Lily. Thank you.” He waved away a glass. “No,
bottle is fine.” I looked over towards the driver, who I noticed was watching us in
the mirror. I wished Hank was there. I realized I had come to rely on the moments
of weird camaraderie we had developed, watching the road together. I had opened the
beer when I remembered that technically, we weren’t supposed to drink while the bus
was in motion. Usually no one cared. The driver gave us another glance in the mirror,
then turned back to the road. Last minute bus and driver. He’d probably been told
we were all junkies. Maybe Annie was right after all.

I placed a bottle down in front of AC, then walked over to Tristan and handed him
one. He nodded thank you, a frown creasing a line between his brows. AC had turned
back to his computer. I went and got one for myself. This was clearly one of those
times when tea wasn’t going to cut it. We all sat there, nursing our beers. I looked
out the window towards the road. Miles and miles of highway, thousands of cars headed
somewhere, for something. The clouds moved by. The sky here was bigger, the land flatter.
I felt like I could watch a cloud start from one end of the horizon and move to the
other. Weather was coming in, and a strong gust pushed at the bus. It seemed like
it wouldn’t take much to flip us over if there was a storm. Not out here. And almost
on cue, the sky began to get darker, and the first raindrops started hitting the windscreen.
All of the headlights came on, and the traffic slowed down. I laughed. Too perfect.
A dark day to match a dark mood. Both Tristan and AC looked at me, then returned to
what they were doing, or what they weren’t doing.

Tristan’s phone buzzed, and we all jumped. He looked at it angrily for a moment, then
picked it up. “Yeah, hello.” There was silence. “Yeah, hey Annie. What’s up?” He listened
intently. “I don’t really think…” He waited. “Yes, record company protecting their
investment. That’s what they do.” His tone changed. “Annie. Listen. Calm down. You
haven’t been involved in a bit of gossip, but trust me, love, I have. Overreacting
just tells them they’re right.” He was nodding his head. “More sympathy towards the
drugs. Yeah, probably true. Shall I go OD somewhere? I’m sure that can be arranged.
Change the story.” Tristan looked over at us, shaking his head. “Annie. I’m kidding.
Have you got any Xanax? It’s all going to be fine.”

He listened again. “Do I care? No, not really. I care about the music. I care about
what people actually think and do in their lives apart from the manufactured truths
that they get throttled with from day to day.” Tristan was pinching the bridge of
his nose as he listened. “Annie. Fine. I will play their game. For now. Mostly because
I don’t have a better playbook at the moment, and there’s more gigs to get through.
Then New York. Then L.A.” He listened again, and drained his beer. I went to get another
one, and Tristan nodded at me gratefully. “I may have a different idea then. But for
now, that’s fine.”

He took a big swig of beer, and nearly spat it out again with a noise that was a cross
between a laugh and a shout. AC was watching him carefully. “Is she what? Is Lily
my beard? Are you fucking kidding me? Actually, yes, but she’s working on turning
me.” More silence. “No, I won’t say that tomorrow. Really, Annie, you’re a nice person,
I’m sure, but come on.” He stood up, holding his beer. For him, the conversation was
clearly over. “Text me the details. No, don’t text James. He’s got a lot going on.
Yeah. Right. Tomorrow. See you there then.” Tristan tapped the screen, and threw the
phone onto the sofa, and disappeared into the back.

I started to go after him, but AC called me back. “Don’t, Lily. I mean, do what you
want, but I think he’s got to process all this.”

I came over and sat down at the table, across from him. “Not sure how you process
insanity. Yes. You’re probably right. I mean. You know him. Well. I do too, but…”
I stopped. “Fuck, AC, what’s going to happen? And why is this so bad? Am I missing
something here?” I tried not to think of what I knew.

AC shot me a quizzical look, then his face softened. “Tristan and I…have a lot of
history. You know that. You know the whole story of what happened with him and his
ex-wife, Alixe. Paul is under her spell completely. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind seeing
all this solo success go adrift. And they might not be the only ones. And…,” AC looked
at his beer, then back up at me, “I’m here. They’re not. Tristan probably should have
let James go, but he thought that might make it worse. Well, it is worse.” He looked
down at the table.

“But damage control? It was just an argument. Not even any punches thrown. So what
if the guy is a bigoted asshole. At least bassists aren’t as hard to find as drummers,”
I joked lamely.

