Wild Open (11 page)

The song came to an end. Leah clutched her guitar, breathing hard. O’Connor, grinning like a maniac, trotted over to her, gave her a high five, and trotted back to his microphone. The audience laughed and cheered.

And then they played the next song.

The show passed in a blur. Leah lost track of herself. She stopped being a person for a little while; she was part of the band, an organic whole, and she didn’t have to think or worry. All she had to do was play. This was how she had always felt on stage with Rung, but she thought it was something about
that
band, those people, something about making music with her brother and her closest friends. But she felt the same now, with these men who were basically strangers, and so maybe it was something more elemental, a fundamental trait of the music itself. The fans screamed and waved their arms and sang along. Leah felt something in her belly that she could only identify as joy.

After the last song, they went backstage to catch their collective breath before the encore. To Leah’s utter shock, James swept her up into a hug, squeezing her tight and slapping her on her back. “Fucking awesome!” he kept yelling. “You were fucking awesome!”

“Uh, thanks,” she said, and tentatively patted him.

“Quit mauling her, James,” Andrew said, and then
he
hugged her too, kind of awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands.

O’Connor hung back, hands in his pockets, and gave her a look that told her exactly what he wanted to do to her. It wasn’t hugging. She felt that look straight down to the soles of her feet.

“Okay, all of you back on stage,” Rushani said, and they went.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“That,” Andrew said, “was an incredible fucking show.”

O’Connor flopped down on the couch beside him and popped the cap off his beer bottle. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Incredible,” Andrew said again. “
Man
. Did you feel the energy from the audience tonight? They were totally fucking digging it.”

Only Andrew would say something like that unironically. “You’re right, Andrew, I think they were indeed digging it.”

“I know you’re making fun of me,” Andrew said, but he didn’t look like he minded too much.

James, sitting sideways in an armchair, said, “Twitter’s blowing up. The fans loved it.” He swiped at his phone again. “They loved Leah. Direct quote: ‘New bassist for Saving Graces just turned me gay.’”

O’Connor laughed. “Does Leah know about this?”

“Not yet,” James said. “I’m making a list for when she gets out of the shower.”

“I think we should keep that change with the setlist,” Andrew said. “I like playing ‘Morning Glory’ right after ‘Troubled Heart’ because it leads so naturally into ‘The Fear of God.’”

“Sure,” O’Connor said. “I agree.” For the last few months, this had been the best part of his life: the couple of hours right after a show when Andrew was his old self, psyched up from the show, chatty and enthusiastic, bubbling over with ideas and insight. It never lasted, of course. By morning, he would be back to normal. The new normal.

“And maybe we can swap out ‘Mise-en-Scene’ for one of the songs from the last album,” Andrew said. “I dunno, I’m just tired of playing that fucking song for some reason.”

“We could start playing ‘Gravity Well’ again,” James suggested. “The fans love it.”

“Done,” Andrew said. “Make it so. Where’s Rushani?”

“Supervising load-out,” James said. “I’ll make a note. We’ll print out new setlists before the next show.”

O’Connor let out a contented sigh. Really, aside from Andrew’s ongoing spiritual collapse, his life was pretty damn good. He got to perform for adoring fans several times a week, and then instead of having to clean up after himself, he got to kick back, drink beer, and stuff his face with all the food left over from dinner.

The whole spiritual collapse was sort of a downer, though.

His phone buzzed. One of his sisters had sent him another cat picture. The O’Connor siblings had an ongoing group text message that went through various phases of absurdity; cat photos were the latest iteration. He would have to find something good to send to them later.

A door opened, and O’Connor looked up, hoping Leah was back from showering. It was just Timory, though, and her drummer. “What’s up, guys!” Timory said, bouncing over to one of the couches and plopping herself down. “How’d the show go tonight?”

They didn’t usually watch each perform, although O’Connor was a little surprised that Timory hadn’t stuck around to watch Leah’s first show. “It was great,” he said. “Went really well.”

“That’s so awesome,” Timory said. “Ooh! Mini cupcakes!”

O’Connor stood up. Timory was a great musician, and the audiences loved her, but she wasn’t his favorite person. She was fine. A little too chirpy for him. They didn’t have much in common. He tried to limit his exposure. “Any of you remember what time bus call is?”

“1:00,” James said, without looking up from his phone. “It’s on the schedule.”

“You know I don’t look at those things,” O’Connor said. “Thanks. I’m gonna take a shower. See you guys later.”

Showering was just an excuse to leave the room, but as soon as he was out in the hallway, he realized it wasn’t a bad idea. He always sweated like a pig on stage, and he wouldn’t have another chance to shower until they got to Portland tomorrow afternoon.

Plus, there was a chance that he would run into Leah, maybe fresh out of the shower, maybe still in her towel…

He had promised to be good, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look.

The showers were just across the hall, in what looked like a locker room—and probably was, when the stadium was used for sporting events. Thick white towels were stacked on one of the benches. O’Connor didn’t have any clean clothes to change into, but it wouldn’t kill him to put his smelly shirt back on long enough to get a new outfit from the bus.

He pushed through the swinging door that led to the shower area. It was lighter on its hinges than he expected, and he pushed too hard and the door banged against the wall.

“Is someone there?” Leah called.

“It’s O’Connor,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Leah pulled aside the curtain that lined her stall just far enough to poke her suspicious face through the opening. “You aren’t going to peek at me, are you?”

He grinned. “The thought did occur to me.”

