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“No, that’s ok. I imagine he’ll want to wake up with you, first.” He winked and gave
me a wan smile, then pulled back the curtain with a flourish.

I looked at the spot where his face had been and kept heading to the back of the bus.
I opened the door. Tristan was still asleep, and I crawled onto the bed, carefully,
staying over the covers, placing my head on the pillow next to his where I could see
him. His dark eyelashes, delicately shaped mouth, the slight darkness around his jaw
from not shaving. The vulnerability of sleep. And he allowed me in. That trust, that
incredible trust, so fragile, unmentionable. Something you couldn’t say to anyone,
ever, not out loud. A silent understanding. If you had to ask, something was wrong.
To me, anyway. I watched his chest rise and fall for a while, the steadiness soothing.
For a moment it was though I was guarding him. Unconsciously I looked towards the
door leading to the front of the bus, the rest of the band, the world. A sudden fierce
protectiveness made me want to hold him tightly, tell him it was all going to be ok.
Instead, I lay down gently beside him, closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I had a
feeling these quiet moments were going to be rare.

chapter five

Heading West and Toronto

The next thing I knew, I was being gently kissed by Tristan. “Lily? Are you awake?”

I nodded sleepily. Then I sat up with a start. “Wait, what time is it? The driver
said we’d be there in two hours. How long have I been asleep?”

Tristan laughed. “So responsible.” But he picked up his phone. “Only 9. You were up
early then. When did he tell you?” Now he was sitting up well, a crease between his
eyes.

I tried to pull my thoughts into line. “Around 8, I guess. So we’ve got another hour.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “At least. They always give you shorter times. I think they
think it keeps morale up. I think it has the same effect as setting your clock for
the wrong time. You just start subtracting.” He lay back down. “So how are you this
morning? Getting used to the bus?”

I shrugged, and lay down next to him. “I talked to the driver a bit. Not very talkative.”

“They’re a strange bunch. All different. All a bit mad. I suppose you’ve have to be,
to agree to drive a bunch of lunatics through the night for weeks on end.”

I curled up next to him, feeling the warmth from his body heating my skin. I closed
my eyes. This was nice.

Tristan moved closer to me. I could feel his whole body now against mine. He was very
awake now. He took my hand. “I imagined this,” he said. “I imagined us together, just
the two of us, like this.” He laughed. “Isn’t that stupid? But I could see us, holding
hands, lying on the bed, on the tour bus.” He rolled over and carefully draped a long
leg over mine. “Maybe not just holding hands, though.” He rocked against me, slowly.

I looked at the little door leading to the rest of the bus, out to where the bunks
were. I frowned at him. “The rest of them, can they hear us? You’ve done this before?”

Tristan ignored my question, and instead kissed me, his soft lips tracing the line
of my cheekbone. Then he looked up at me, teasingly, from under his long eyelashes.
“Why, are you shy? They know what we’re going to do.” He ran his finger slowly up
my bare arm. “I’ll be very quiet, if you will.” He caught my hand and brought it up
to his mouth, covering it, his eyes flashing with amusement.

It went beyond understanding how Tristan made each moment feel like this, like we
were starting over, right from the first desperate need to be touched. I closed my
eyes. It felt good, so good to feel the weight of his body on me. His hands were warm
and strong, and soon I forgot about the people on the other side of the door, the
bus, the tour, and everything except the feeling of his fingers exploring my skin.
I gasped when he finally entered me, easing in.

“Shh, love.” And he smiled, then pulled my hips up and hard against his. I bit my
lip. He thrust in again, then again, pushing further inside, raising me until he held
me entirely in his arms. I turned and buried my face in the pillow as I gave up my
body to him, trying to muffle my cries. He pulled me tighter to him and then it was
too much, and I couldn’t tell who was moaning. “Lily,” he whispered, “now love, now.”

