Chapter 34 - Roxie
Roxie
I was sick.
Like, sick sick.
It started with that sneeze and some general congestion. I assumed—or maybe hoped—that it was my allergies acting up. I always had bad allergies in the fall back home in Texas, so it made sense they would pop up in Chicago, too.
But I slept horribly that night, and woke up the next morning with a tickle in my throat. After a cup of coffee, my throat outright burned. By that afternoon, I had a fever.
Now it was Cash’s turn to bring me soup and medicine. I resisted going to the doctor; my insurance sucked, and I didn’t want to pay the copay unless I was really sick.
“He’s going to try to perform,” Cash told me when I asked how Riot was feeling. “The doctor’s going to give him a steroid shot an hour before the show. Hopefully he can power through and then crash after.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I replied in a voice that shocked me. “Ugh. I sound horrible. I haven’t been able to breathe out of my nose since I woke up.”
“You sound fine to me,” Cash said with a wink. “But I’m going to let you rest. You need another dose of the cough medicine at eight o’clock tonight.”
“What, I don’t get a goodbye kiss?” I asked.
Cash blinked, then hesitated.
“I’m just kidding. You don’t want any of these germs right now. Thanks for the soup, and have a great show tonight.”
“I’ll give you twice as many kisses when you’re healthy,” he promised.
I felt bad about missing the show, but there was no getting around the fact that I was too sick to leave my hotel room. I barely had the energy to get out of bed.
I took another dose of NyQuil at eight, then quickly fell asleep. When I woke up, Riot was sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Oh. Hello.” I sat up a little. “Why aren’t you at the show?”
“Show ended an hour ago,” he replied. His voice sounded rough.
“You were able to perform? Cash told me you got a steroid shot.”
Riot’s dark hair fell across his face as he nodded. He brushed it away and said, “I pushed through the show. The shot helped, but my voice started failing halfway through. The sound guys turned up the backup vocals, so Vi and Cash helped carry me. We had to skip the encore, though.”
“Sorry I missed it. I wanted to be there, but…” My throat was raw, and I paused as a coughing fit came over me.
“You’re not allowed to be sorry,” Riot insisted. “You missed the show because you’re sick, and you’re sick because you took care of me. Thanks to you, I was able to do the show instead of cancel. I owe you one, Roxie.”
His comments made me smile. “Well, okay. I like that version of events.”
“One thing I am sorry about,” he said, “is that we’re not taking full advantage of our hotel beds.”
“I’m sorry about that too!”
He glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna crash soon. Can I get you anything before I do?”
“I’m good. I’ve got NyQuil.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What about some ice cream for your throat? I’m going to get some for myself, so it’s not an inconvenience.”
I sat upright like I’d been given a shot of adrenaline. “You have my attention.”
“Chocolate or vanilla? I think those are the only two options for sale in the hotel lobby.”
“Chocolate! Always chocolate.”
He went downstairs and returned with a pint and a spoon for me. “You have no idea how happy this makes me. Where’s your ice cream?”
“I, uh…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t actually getting any for myself. I just said that so you wouldn’t feel bad about me getting it for you.”
“I’ll forgive you for lying because I’m very happy about my ice cream. Thanks for being sweet.”
“Like I said: I owe you for taking care of me first. Now I’m going to go crash.” He bent down and gave me a kiss on the forehead before leaving.
It was strange to feel so cared for while on tour. I’d expected them to treat me like an outsider, but they really had welcomed me into the group like I was one of them.
It made everything I was doing with Riot—and now Cash—feel more than just physical.
We felt like a team.
I woke the next morning feeling even worse than the day before. My throat was on fire and I barely had the energy to go to the bathroom to pee.
I texted the band after crawling back under the covers.
Me: I’m worse today than I was yesterday. It might be best if I stayed in Chicago until I’m better, then join you at the next city. I can pay for the extra hotel nights.
Their responses came in a flurry.
Cash: What? No.
Milo: Damn girl you think we’d just leave you behind?
Riot: Hell no. Get your ass on the bus. We can carry you if we need to.
Me: I’m not THAT bad. I just don’t want to get the rest of the band sick.
Violet: I’m super not worried about that
Milo: We can quarantine you in your bunk. And we can wear masks whenever we go back there. No problem.
Riot: Check-out is at eleven. We’ll see you downstairs.
But they must not have trusted me, because half an hour before check-out Milo and Cash knocked on my door before letting themselves in.
“We’re here to help you get moving,” Milo said, a mask covering his face. His eyes were expressive enough that I could tell he was smiling. “Oh, good. You’re already packed.”
“You can’t bail on us that easy,” Cash said as he took my suitcase.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied.
I was able to walk just fine—I was sick, not dying—but Milo stayed beside me and kept a hand on my back just in case. I didn’t mind; I actually liked the image of two rock stars tenderly taking care of me. It made me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Milo asked. “The food stain on Cash’s butt?”
Cash twisted to look at himself. “Hey. How long has that been there?”
“You sat on a blackberry at breakfast! It was too late to stop you, so Vi and I pretended not to notice.”
“I could have changed pants!” Cash complained.
Milo looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Bass players hate getting messy.”
Cash pushed the elevator button and said, “Everyone hates getting messy!”
“Not drummers. We know how to enjoy life.”
“We have different definitions of enjoy, then.”
On the bus, I stayed in my bunk with the curtain closed to try to stop the spread of germs. But I still felt like a burden to the band.
Until Milo came back to check on me halfway through the drive. He yanked back the curtain, and I immediately erupted in laughter. The lanky drummer had fashioned an amateur hazmat suit out of three trash bags, some clear plastic film, and a lot of duct tape.
