Chapter 2 #2
Of course, nothing was as straightforward as it ought to have been.
Golf man deposited her right by the Ghost Boys tour bus and immediately whizzed off, at which point the band’s security, a snotty cow she didn’t recognise, informed her she’d have to wait until one of the band confirmed her identify before letting her on the bus.
This, despite the lanyard the bitch was holding with her name and picture on it.
Jodi: They won’t let me on the bus.
Nash: Who won’t?
Jodi: Your security. Not until you’ve vouched for me in person.
Nash: WTF. Okay, soz. Gonna be a while yet. Hopefully not too long though. Maybe get a brew somewhere?
Jodi: Yeah. I’ll do that. Xx
With only two pounds thirty-seven in her pocket buying a drink was out of the question.
It might have got her a drink on the high street, but the festival mark-up was eye-watering.
Who the fuck paid nearly seven quid for a cuppa?
Seemed that if she wanted a brew, she was going to have to make one for herself.
Jodi found herself a pitch in a quiet corner of the enclosure that no one else fancied, probably because it bordered both the recycling bins and a line of Portaloos.
Also, it wasn’t a very big space, but then, she didn’t have a very big tent.
If any of the bands were camping, they were doing so in style.
The field was predominantly buses, along with an assortment of vans; everything from big white transits to ancient VW campervans.
There were various pavilions scattered about too, clearly intended as chill out zones rather than for sleeping.
Seemed, given that even the well-known acts had opted for sleeping aboard their buses rather than under canvas, that tour bus bunks weren’t really so bad.
Maybe Nash had just been thinking about how squashed up they’d be if they were sharing.
He turned up four hours later with a stupid grin on his face, wearing a shirt that looked like something someone’s nan would own.
It was off white, an odd choice for a field, and striped with muddy orange and black lines.
Severely smudged eyeliner circled both his eyes, and he was wearing jeans that did absolutely nothing for his delicious butt, which was one of his better features.
He’d also grown a considerably longer beard in the fortnight since she’d last seen him.
Thick and dark like his brows. It served to pull your gaze down to his lips and away from his eyes.
“I see the stylist got to you.” She bounced to her feet to greet him and accepted his tight hug. He smelled different too. Gone was the earthy citrus spice replaced by something sharper, cleaner, and considerably more manufactured.
“Babe. I’m sorry…”
“It’s fine.” She’d people watched, not that she communicated that. There didn’t seem much point. “I got settled.”
His brows knotted, and he cast her abode a suspect glance. “You’re moving onto the bus though, right?”
“It gives us options, and the cats needed to stretch their legs.”
“The cats… Aye, right. Always forget about your monsters.”
He gave her another squeeze, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Nash wasn’t a cat person. He tolerated her wee bundles of fluff but had never wrapped his head around her enduring love for them, or how she’d spend her hard-earned pennies on making sure they were fed, watered, and wormed ahead of her own comfort.
“What kept you? And what’s with the eyeliner?”
While his hair had always been on the longer side, particularly on top, she’d never seen him even moisturise before, let alone don make-up.
“I’m just trialling it. The fans go wild for this sort of thing, so…”
She’d figured that much. “As long as it’s still you underneath it.”
“Course.” He gave her what she interpreted as a shoulderless shrug, then beamed at her and went so far as to snatch her up in an unexpected hug. “We’ve hit the sodding jackpot, Jo. You’re never gonna believe who we’re touring with.”
She wouldn’t guess because she was still hopelessly out of touch with the music scene beyond a couple of favourites acts. “Who?”
“I told you we all thought Harry had something up his sleeve. Turns out it was bigger than we imagined.”
His grin was eating his face now, prompting her to smile too even as her insides roiled with anxiety. If they were touring, and he’d only just confirmed that for definite, then what did that mean for her… for them? More time apart?
“It’s not just gonna be UK dates.” They’d been hoping for some European shows too, but apparently, they weren’t quite so easy to score post Brexit.