AC grimaced. “Yeah, true. But…” He stopped. “It’s not my…” He paused again. “Look,
Lily. You’re a smart woman. You can figure this out. Count on your fingers. See how
far you get. How many gay or bisexual rock stars are there? Let’s stick to men for
the time being. Freddie Mercury, right. There’s one. He’s probably the most famous.
Did you know that Queen initially had a lot of success in this country but no one
knew what they looked like.” He thought for a minute. “Still. Freddie. Who else? The
Eighties were good—Frankie Goes to Hollywood, George Michael. Still, not really rock,
right? Not really alternative. Ok, the Nineties, you had Kurt Cobain saying, what
was it, ‘I am not gay, although I wish I were, just to piss off homophobes.’ Nice.
Of course he said he wasn’t gay, and then he shot himself, so. Bowie. Well, he was
a pioneer. Iggy Pop. Weren’t they lovers? But wasn’t Bowie’s biggest success in this
country after all that? We’ve got the pioneers. The people who broke the rules. The
artists. Lou Reed. Bowie. Of course, they did wind up partnered with a woman, but
they didn’t lie about who they were and what they did. That was the 70s. I don’t know,
there must be more, right? But where are they? Not a lot. A little like sports, you’ve
got to figure the stats alone show somebody’s not telling the whole truth.” He drank
some more beer, and began tapping his fingers on the table. “Tristan. Is a rulebreaker.
But he’d also like a career. And he’s pissed as hell for being put in a position where
he’s got to…”

I finished his sentence for him. “Lie, or tell the truth?”

AC met my eyes. “That’s about the size of it.”

I started to say something and thought better of it. “Beer?” He nodded, and I pulled
open the fridge and took out two more. Another hour to Kansas City. I hoped there
was something stronger backstage. I flipped open the tops, and came back to sit down.
I didn’t want to ask, but I could feel the question banging around my head. Dave’s
face came to mind, looking at me regretfully. Another image came to mind, something
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t think about. Fuck. Why couldn’t I learn to keep my
mouth shut? “AC?”

“Yes, Lily.”

“You care about Tristan, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I always have done. We started in this game together. It’s been a long
haul, through a lot of craziness. Sure.”

I didn’t push it. The other question was still pushing at me, though. I took a sip
of beer to try and make it go away. It wasn’t going. “AC.”

He smiled, amused. “Yes, Lily.”

“This is going to sound really stupid.”

“That’s ok, Lily. If we were drinking Barolo, at least our honesty would seem slightly
more noble. But we’re on a bus with beer. Hit me up.”

I took a deep breath. “This would all be a lot easier if I just knew.”

“Knew what exactly, Lily?” AC looked very tense.

“I…what am…AC…be truthful. What am I to him? Am I just a beard? Does everyone know
but me?”

AC was smiling again. He chuckled into his beer. “Beard. I can’t believe you’d even
ask that.”

“But is it true?”

“No,” said AC and his one word was echoed by the man who was suddenly at my side.

I looked up at Tristan.

“Slide over, share your beer, you must be drunk to ask that. Beard. No. Ok? Believe
me. Believe AC. Many things you are to me. Beard, not one of them.” He took a swig
and emptied the bottle. “Besides. I’m good, but not that good.”

AC laughed. “Money. You could always fake it for money. Nothing like cash to guarantee
erections.”

Tristan laughed, and it was though all the pressure had been let out of the room slowly,
and things didn’t seem quite so breakable. AC smiled at us. “You bastard,” Tristan
said. “Revealing my money fetish like that.”

AC lifted his bottle. “What any true friend would do.”

We all sat there for a few minutes in silence, before Tristan spoke up. “So. Might
as well get this out of the way. Annie-who-needs-Xanax-badly has set up a radio interview
for us tomorrow morning. 100.5. The Rage.” He drew it out. “The home of alternative
in these parts, apparently. And we are all to go on. Lily will play beard, I mean
girlfriend, and be revoltingly feminine.” He turned to me. “Believe it or not, I think
Annie will be turning up tomorrow with appropriate record company approved apparel.
You will giggle and say you’ve never met anyone like me, and no, we haven’t discussed
marriage…yet. AC and I will punch each other, talk about beer,” here he raised his
bottle, “and AC will mention the model he is looking forward to meeting up with again
in L.A. next week.”