* * *

Judging from the slightly stunned look on AC’s face when we finally emerged, I didn’t
think we’d been very successful at being quiet.

chapter six

Toronto

Coming in on the bus, Toronto looked a little disappointing. Another industrial waterfront,
ruined by a big freeway, with patches of greenery that looked like they had been thrown
at random. A few plants and trees to distract the eye while the city planners figured
out how to reclaim what first had been ruined, and then left to rot. As we followed
the lake, and drew closer, the effect of driving under the big highway overhead was
claustrophobic, like a video game where you’re trapped in a big machine, a big virtual
universe of lines. The one where you’re driving a car and you’ve got to jump across
to another highway, while floating in space, before the one on top of you and the
one you’re on come to an abrupt end, like some trick of drawing out the horizon to
a point on a piece of graph paper. Wasteland seemed to be a theme of the trip so far.
Leaving or coming in to a city or town, as on a train line with only one good track
among the rusted spurs and shunts, we were following the line of industrial growth
become overgrowth. The tangled mess of neglect and dropped ideas, newly cut through
with a six lane highway.

I’d heard such good things about Toronto. Initially, I’d been sorry we weren’t spending
more time here. Now I was glad we were leaving again tonight. I supposed this was
wanderlust—the feeling of freedom, of not belonging anywhere. It wasn’t a bad description
of how I’d lived my whole life anyway. Maybe I’d turn out to be one of those people
who just couldn’t stop touring. A top that couldn’t stop spinning, on the road again.
For now, the reward of six hours of driving was slowing down to the sound of the indicator,
ticking out our plans to the cars and trucks we were leaving behind out on the highway.
I watched through the window as the bus maneuvered down the street and into the big
lot behind the Kool Haus, tonight’s venue. It was breathtakingly ugly. Grey. Blue.
Plastic and concrete. And amazingly enough, there was a little tangle of fans waiting.
They looked very excited. One girl was jumping up and down, holding a vinyl copy of
the new album aloft, looking a bit like one of those people that guide in the planes
to the gates, if one of them had lost their mind mid-shift. I wondered how long they’d
been waiting.

It was the no sort of time, end of morning, beginning of afternoon. I guessed it was
around 12:30. The plan was to hang out here all day, do the sound check and the gig,
then head out again. The outside beckoned, even if it was nothing more than watery
sun reflecting on the faded lines in the parking lot, but I didn’t want to deal with
the fans. I felt for them, but. Soon enough. Everyone was still asleep, or pretending
to be. Tristan and AC were talking on the phone to James. The driver had already gone
off. At least he’d asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. I did, but
I didn’t think a burnt coffee and a road sandwich was going to do it for me right
now. On the other hand, it would be nice to get out, clean up a bit. It depended on
how bad were the showers in the dressing rooms. I sniffed my clothes. I smelled like
Tristan. I couldn’t help the smile that instantly spread across my face. After all,
touring was like camping. Perfectly clean was for home.

I was making some notes, and listening to the moody intricacies of Recoil, trying
to get the blog written. Nothing seemed to link together. I finally threw my notebook
aside and stretched my arms out. I really needed some fresh air. I glanced over at
the bunks. They couldn’t all sleep forever, could they? But they had crashed later
than I did. A few more yoga stretches confirmed that I couldn’t stand being cooped
up any longer. I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer, and opened the door to the
bus, breathing in the air of a new city. Fortunately, the driver had shown me how
to close the door and open it up again from the outside. So I went down the steps,
latching the door carefully behind me. The last thing we needed was to have some excited
fan pushing on to the bus. I tried to walk away before I was spotted, but the fans
were on the alert, watching for any signs of life. Two of them ran up to me.

“Hi, excuse me, is this Tristan Hunter’s tour bus?” At least they were polite, but
to be fair, most of his fans did seem fairly respectful so far.

It felt oddly embarrassing to be his representative. I couldn’t lie though. “Yes,
they’ll be out in a while for the soundcheck. If you can wait around, they’ll probably
do some autographs.” That sounded good.

They squealed out a thank you, and ran back to the group. You could see the news spread
as different people reacted. It was really kind of cute. I walked away from the bus,
not going too far so I could keep an eye on it and its precious cargo. I was the guard,
making sure no one bothered them. I looked at my phone. Nearly 1. They’d all be up
pretty soon. I walked around in circles, making patterns on the ground, drinking my
beer. Hanging out in parking lots by the freeway. Let no one say that touring isn’t
glamorous, I thought. I drank some more beer. Day three of touring, and I was already
a little restless. “Idiot,” I said out loud. The trucks going by weren’t interested.

