23. Lyle
23
LYLE
A giggle pierces through my sleep-addled brain, followed by the unmistakable sound of luggage being shoved around. I roll over in my bunk, pulling back the privacy curtain to find Beau and Quinn attempting to tetris what looks like half a department store into the storage compartment beneath the empty bunk.
"What in the name of Willie Nelson's braids is happening at..." I squint at my phone. "Seven in the morning?"
"Morning, sunshine." Quinn's face appears, flushed from exertion. "Sorry about the noise. These bags are being stubborn."
I sit up, careful not to bang my head on the ceiling like I did the first week on tour. "Someone want to fill me in on why we're playing luggage Jenga?"
"Quinn's moving in," Beau says, straightening up and wrapping an arm around her waist. "That piece of shit car finally gave up the ghost, so I convinced her to take the empty bunk."
"About damn time." I stretch, my joints popping.
Quinn chews her bottom lip, fidgeting with the zipper of her duffle bag. "You're absolutely sure this is okay? I don't want to impose-"
"Songbird, if you ask that one more time, I'm gonna start charging you rent." I swing my legs over the side of my bunk. "Besides, watching you try to stuff that suitcase under there is the best entertainment I've had all week."
Beau snorts.
"The only ones who might pitch a fit are Jarron and Austen, but they've got their private rooms in the back. They can deal." I say with a smile.
"Or kick rocks," Beau adds, grabbing his coffee thermos.
"I should probably warn you about living with four guys..."
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Let's just say the bathroom situation requires..." I pause for dramatic effect, "patience. And possibly a hazmat suit."
"That bad?"
"We're talking toilet seats permanently stuck in launch position." I mime an upward motion with my free hand. "And don't get me started on beard hair in the sink."
"Hey now," Beau protests, stroking his impressive facial hair. "Some of us maintain our beards with dignity."
"Sure you do, mountain man." I wink at Quinn. "Just wait till you see the morning routine. It's like watching bigfoot attempt personal grooming."
Quinn laughs, finally relaxing. "I survived a communal bathroom in college. I think I can handle you three."
"That's the spirit." I raise my thermos in salute. "Welcome to the circus, Quinn. May your aim be true and your shower shoes be thick-soled."
The scent of bacon and coffee wafts through the bus as Quinn moves around the kitchenette like she's been here all along. Beau hovers nearby, passing her ingredients and stealing glances when he thinks I'm not looking.
"This is gonna be interesting when dumb and dumber wake up," I say, settling onto the small couch. "Ten bucks says Jarron trips over his own feet when he sees her."
"Twenty says Austen runs his hands through his hair at least three times," Beau counters.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "You two are terrible. Pass me the eggs?"
Right on cue, the back door squeaks open. Two giggling women in sparkly dresses from last night stumble out, followed by our disheveled bandmates.
"Call me!" One of them calls out. Neither Jarron nor Austen responds.
They shuffle toward the front, both squinting against the morning light. Jarron's wearing yesterday's jeans and no shirt, while Austen's flannel is buttoned wrong.
"Coffee," Jarron grunts, dropping onto the couch beside me. He hasn't noticed Quinn yet, who's quietly whisking eggs.
Austen runs his hands through his messy hair. "Who's cooking? Smells good."
"That would be me," Quinn says, turning around with the skillet. "Eggs?"
Jarron jerks upright, nearly spilling the coffee I just handed him. "What are you doing in here?"
"She lives here now," Beau says, his tone daring them to object. "Got a problem with that?"
Austen runs his hands through his hair again. I smirk at Beau – that's twenty bucks he owes me.
Jarron's coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth. "Hold up. When exactly was this decided?"
"Last night," Beau replies, reaching for a piece of bacon. Quinn swats his hand away playfully.
Austen runs his hands through his hair for the third time – I'm definitely winning that bet. "You didn't think maybe we should've all been consulted about this?"
I can't help but snort. "That's rich coming from you two. When's the last time either of you 'consulted' us about the parade of groupies you drag through here?"
"Touche, white flag raised," Austen says as he stuffs his mouth with a piece of toast.
"That's a little different," Jarron protests, but there's already a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah? How many times have I woken up to find Brittany-with-an-i passed out in our kitchen?" I counter. "Or was it Brandi-with-an-i? Hard to keep track."
Quinn tries to hide her laugh behind her hand, but fails miserably. Even Austen cracks a grin.
"At least Quinn can cook," I add, snagging a piece of perfectly crispy bacon. "Unlike what's-her-name who nearly burned down the bus trying to make toast."
That does it. The tension breaks as Jarron throws his head back laughing. "God, I forgot about that. The fire marshal's face when he realized who we were..."
"Welcome home, Quinn," Austen says, finally giving in with a chuckle. "Just... maybe keep the cooking lessons to yourself?"
Jarron drains his coffee and stretches, his muscles flexing in an unconscious display. "Well, since you're moving in, Quinn, there's one critical rule you need to know." He pauses for dramatic effect. "I always get my first shower. Non-negotiable."
"Oh lord, here we go," I mutter into my mug.
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
"Because by the third person, it's like bathing in arctic runoff." Jarron shudders. "Ask Austen. Last week he screamed like a kid at his first rodeo when the cold hit him."
"I did not scream," Austen protests, his cheeks reddening. "It was more of a... manly yelp."
"Manly yelp?" Beau snorts. "Is that what we're calling it? Because I distinctly remember hearing something that sounded like a startled chipmunk."
Quinn's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter as she plates more eggs. "So what you're saying is, I should wake up extra early?"
"Don't you dare," Jarron warns, pointing his fork at her. "I've perfected my shower timing down to the minute. Seven-fifteen sharp."
"Unless he's hungover," I add helpfully. "Then all bets are off."
"Which is exactly why I installed that waterproof speaker in there," Austen chimes in. "Nothing gets his ass moving like blasting Dolly Parton at full volume."
"You wouldn't," Jarron gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror.
Quinn grins wickedly. "Nine to five?"
"Islands in the Stream," Austen corrects with an equally devious smile. "On repeat."
"I'm surrounded by traitors," Jarron moans, slumping dramatically in his seat. "Next thing you know, they'll be telling you about the rubber duck incident."
"What now?" Quinn perks up, interest sparking in her eyes.
"Nope!" Jarron jumps up from the table. "That story dies with us. I'm taking my shower now, while I still have some dignity left."