“We’re going worldwide, Jo! Us. Me, you, the guys… It’s major. It’s fucking amazing. We are so made.”
“So, who is it you’re supporting? Not Hammerjang or Trollforge, like you thought?”
He made a rude noise. “Small fry. We’re bigger than both.
Harry’s only gone and fucking secured us a ride with Black Halo.
Black fucking Halo, Jo! Not just for a few shows either, the rest of their European tour, with the possibility of it becoming the whole last leg.
Eight months of dates across the globe.” He rattled off a string of countries. “What do you think to that?”
Her heart made a panicked flutter, like it wanted to break out of her ribcage and fly off. “That’s amazing,” she croaked, and buried her face against his chest so he wouldn’t see her panic.
Black Halo. Of all the bands… Of all the fucking bands in the world it had to be that one.
Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t meet them, and it wasn’t like the other party was likely to remember her.
He’d probably forgotten all about her and their adventures together.
Black Halo’s bass-player, Rock Giant…Paul Reed…
He’d certainly never attempted to get in touch despite her leaving her number.
Not that it mattered, or that she’d expected any other sort of treatment from a rock star.
She’d been a night’s entertainment, no more.
But she’d liked him. Genuinely liked him. That was the real kick in the teeth.
Fact was, half the population were complete arseholes, and being a rock star didn’t exempt you from that.
It probably made you an even bigger one.
Not that it mattered. That was the past. One she’d moved on from.
Her future was set. Her and Nash. Nash and her.
As evidenced by the hulking great rock on her finger.
Nash had been saying something, and she hadn’t caught it.
“…wedding. I don’t want to, but if we’re touring...”
“Eight months isn’t that long. There’s no rush.” Even as she said it, she got an itch in her bladder. It’d be hell. It was an eternity.
“Babe, it’s an age. Too long by far until I can make you Mrs Nash.”
Actually, she was planning on being Mrs Castle, but that was a conversation for another day.
“I’ve an idea.”
Was she ready for ideas? The tour news was still reverberating and causing her stomach to cramp.
“There’s a ring of standing stones just over there.” He nodded his head in a vaguely leftwards direction. “Seems it’s the equinox or something tonight.”
Duh. “It’s in the festival name.”
“Yeah, all right, brains. Anyway, there’s a guy conducting handfasting ceremonies, and I figured…” He raised his dark eyebrows suggestively.
Reckoned what? Wait. “Us? Get handfasted? But neither of us believe…”
“Come on. That part doesn’t matter. It’ll be fun, and we can tell people we’ve tied the knot. It won’t be officially recognised, but it might shut Harry up.” He nudged her elbow with his. “Come on, what do you say?”
“Harry? Shut him up about what? About me?” Harry Storm scared the fuck out of her. He stank of privilege, though she wasn’t certain he realised that. He seemed to think he was one of the guys, but that’s because he was a rich boy who couldn’t conceive of not being universally loved.
Nash sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair leaving the top strands mushed in a way she loved but would probably upset whichever stylist had had their hands on him.
“Apparently, we’re a hotter commodity if we’re all single.
Don’t get hung up on that. It’s irrelevant.
You’re my girl, and it should be about the music anyway, not whether I’m available or wearing the right stuff. ”
She nodded, but the Nash she knew mooched around in T-shirts with stretched out of shape necklines, and either cargo pants or joggers and was forever losing socks so that virtually every pair he owned were mismatched.
“So, what do you think? We should do it, yes? Yes?”
She gave a tentative nod.
“Yes!” He smacked a kiss against her lips.
“Cool. We’ll have some drinks, have a chill, swear some oaths and…
” He pulled her closer to his body, an arm around her neck, so that his breath whispered hot against her ear, laden with promises.
“Then you and me are gonna enjoy some good old-fashioned rutting.”
“In your tour bus bunk?” she wondered aloud.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll have you right there in the middle of that there sacred ring of stones.”
“Not sure Harry will approve of that.”