I was attempting a labyrinth pattern, in an effort to create some calm, when I felt
my phone vibrate. I managed, though I nearly dropped the beer, to get it just before
it stopped ringing. I didn’t even look at the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Lily, Dave here.” His voice was instantly recognizable. I didn’t need the introduction.

“Hello Dave, how are you? I knew it was you the minute I heard your voice.” I laughed.

“Is that so? Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dave paused, “I want to catch
up and hear about life for you on tour. Right now I have news. Good news. Is Tristan
around?”

“He’s in the bus. I can go get him.”

Dave chuckled. “Up until dawn and coming alive in the afternoon. That’s ok. Just have
him call me. Where are you?”

He wasn’t leaving me hanging like that. “Walking around. I’ll get him to call but
wait a minute. News?”

Dave hesitated. “It’s going to be everywhere in a second anyway. Go ahead, you tell
him, but still have him call me. It’s the album. It’s been nominated for Best Alternative
Album at the MUT awards. Shall I read the press release to you? ‘Showing us all that
the second act might be better than the first, Tristan Hunter, former lead singer
with Devised, is nominated for his solo album,
Some of Us Remember the Future
.’ ”

I let out a shriek. The little group of fans all looked over in my direction. I waved
my beer at them.

I could hear Dave smiling. “Thought you’d be happy. Of course, more work for you.
We’ll most likely do a focus on him and, of course, the tour, next week. Ton meilleur
effort, s’il te plait.”
Your best effort, please.

“Comme toujours, chef.”
Like always, boss.

“Good to see you remember your French. Wouldn’t want the tour bus lifestyle to lower
your standards.” Dave was teasing, but there was a serious note to his voice. It was
a simple sentence. On the surface.

“Absolutely not. Of course it is early days yet. I’m sure I can still manage to fall
out of a limo half-dressed.”

Dave cleared his throat. “Yes.”

I had no idea why I’d said that. I chalked it up to the edgy feeling I had standing
by a bus next to a highway. “I’ll check in with you later or tomorrow on the blog.
I’m going to tell the band.”

Dave’s voice, was low, almost kind. “Tell Tristan first. Before the others. Trust
me on this.”

“T’a raison. Comme d’habitude.”
You’re right. As usual.

“Bien sûr. Ok. Chow.” And the phone went dead.
Of course.

It was funny to think of him looking out for me, sitting at the head of his empire,
while I went to talk to a half-naked rock star, ruling his world from a mobile bed.

* * *

It was a little crazier tonight, which I put down to the announcement about the nomination.
Outside the venue, there were people hoping to be able to pick up tickets, along with
some enterprising people selling bootleg Devised and Tristan Hunter t-shirts. I didn’t
see James doing anything about it. Peter Grant, he was not.

And Tristan was brilliant on stage. He swooped down towards the crowd, luring them
in, taunting them with distance, before coming close enough to touch, falling to his
knees, clinging on to the microphone like a lifeline. Every word wrenched from his
throat, twisting through the vowels, the veins in his neck standing out from the effort.
AC matched him, knowing just when to lower the volume and retreat slightly, leaving
a space that Tristan filled, effortlessly, the notes punching through the darkness.
The drummer, Pete, was really very good. He watched them, stuck with the rhythm, following
Tristan’s cues, happy to be the solid base for what they did. The dynamic range was
good. Some drummers bash away at the kit, no matter what’s going on around them. Not
Pete. The bassist wasn’t as strong, but he didn’t distract either. It was a nice set
up and it sounded damn good. And when Tristan and AC stood back to back, leaning on
each other, Tristan’s dark hair flowing over AC’s shoulder, the piercing shrieks and
collective groan of the crowd summed it all up. Whatever the two of them had, and
however it worked, together they touched a different nerve, and the response was immediate
and blood-at-the-surface desperate. Looking out at the crowd, they all had a similar
expression—a kind of wonder, an openness that was intimate and deeply personal—and
repeated on almost every face.

Gauging the power and intensity of tonight’s audience, I had a feeling the craziness
was going to ramp up. What if he won? There would be no stopping him.

It was a slightly unnerving thought.