Fifteen
FIFTEEN
UPON REFLECTION, THE CHOP PANTS WERE A MISTAKE
Bus call is at midnight. Jasmine’s detailed email informed us that meant the bus would pull out of the lot at exactly twelve o’clock with or without us. I’m dangerously close to testing that theory, so I hope it’s an empty threat.
“You’re really playing it fast and loose with this timeline,” Cass says as she swings her car into the gravel lot. “It’s two minutes to midnight.”
“You can’t rush an everything shower,” I argue.
“Text me when you get on the bus,” she says as I hop out of the car and wrangle my suitcase out of the backseat. “Text me in the morning. Just, text me all the time. Day or night.”
“So you can keep tabs on Mo?”
She shimmies her shoulders. “We have a phone date in half an hour. But also because I love you and want to be there vicariously when the world discovers your greatness.”
“Have I told you today I would be nowhere and no one without you?”
Cass beams. “Go be amazing.”
I don’t look back as I wheel my suitcase across the gravel lot, my overnight bag weighing down my shoulder. The storage bay doors underneath the bus are closed except for one and I shove my suitcase into the only space left. The door combination is scribbled onto my hand in black marker. It’s also written in the email Jasmine sent but I knew looking it up while trying to board the bus would send my already twisted nerves into a tailspin. When I punch in the four digit-code, the lock opens with a loud click.
I pull the wide silver latch, heave open the heavy door and climb up the tall stairs. It takes some maneuvering to swing the door back closed, my too-stuffed overnight bag in the way. As I step into the front lounge, it falls off my shoulder at the exact same moment I hear Kick’s sandpaper voice, a voice that could only be described as pure trouble.
“Nice jammies, Goldie.”
I’m dressed for bed. Because it’s midnight. And I didn’t want to do the change-clothes-dance in the tiny bus bathroom.
Kick’s sitting on the left-side lounge sofa, legs wide, arms propped up behind him. He’s wearing long, loose basketball shorts and a worn, black Bryan Adams t-shirt. I’m still not used to the hot rush that races through my body at the sight of him.
There’s only about two feet of space in the aisle between the two parallel couches—not enough room for my body, my overnight bag and my growing humiliation.
“Hey, Mari,” Mo says with a wave and a grin.
I smile back at her. Kick’s wonder twins and Mo are sitting on the opposite couch watching a vampire movie on a TV mounted to the narrow wall that separates the front lounge from the driver’s seat. Emily and Cheddar are in a small booth next to the couch, both furiously tapping on their laptops, trying to look like they’re not straining to hear every word.
My legs are knocking into the wonder twins but they don’t seem to notice. Kick’s eyes haven’t left me for a second.
“Who’s the cute little doggie all over your pants?” he asks, bumping my leg with his knee.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say with a huff, “but it’s my dog, Chop. ”
Technically Cass’s dog but I’ve adopted him in my heart.
Kick leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and rubs his hands together. Because of the tight space, his fingertips brush against my pajama pants and I startle, nearly falling into Mo and the twins, whose names I still don’t know.
Kick’s mouth turns down into a sardonic smile. “You ready for our first night together?”
I glance lightning fast at Emily who’s pretending she didn’t hear it, but the tiniest grin is growing in the corner of her mouth.
When Kick and I agreed to be friends, I should have included an amendment about overt flirting. Based on what I know about him, he’d never be able to comply.
“I’ll be sleeping in my own bunk. Alone.”
Kick holds his hands up in mock defense. “It would probably be unprofessional to shack up night one, but thanks for the invite.”
“Are you intentionally this irritating or did you take a class?”
“You love me,” he says and my eyes dart to Emily. She looks pleased.
Jasmine comes through from the bunk area and clucks her tongue when she sees me. “About time you showed up, Miss Gold.”
We do a sideways dance so she can squeeze past me, counting as she goes. Once she counts herself as number twelve she shouts, “We’re a bus!” signaling to the driver that everyone’s on board and it’s time to get moving. The driver throws the bus into gear and makes a wide turn out of the lot. The motion throws me off balance and straight into Kick’s lap, my hands on the couch on either side of his head. His hands are on my waist, the heat seeping through my hoodie and straight into my nervous system. He laughs silently, a puff of breath on my cheek.
“I could ask Jasmine to move me to a different bus, if my being here bothers you so much.” His voice is low, only for me. “Wouldn’t want to subject you to any undue,” he squeezes my waist, “tension. ”
“Stop flirting with me,” I whisper in his ear, “we’re friends, remember?”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Friends can’t flirt?”
“They’re right here,” Cheddar says, pointing his phone at me and Kick.
Nic is on the screen and chuckles when he sees me sitting in Kick’s lap.
“Glad to see you two getting along.”
“I’m just gonna,” I swallow and look away from Kick, pushing myself up and off his lap and onto the couch next to him. Jasmine scoots in beside me, reading over a print-out of tomorrow’s schedule.
