Chapter Seven
Seven
A week in, the Kingfisher tour is going far better than that first night in Memphis.
Tonight’s crowd in Raleigh is just as rowdy, and bigger than the ones in Atlanta and Charlotte combined, but I’m less nervous now that I know what I’m doing.
Halloran’s performance hasn’t lost its effect on me quite yet, but I’m not left on the verge of tears anymore, and I haven’t missed a cue since that first night, so I’m counting both of those as wins.
And the self-doubt’s got nothing on the unrelenting exhaustion.
I need constant reminders on what day it is and if I’ve eaten yet.
It’s not the performances so much—in high school I’d sing, dance, and act in a two-hour show each night, and finish with more energy than when I began. No, it’s bus life.
My bunk is right beneath Molly’s, and most nights she and Pete fool around like their sole intention is to tear through the flimsy mattress until they land on top of me.
Molly’s got no shame, and Pete is audibly thrilled to be with that woman.
Even when the two lovebirds have exhausted themselves and begin to snore, I can hear Wren, Conor, and Grayson playing cards and sipping beers until the sun comes up.
And yet no noise can compare to the rattling of the bus along the uneven roads from the confines of my squashed little bunk. Just thinking about another seven weeks of this is giving me wrinkles. Which is why I have to renege on the oath I swore to go out with Indy and Molly tonight.
“Please don’t hate me,” I beg as we make our way out of the venue and into the cool night air. Cars honk at the blockade and fans scream down the block for Halloran. “I swear, in Richmond, I am all yours.”
“There’s no nightlife there,” Indy huffs. “And this is the bar Kurt Cobain punched that guy from Pearl Jam at!”
“Allegedly,” Molly adds, staring at her sleek black nails as we walk.
“ Allegedly ,” Indy amends.
I can’t help my grin. These two are the oddest pair. Indy is practically a human hummingbird and Molly may or may not be a witch. But they are inseparable, and I’m sincerely honored to have been adopted by them so quickly.
“?’Scuse me.” Halloran brushes past a roadie to my left and his eyes find mine for the briefest moment. He’s got his hood up over his head, and his hair is half cloaking his face. He looks like a handsome, mournful druid. His eyes are endless. “Hey.”
His deep voice still sends my stomach plummeting. Not just the depth of it, but how gentle his speaking voice is compared to that rich heaviness with which he sings.
I open my mouth to respond and find empty word bubbles float over my head. A cursor, blinking.
His brows pull together. A beat of pure confusion on both of our parts.
Why can’t I talk? We’re both thinking it, and I’m the one who should have the answer.
His hand nearly reaches for me as if in concern.
But then he’s ushered at a fast clip through the crowd to avoid the mania, until he ducks into a town car with Jen.
“Clementine? Kurt Cobain bar?”
That was weird. I am so desperate for sleep. “As special as that sounds—”
“You didn’t come out last night, either,” Indy whines. “Do you hate us or something?”
Molly looks up at that one, her burgundy lipstick glinting in the streetlight as she purses her lips.
I don’t get the impression she’d care one iota if I hated her, but something tells me if I were to hurt Indy’s feelings, Molly would scrape my eyes from their sockets.
I blink twice to dispel the mental image.
“Not at all. Not even close. But tonight is the first night we have an actual hotel, which means a real bed, and I have to rehearse the new additions to the set list. Please let me off the hook and I promise to go all out with you guys wherever there is nightlife next. Atlantic City?”
Indy contemplates my offer and I hold my breath. I need this for my sanity and aching body, but I also don’t want to disappoint them. I pray neither one can tell I’m seconds away from folding.
“Fine.” Indy sighs, taking Molly’s hand in hers. “Study song lyrics while we get wasted. But I’m holding you to that. In Atlantic City, you’re mine .” She cackles evilly to prove her point and all the freckles on her nose scrunch up with the theatrics. Even Molly cracks a smirk.
“Done and done,” I promise.
Back at the hotel, the plush queen bed and spacious, silent room beckon to me. I’m in some kind of Hilton oasis.
I kick off my heeled boots and dump my bags on the desk before launching myself into the duvet. Clean white cotton envelopes me and soothes my aching feet and pounding head.
I call my mom as I do every night, but it rings through and I realize she’s probably sleeping. I imagine her snoring before Scully and Mulder and a little pang of homesickness trills in my chest. But it feels different than I expect it to. A bit of relief, too, to be here and not there.