“I’ll tell Rushani if you do,” Leah said, and pulled the curtain closed again.

She had already figured out who held the real power in the band. O’Connor shook his head, amused, and went into a stall on the other side of the room from where Leah was standing, completely naked, with water streaming over her bare skin…

This had not, he decided, been a particularly bright idea.

Leah was waiting for him when he went back out into the locker area with a towel wrapped around his hips. She had changed into a loose sundress that bared her shoulders and her mile-long legs. There was an uncomfortable moment when he had to admit to himself that he’d been hoping for exactly this scenario. He didn’t like to think of himself as scheming, or as deliberately manipulating the situation, but of course that was what he was doing. And Leah knew it, too, from the way she looked up at him and smirked a little.

“Busted, huh,” he said.

“Totally,” she said. “It’s okay, though. I sort of like the view.”

“I think I’m being objectified,” he said, and posed with his chin up, one hand on his hip—something he had seen in a museum, once, a Greek god carved out of flawless marble.

“Very nice,” Leah said, and clapped.

He sat down on the bench beside her, not too close, but close enough to imply that he’d like to be sitting even closer. “You did a really fucking awesome job today.”

She glanced at him through the curtain of her damp hair. “I made a few mistakes. During ‘Thunderstrike,’ right before the—”

“Stop apologizing,” he said, a bit annoyed that she couldn’t accept a damn compliment. “Why do women always do that?”

“Because if we don’t, someone calls us a bitch,” she said. She straightened up and tossed her hair over her shoulder, frowning at him. “Or arrogant. Or
bossy
.”

“Okay,” he said, raising his hands in the universal I’m-not-armed gesture. “Sorry. Point taken. But look, you were great, and the fans apparently loved you, according to James and his obsessive monitoring of social media.”

She smiled. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“He’s making a list,” O’Connor went on. “Of the nice things they’re saying. So he’ll probably give that to you later.”

“Great,” Leah said. She reached out and touched his shoulder, a light and glancing brush that burned like heated iron. “O’Connor. What are we doing here?”

“Do you mean that in an existential sense, or—”

“Be serious,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know what I mean. You followed me in here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have. Believe me, I suffered enough thinking about you running your soapy hands across your body.”

“O’Connor!” she exclaimed.

“Too graphic? I can go into more detail, if you’d like.” He settled one hand on her knee, curling his fingers around her kneecap, watching her face carefully for any sign of distress. She watched him coolly, her eyelids drooping. Her skin was smooth and warm to the touch. He slid his hand beneath the hem of her dress and up her thigh. Her breath caught. He reversed course before he passed the point of no return, and drew his hand back down her leg.

Her lips were parted. She blinked at him, looking dazed, and then said, “Why stop there?”

He groaned. “Because I’m trying to behave myself. Like we agreed.”

“Right,” she said. She scooted away from him, and he let his hand fall from her knee. She rubbed her hands over her face. “Fuck.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “How are we going to make it through the next month?”

“Lots of masturbation,” he said. “That’s my plan, at least.”

She laughed. “Drastic measures.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave him one of those teasing sideways glances that women were so good at and that always drove him wild. “You think we’ll make it the whole four weeks?”

“Sweetheart,” he said, “there’s not a fucking chance.”

* * *

He woke when the bus stopped and rolled over to check his phone. It was noon; they had probably stopped for lunch. He had been asleep for nine hours. He had that murky underwater feeling that came from sleeping too much.

He rolled out of his bunk and went to the front of the bus. The door was open, and the driver was gone. A quick glance out the window indicated that they were at a truck stop.

James was the only person in the front lounge. He was sitting on the couch looking at his phone, and he glanced up when O’Connor stumbled in. “Look who’s finally up.”

“I need my beauty sleep,” O’Connor said. He yawned, and his jaw cracked. “Where are we?”

“Central Oregon,” James said. “Just south of Eugene. Hungry?”

“Yeah,” O’Connor said. He yawned again and scratched his face. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Loitering in the parking lot,” James said. “Rushani’s rounding everybody up.”

“Is Andrew out there?” O’Connor asked. He wanted to remind Andrew of his promise to talk to Rushani. They would be in Portland in a couple of hours. Andrew was running out of time.

“Yeah,” James said. “He was up really early this morning. I got up around 10 and he was already up and drinking coffee.”

Weird, but not unheard of. Andrew kept strange hours. “You’re not eating?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” James said. “I’m replying to comments on Instagram.”

“You’re obsessed,” O’Connor said. “Let it go, man.”

James frowned at him. “Someone has to do it. Social media is the primary way that we can develop relationships with fans—”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” O’Connor said. “Just don’t expect me to fool around with it.”

“You have the social skills of an eggplant,” James said. “Don’t worry.”

O’Connor flipped him off and climbed off the bus.

The sun was directly overhead, and so bright that O’Connor raised one hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the parking lot. Andrew was standing in the shade toward the rear of the bus, looking at his phone and oblivious to his surroundings, like an unsuspecting antelope in one of those nature documentaries Rushani liked to watch: defenseless, isolated from the herd.

O’Connor moved in for the kill. “Morning, Andrew.”

Andrew’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want?”

What a friendly and delightful person. O’Connor cut to the chase. “Have you talked to Rushani yet?”

Andrew didn’t bother playing dumb. He hunched his shoulders, drawing them up toward his ears. “I said I would.”

“But you haven’t yet,” O’Connor said. “You’re almost out of time—”