“Here’s the deal, you two,” Nic says while Cheddar holds up the phone, “there’s only one opener slot.”
The bus hits a pothole and Jasmine and I nearly bounce off the couch. I grab Kick’s arm to steady myself before quickly pulling it away.
“The good news is,” Nic says, “you proved at the tour launch party you’re dynamite together. Emily floated the idea to the band that you perform as a duo and we all love it. So, you share the slot.”
Am I hallucinating? Is this a stress dream I’m having before the actual bus rolls out for the tour? Did my boiling hot everything shower raise my body temperature too high and I’m passed out on the floor of my steamy bathroom? Because I know Nic did not just say I’m sharing my dream slot with Sir Panty Dropper.
Kick’s lips are pulled tight like he knew this was coming. The Vampire Twins haven’t noticed anything’s going on but Mo’s watching me, her head shaking back and forth the tiniest bit. She warned me about this. I should have listened.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, baffled.
“I don’t care what you do,” Nic says, “whose songs you play or whatever, but we want you to do ‘Don’t You Want Me.’ Cheddar says some video leaked and the fans are wild for it and we’re wild for whatever the fans are wild for. Good?”
My head flops back and I gape at the ceiling, wide-eyed, not believing my life. “No, not good. This wasn’t the plan.” I look over at Emily who’s busily typing on her computer like she and Cheddar didn’t just blow up the entire tour.
“We were told we’d both have opening slots,” I say. “We’re solo artists.”
Nic nods. “And you both will be, together.”
“Will this alter set time? Soundcheck time?” Jasmine asks.
Kick’s saying nothing. Doing nothing. He’s slouched on the couch, happy to be a man without a plan.
I look back and forth between Emily, Cheddar and Nic. “We’re totally different artists. We’ve never played each other’s songs, never worked together before. Can’t we talk about this? The first show is tomorrow night!”
Nic shrugs. “Plans change. That’s the biz. Work it out between you and be ready for soundcheck tomorrow at three. Oh, and you have twenty minutes to fill. Monty has the in-ears from your fitting and will get you geared up at soundcheck.”
Jasmine immediately starts making notes on her print-out.
“You seriously don’t even care what songs we do?” I bark. That gets the Vampire Twins’ attention.
“We’re doing new songs?” Twin Number One says. “Cool.”
I can’t believe everyone’s being so flippant about rearranging the entire plan the night before the first show. I already have my own ten-minute set rehearsed and ready. It’s tight. It’s perfect. I can’t re-do a whole new set and have it ready to play for thousands of people tomorrow night .
“We can’t do this,” I say, looking at Kick. “Right? Tell them we can’t do this.”
Kick shrugs.
“Look,” Nic says, scratching through his beard, “this whole opener stunt was just a way to get ticket sales up for the tour, which Emily and Cheddar have done a bang-up job on. Do the song we want, do any other songs you want, and keep the online chatter going and ticket sales booming. Got it?”
With that, he ends the call like he didn’t just pull the pin on a grenade and toss it into the middle of the tour. How did I go from opening the tour, to co-opening, to now sharing the stage with someone who was supposed to stay neatly in the made-out-with-once-at-a-party box?
“What was that about?” Twin Number Two says, keeping his eyes on the screen as a vampire rips someone’s throat out with his fangs.
“We’re playing with Mari, like, all together,” Other Twin says.
“Right on,” Number Two says.
“Emily?” I say, just shy of a screech.
She pauses her furious typing and sighs, gives Cheddar a knowing look before saying, “Here’s the hard truth. Sparrow’s last two singles...weren’t hits. Streams are down. And when we announced the tour, ticket sales were dragging. We did the duet with Sabrina Shannon?—”
“Huge numbers,” Cheddar adds.
“—which got huge numbers, yes. But it wasn’t enough to get ticket sales up for the tour. We came up with the opener stunt and hey, it worked!”
It would be great if everyone could stop calling my dream come true a stunt.
“Since the competition and you two making everyone fall in love with you, we’ve sold out the first five shows,” Cheddar says, “and the other shows are closing in. So, good job on getting people talking. Our social engagement has never been better.” He waves his hands in the air like we should all clap.
“Don’t be so precious about it,” Emily says, swiping a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “This is a major tour and you’re both lucky to be on it. It’s time to be professional and do the job you were hired to do.”
The way she says hired makes it sound like our talent had little to no bearing on why we’re here, like the fan votes were just a smoke screen.
Cheddar’s back on his laptop. The twins go back to watching their movie. Mo leaves the front lounge, probably to call Cass. Jasmine gets up and pulls a water bottle from the fridge. “Night y’all,” she says before going back to the bunks. Everyone’s moved on. Everyone but me and Kick.
We look at each other for a long moment, a million thoughts passing between us.
“You can’t be okay with this,” I say.
