Chapter 13 - Roxie
Roxie
My whole body felt alive while sitting on the edge of the bed with Riot, listening to the beginning of his new song.
I had assumed, naively, that my attraction to him had peaked at that first concert in Austin.
That was when he was at his sexiest, prowling around on stage and giving me sexy smiles in the front row.
Surely that attraction would fade when I saw him as a regular dude, on the tour bus and in hotels.
But somehow, he had only gotten sexier.
We had this insane chemistry. Every time we were within a few feet of each other, there was an undeniable sexual tension in the air. It made it hard for me to breathe, let alone think.
I watched Riot walk to the front of the tour bus and put away his guitar. He glanced back at me, smiling for a moment, before saying something to Cash.
Jesus. I was like a teenage girl swooning over YouTube videos of Harry Styles. I was head-over-heels infatuated.
“Relax, Roxie,” I whispered to myself. “You’re obsessed because this is new and exciting. Eventually this feeling will fade. It always does.”
I just needed to hold out until then.
I fell asleep easier that night, probably because Riot was in the normal bed rather than the bunk directly above me.
But when I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, it was impossible not to notice his form in the bed.
The comforter covered only half his body, revealing the bare skin of his upper back.
Like his arms, it was covered with tattoos.
Realizing that I was standing there staring at a sleeping man, I quickly went into the bathroom to do my business. But when I returned to my bed, I left a little crack in the privacy curtain. Riot was perfectly in my line of sight while I slept on my side.
Can I hold out? I wondered while watching him sleep.
New Orleans was humid and crowded. I’d always heard good things about the city from friends who had visited, but my impression was that it was similar to Austin, but worse in every imaginable way.
I stayed in the tour bus and worked, aside from the few times we went out to a restaurant to eat.
I no longer felt like an outsider who was intruding on an existing friend group; the members of Cherry Midnight made me feel like I belonged, including me in conversation and treating me like I was one of them.
I’d been with them for ten days, and it already felt normal.
Like he’d done in Houston and Fort Worth, Riot disappeared immediately after the show. I tried to follow him, but the area backstage was a maze, and Milo distracted me just long enough for Riot to lose me.
I was beginning to wonder if he was trying to lose me. Where the hell was he going?
Atlanta was the next city on the tour. While stuck in traffic on Interstate 65, I moved to the front of the bus and sat in the passenger seat next to Cash.
“This is fun,” I said, gesturing at the endless line of brake lights ahead of us.
“I’m a patient man,” Cash said, tapping his ear. He had an EarPod in. “Traffic is easier to deal with when you’re listening to an audiobook.”
“Different book than the one about oceans?”
“I finished that days ago.” He smiled and pointed at another paperback on the dashboard. “That’s about cultural anthropology. I’ll finish it by the time we leave Atlanta in a few days. And to answer your question: yes, my audiobook is different. It’s an autobiography.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“Depends on who you think is interesting. It’s Seth Rogan’s book, Yearbook.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but that doesn’t seem high-brow enough for you.”
“I like a good variety,” he replied. “Besides, he narrates his own audiobook, which makes his stories about doing mushrooms in Amsterdam a lot funnier.”
I paused to bookmark it on Audible. “Added! Thanks for the recommendation. Do you always read while on tour?”
“Usually. It’s a healthy habit while on the road. It makes me feel more productive than playing videogames or binge-watching TV shows.”
“Didn’t I see you watching an episode of MythBusters in your bunk last night?” I teased.
He glanced over at me and smiled. “I allow myself exactly one guilty pleasure episode per night. I’m only human.”
“No judgement. I’m just impressed you’re able to stop at just one!”
As the traffic began moving again, I decided that I liked Cash a lot more than I first thought. I’d mistaken his quiet stares as judgmental, but in reality he was the kind of man who lived in his own head.
The concert venue was the new Atlanta Falcons stadium, which was like a massive open-air cathedral with windows and other modern amenities backstage. As the band prepared to go out on stage, we did our pre-show group hug again.
Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed like Riot positioned himself so that he would be next to me while the five of us squeezed in tight together. I was hyper-aware of his arm around me, his palm resting on my lower back while they said a few words of encouragement to each other.
Then they were gone, out on stage while the crowd roared for them.
I stayed in the wings to watch the show again.
A roadie had noticed, and now placed a stool for me to sit on, which was better than standing up for the whole show.
I didn’t mind standing when I was in the crowd, but doing it for every show was beginning to wreak havoc on my feet.
I couldn’t imagine how much harder it was to be one of the musicians.
Milo was the only one who got to sit the entire time, but the way he played his drums was its own crazy workout.
It was fun to pick out the differences between each show.
Every one was unique in its own way. Back in New Orleans, the crowd wasn’t super enthusiastic, so Riot’s “Hello New Orleans!” greeting after the first song was subdued.
But Atlanta was bumping from the moment they went on stage, so Riot practically screamed his welcome.
There was also a variety in the music itself. At the last show, Riot had a long guitar solo during the song Wasteland. But in Atlanta, he moved the guitar solo to the end of Park Street Homicide, near the end of the show.
But one thing stayed the same from night to night: the quality of their performance. Whether it was Violet on the keyboard, Milo on drums, or Riot and Cash plucking their strings, they always sounded phenomenal and never phoned it in.
When their encore was done, we shared another group hug backstage. “Sorry for the sweat,” Riot told me running a hand through his glistening hair.
“I don’t mind!” I replied. “It makes me feel like I did something tonight.”
“You may not know it,” Riot leaned in to whisper, “but you did.”
He started walking away, and I prepared to follow him.
But then Milo clapped me on the back and said, “What’d you think of the drum solo?”
“Which one?” I asked, glancing at Riot as he walked away. “The first one, or the one near the end when Riot did the band roll-call?”
“Both!”
Riot ducked into the dressing room, then emerged with two bottles of beer held between his fingers. He started walking away.
“They were both great, but I liked the first one the best. It felt more natural as part of the song.”
“Riot liked it too,” Violet chimed in. “It gave him a chance to rest his pipes.”
“Excuse me for a second,” I said while the two of them chatted about the performance.
Riot had gone down the hallway that led to the crew bathrooms. When I reached the mouth of the hallway, I caught a glimpse of him ducking around a corner at the far end. Quickening my step, I hurried after him, taking care to remain hidden but trying to keep him in sight.
Was he meeting someone? That would explain the pair of beer bottles. I imagined Riot pointing at some skank in the front row and telling a security guard to bring her backstage. Jealousy flared through me, as powerful as it was illogical.
I followed him through the bowels of the arena until I rounded a corner and stopped in my tracks. The hallway was a dead end.
And Riot was nowhere to be seen.
I walked to the end and realized there was a tall ladder mounted on the wall. I followed it up to the ceiling, where it disappeared at an open hatch. A sign was mounted on the wall next to it:
ROOF ACCESS
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to turn around and go back to the dressing room. Even if I did find Riot, and even if he was doing something innocent, he would probably be upset that I had stalked him. If the roles were reversed, I would be.
But I felt like a Golden Retriever chasing a tennis ball. I couldn’t stop now.
Sighing, I grabbed the first rung.