“Luuuuuuuuke,” he said in a muffled voice. “I. Am. Your. Father.”
Then he handed me a tube of Pringles and a can of ginger ale.
“Perfect timing, because I think I can keep some food down.”
“Goooood,” he said in a raspy Darth Vader voice. “I was beginning to think you were trying to avoid our date.”
“I promise I’m not,” I replied. “I owe you a date whenever I’m healthy, whether it’s in Denver or another city. Even though you look ridiculous in all that plastic.”
“Ridiculous, or sexy?” he asked.
“You look like a serial killer.”
“Would a serial killer do this?” Milo then began doing the Macarena, sticking his hands out and dancing outside the bunks, humming the tune through his makeshift plastic suit.
I laughed so hard that my throat began to hurt again.
Milo gave me a salute, then yanked the curtain closed. I heard him stomp back to the front of the bus and shout, “Disinfect me! Quick! Before the plague gets in!”
“Disinfect you with what?” Violet asked. “You used all of the Lysol spray already.”
Milo sighed dramatically. “You never play along with any of my fun games.”
Once we were in Minneapolis, it was easier for the band to give me a wide berth. They spent a lot of time inside the concert venue and out around town rather than on the bus.
And after two more days of pounding NyQuil and cough drops, I woke up feeling better.
“I want to go!” I insisted. I was still in my bunk, but was wearing a mask while chatting with the band. “I missed the Chicago show. I don’t want to miss this one.”
“You’re overruled,” Riot said as he walked away. “Sorry. But we’ve got fifteen more shows on this tour, and the sooner you fully heal, the sooner we can stop worrying about you being contagious.”
“I haven’t had a fever since yesterday!” I insisted. “I doubt I’m contagious anymore.”
Violet shook her head. “Don’t care, shut up, lay down. Doctor Violet’s orders.”
“Doctor Violet sounds like a Clue character,” Milo said. “It was Doctor Violet with the candlestick in the dressing room.”
“I never played Clue,” I said. “My parents loved it, but it was my least favorite board game. It sat at the bottom of our game cabinet collecting dust.”
“Ah.” Milo gave an awkward shrug. “It was the only board game I had growing up.”
Violet gave him a little sideways hug. I wondered what that was about.
Then they left for the show, blowing me kisses as they went.
I really was feeling great, though—although I was starving.
I put some clothes on, along with a mask, and walked a block to a local joint to buy a cheeseburger.
After wolfing that down, I took a nice long shower.
I ended up staying inside so long that I realized I would need to warn Cash about it later, since there was a limited amount of water in the tour bus’s tank.
After drying my hair and donning some fresh clothes, I felt like a new woman.
I glanced at my watch. Cherry Midnight should be playing by now. I was tempted to go backstage and watch the rest of the show, but I decided they were right. It was better if I stayed here. There would be plenty of other shows to watch.
But I still had FOMO.
Fortunately, on YouTube I found a video of the Chicago concert I’d missed. I put headphones on and started watching it on my iPad in my bunk.
It was immediately clear that Riot wasn’t at a hundred percent. But even though his voice was rough, he put a lot of energy into the performance. Moving around on stage more to make up for the sub-par vocals.
The camera was good about switching the view around to show all the members of the band. Everyone looked great. I admired the way Cash plucked at his bass and smirked out at the crowd, while Riot held the microphone out to the front row and let a fan get a few lyrics in.
Milo was especially sexy on the drums, shirtless under the molten gold wash of the stage lights.
Sweat slicked his skin, tracing the hard lines of his shoulders and running down the deep grooves of his muscles every time he swung his drumsticks.
His deep brown hair clung to his forehead, and his jaw was set in that chaotic, but dangerous focus that made it look like he wasn’t performing for anyone but himself.
He looked less like a musician and more like a storm of energy that had taken human shape.
As I watched his arms moving in a blur on the drums, I thought to myself: was this really my life right now? This video had over a million views, and I intimately knew the entire band. Such a wild thing to think about compared to where I was two months ago.
I stretched out in my bunk, feeling all the muscles I hadn’t used in the past few days. I really did feel better now. Probably ninety or ninety-five percent healthy.
I hadn’t had much alone time since joining the tour. And our hotel stop in Chicago felt wasted since I was sick the whole time.
The solitude was nice.
Milo was doing a drum solo on my iPad, grinning out at the crowd as the pace of his drumming got faster and faster. He stood up when he was done and held up his drumsticks to the crowd, who screamed their adoration at him.
He looked good. A six-pack of abs, absolutely shredded with lean muscle. One drumstick twirled in his deft fingers, and then he brought it down on the drums as they resumed the song.
I glanced at my watch. The other show, the live show, was still going on. The band wouldn’t be back for at least half an hour.
I relaxed in my bunk, parting my legs while watching the Chicago show.
The camera panned between Riot, Cash, and Milo. Each man different, but all of them sexy and gorgeous and fun in their own way. Slowly, my fingers drifted down into the elastic of my sweatpants.
Sighing, I touched myself.
I’d been so ridiculously horny for the past week.
I hadn’t been able to have sex with Riot, and then I couldn’t hook up with Cash either because it was my turn to get sick.
All of that energy had been building up inside of me.
The moment my index and middle finger slid to either side of my clit, I was groaning with pleasure.
I drank in the sight of the Cherry Midnight men on my screen while rubbing myself, faster and faster.
Eventually, I reached into my backpack and came out with the lipstick vibrator I’d brought with me on tour. It hadn’t gotten any use thanks to the lack of privacy on the bus, but now it was a welcome addition to my packed things.
Riot hit the high note in a song and I closed my eyes and groaned with ecstasy.
With my headphones on, I never heard the bus door open.