“It doesn’t sound like we have a choice.”
“You’re seriously not bothered we have to combine our sets? We don’t even know each other’s songs.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He’s no help at all.
“I’m gonna go find my bunk,” I announce. “I need a minute alone to figure out what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.”
“Word,” Twin Number Two says.
“Sorry, Mari,” Emily says, not meeting my eyes, “the only bunk available is the bottom right one.”
My stomach sinks even further, which, given the last few minutes, might mean I’m the new world record holder in stomach sinking. I traveled on a tour bus a few times at the start of Polly’s career. The middle section of the bus holds twelve bunks stacked three high, six on each side. The only acceptable place to sleep is a middle bunk. Sleeping in a bottom bunk is basically laying on top of the massive, rolling tires which rumble your internal organs to a gelatinous goo. The top bunks require gymnast-level climbing to get into and once you’re in, there’s a constant risk of rolling out and falling to your death. If you do manage to stay in, the top bunk sways like a hammock in a hurricane. Seasick prone travelers shouldn’t sleep in a top bunk, which includes me.
But woe be unto you if you end up in a front bottom bunk, particularly the one next to the bathroom. Anyone coming or going will have to walk next to your head, with only a curtain to separate you, and any and all bathroom smells will waft directly into your face. Despite Bus Rule Number One, No Number Two on the Bus, the bathroom never ceases to smell…bathroom-y. If I’m truly left with the bottom right front bunk, it’s basically RIP sleep and RIP me.
I scowl at Kick and his eyebrows lift. “Unless you wanna share with me? I’ve got a middle bunk in the back. Be happy to squeeze.”
I ignore him and climb off the couch, pulling my bag behind me. When I slide the door to the bunk section open, I walk through without looking back. It’s quiet in here, or, quieter. The constant, loud rumble of the engine is already seeping into my brain like an insurance jingle, always there, always humming.
I flop down onto my knees to take stock of my newly assigned bunk. The curtain is pulled back and there’s a pillow, a plush grey comforter and fresh sheets. The bunk includes a teeny tiny shelf at both the head and the foot of the bed. I do my best to shove my bag into the shelf at the foot but it doesn’t fit. I’ll have to sleep with my legs scrunched up to make room. Once I roll inside and pull the curtain shut, I fish my phone out of my hoodie front pocket and text Cass.
Me: I know you’re about to have your phone date with Mo but you will not believe what just happened on this bus.
By the time she texts back I’m a year deep into Kick’s Instagram, looking for what I don’t know. It’s all food and sunsets and selfies with a zillion likes.
Cass: Nicole Kidman’s there? She’s doing BGVs for the tour?
Cass: Sara Paulson?
Cass: BEYONCE?
Me: Yes. All three of them, obviously. We’re about to do a champagne toast in the back lounge to celebrate our womanhood. Nicole’s asked me to call her Nikki. Come join us!
Cass: Ask Sarah if she holds any resentment towards me about the whole hot dog sandwich debacle .
Me: This is fun.
Me: You not letting me tell you what just happened to me.
Me: Let’s keep doing it forever.
Cass: Fine. Tell me what happened on the bus and I’ll react appropriately
Me: They want us to perform as a duo.
Me: No. Wait. They ordered us to perform as duo.
Me: Me and Kick. A duo.
Me: What am I going to do??
Cass: I realize I haven’t been your manager that long, but as your manager I’ll say, I think you’re going to have to perform with Kick.
Me: And of course during this whole terrible conversation I was wearing my Chop pants!!!
Cass: Excuse you, those Chop pants were a gift which you love because Chop is the greatest dog who ever lived.
Me: I don’t want to be a duo. That was not the point of this whole thing. The point was to be me, not me-and-Kick
Me: And when the bus started moving I fell into his lap like some kind of gross meet-cute, which, can’t exactly be a meet-cute since he’s already had his tongue in my mouth.
Cass: So putting your tongue back into his mouth would definitely be a bad idea then?
Me: I know you think you’re funny, hilarious even, but there will be no smooching. It doesn’t matter how insanely hot he is and how insanely hot the original smooching was, this is a smooch-free zone.
Cass: I believe you.
Cass: Except that I don’t.
The door slides open and I hear Kick’s voice. There’s a tense edge to it I’ve never heard before. He’s on the phone.
“I didn’t do this to hurt you,” he says.
My mind immediately conjures up a new girlfriend he’s left for the summer, a girlfriend who’s none too happy about being left behind while Kick tours the country with the alcove girl. I swallow down the pang of jealousy that stings my jaw like a sour Jolly Rancher.
“No,” he says, “that’s not what this is. How could you say that to me?”
My girlfriend fantasy shifts. This sounds like something much deeper, his words tinged with a specific kind of sadness, like an old wound that won’t heal. When I risk peeking into the walkway to hear more, he’s already slid into his back middle bunk and pulled the curtain closed.