A Snickers from the minibar and long hot shower later, I think I’ve just about face-masked my way into being a real human again and chalk up those uncomfortable home-related feelings to sleep deprivation.
Now I can focus. I have lyrics to memorize and vocals to rehearse.
I snuggle cozily under the covers in my hotel robe and review the pages.
Jen had noticed that the acoustic songs in the middle of the set seemed to bring down audience energy, so she replaced them with two of Halloran’s more galvanizing, blues-rock hits.
One of them, “Heart of Darkness,” was a song I realized I’ve heard many times—in fact, it’s on my rarely used but always important “Feeling Hot Tonight” playlist. The other, “Meadowlark”—an up-tempo jaunt depicting elderberries and the delicate scales of dragonflies—was new to me, and both required a couple solo rehearsal hours to make sure the Memphis performance mishap never occurs again.
I study the new pages like I’m prepping for the SATs. Then I study the lyrics of the entire set list again, just to confirm they’re branded into my brain. Two hours of vocal riffs and only one complaint call from the hotel’s front desk later, I’m feeling solid.
My eyes drift over to the queen bed across from mine.
Molly should be back soon, meaning I only have a little more blessed time to myself.
I’m not usually antisocial, but this tour…
Having never gone to summer camp, or lived in a college dorm, I can’t recall ever having so little personal space, and for such an extended period of time.
Showering in the tour bus is practically an Olympic sport of balancing hygiene and not flashing Grayson, who seems to always be waiting just outside whenever I’m finishing up.
I grimace at the thought. He’s good-looking, but there’s something about the way he talks to me—the way he talks to the women he picks up after the shows, too—that’s just obnoxiously self-assured.
Call me crazy, but I think it’s hotter when the guy you’re sleeping with considers you the prize, not himself.
Halloran could probably give Grayson a symposium on the subject.
“In rebirth I stretch as grassland, shielding my honey from the hunt. She’s born a fox, I am the hedgerow, whatever her burden I’ll bear the brunt.”
The lyrics from tonight’s study session seem to have branded themselves on my psyche.
“She sways, a graceful miracle, less mortal than heaven given form. But it’s Hell she drags me to, her perfect body held in another man’s arms.”
Now that’s devotion. That’s worship. That’s desire.
But it gets worse. There are his other lyrics.
“Breath faster than your virtue, heat on your skin feels new, the aches and chills I’d soothe you through. Can’t you picture it, babe, the fever of my loving you?”
Or, “The longer since she’s left me, the less it takes to believe my palm is hers. Lights out, down half the whiskey, work myself until she returns.”
I can’t help but press my legs together beneath the sheets.
It has nothing to do with him , but so much of his music is about sex.
I’ve just spent the past three hours studying eloquent descriptions of ethereal horniness.
And I’m probably not going to be alone for another week or so.
We’re only in the hotel tonight because there’s no show tomorrow and we don’t drive to Richmond until the afternoon.
I check my phone: 12:46 a.m. But I’m an hour ahead. Maybe Mike’s still awake?
We don’t make a habit of it, but there’s not a ton to do in Cherry Grove. Sometimes the nights are long and shifts are slow and who better to get you off than a friend you have comfortable chemistry with?
I turn off the bedside light, drowning the room in darkness. Then I shoot him a text.
Clementine: Hi. You up?
Mike Stanwell: I’ve been reduced to a bad cliché.
A grin tugs at my cheeks, and I begin to untie my robe.
Clementine: Are you complaining?
Clementine: I’m all alone in a hotel room, in case that changes your answer.
While I wait for his response, I brush my fingers across my breasts casually, feeling that pleasurable twinge between my legs.
I imagine Mike’s hands on me, roaming up my sides…
his hoarse groan of pleasure as his long, guitar-calloused fingers pinch my nipple just this shy of hurt.
His low, masculine voice and that Irish lilt, coaxing a moan from my lips.
Telling me in near-agony how good I’m being, letting him play me like—
The buzz of my phone shocks my eyes open and my hand still. For a moment I catch my breath, heat on my cheeks from both arousal and shame. I hadn’t meant to think about—
It doesn’t matter. Yet another sign of serious exhaustion and way too much Halloran music. I should probably just go to sleep. I check Mike’s response, prepared to let him down easy.
Mike Stanwell: I’m gonna hate myself for this, but actually are you around to talk for a sec?
I tie my robe back around my waist and respond quickly.