2—Interstate 80 （Two Vehicles Ahead）
I can’t sleep. At all.
And not because of the extra rumbling caused by getting the bunk right over the wheel well of the bus. This insomnia is caused by the guy across from me who unilaterally decided we’re going to be best friends for this tour. At least he’s been a good distraction from a brain that keeps telling me I shouldn’t even be here. (That’s a whole other insomnia-inducing thought spiral.)
All I know about this guy is that his name is Chad Smith and he’s some corporate agent representing the tour’s meddling sponsor, Sandeke Telecom. He called himself the Administrative Talent Liaison for Reedweather Media vis a vis Sandeke Telecom, whatever the hell that is. His business card confirmed it, but why he thought I needed an entire stack of them is beyond me. I kept one and used the rest to plug the crack between the cushion of my bunk and the wall of the bus.
He knows way too much about me, though, apparently.
“So what’s it like having a birthday in early September?” he whisper-shouts across the aisle.
I cringe as this conversation that doesn’t need to happen continues for the forty-third minute. Unfortunately, I’m genetically wired to be polite and it’s way too early in the tour to make an enemy—especially someone with the clout of a Sandeke Telecom representative. Or is it Reedweather Media? Or Jarvis McKinnley? I’m not entirely clear on who this guy works for. He also claims to be a “super-secret spy,” so I guess that tracks.
“It’s… fine?”
He nods with a grave expression. “Probably had issues with birthday parties and such during the school years. What happened when your birthday fell on Labor Day?”
I squint around the dark bus, searching for any excuse to end this weird interrogation. “We celebrated it on Labor Day.”
“You probably just made the cutoff, right? So you’re young?”
“I’m the same age as anyone born on that day.”
He chuckles and points at me. “Hilarious. You know what I mean.”
I don’t, actually.
“The youngest in your class,” he explains. “You just made the cutoff for school?”
“I guess?”
“Were you seventeen when you started college?”
“Technically. I only did one semester, though. Hey, aren’t you tired?”
“Are you kidding? This is my first ever music tour! I doubt I’ll sleep this entire month!”
Well, that’s not good.
With a silent groan, I drop back to my pillow to stare up at the top of my bunk.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“Yeah. Plus, the others are sleeping, so we should probably be quiet.”
“Oh! Good point. I’ll text you instead.”
He pulls out his phone, and I pull my curtain. Sure enough, my phone buzzes a second later. I glance at the display to see,
Which university did you attend?
Yorkshire,I type back.
No way! My best friend Marcos went there! You might know him!
Me:There were twenty thousand students at Yorkshire. I knew maybe twelve of them.
Chad:One time I found out my masseuse knew my ophthalmologist.
Huh. Okay. Mostly, I’m impressed he knew how to spell ophthalmologist. I wouldn’t have gotten close enough for autocorrect to intervene.
Me: Was he in the music business program?
Chad: Probably masseuse school.
Me: I meant your friend.
Chad: Oh. No.
Me: Was he a first-year student six years ago?
Chad: No.
Me: Does he have any connection to music in any way?
Chad: His roommate is a musician. You wouldn’t like him though. He’s a terrible spy.
Me: *thumbs up emoji*(All I got, sorry.)
Chad again: He has brown hair and blue eyes?
Me: The roommate?
Chad: No! Marcos. Well, not blue, more green? Blue-green. Cyan, if you will.
I will not and shut off my phone.
But when I close my eyes to sleep, I don’t see glorious nothingness. I see wavy multicolored hair and crystal blue eyes. I see a radiant smile that makes my stomach do an annoying foxtrot every time it rests on me. Basically, what I’m seeing is the most off-limits woman on the face of the planet, AKA my associate and sort-of boss, Larinda Scott.
The truth is I’ve been crushing on the A-lister since our first phone call to discuss her songs over a year ago. Spending countless hours with her since then has only made my secret feelings unbearable. She brightens my dark world, and somewhere along the way I’ve slipped into a deep craving for her light. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, but I’d have a better chance switching bodies sci-fi-movie-style with her on-again-off-again ex who’s also on this tour than actually dating her myself. (Weird analogy but accurate.)
Sure we have a blast together and she’s friendly—borderline flirty—with me. But the woman is walking sunshine, so “overly friendly” is her default mode. Not a single person can talk to her for more than five minutes without falling in love. I see it every time we join a meeting, do an interview, or attend an event. When the entire world is enamored, what chance does a small-time producer with limited connections and no real status have?
Movie stars and athletes line up to date her. Iconic musicians unapologetically chase her. Pretty sure Perceval Andrews, a nobody who still shares a tiny apartment with his sister, isn’t going to make the cut. She’s on the Elite List. The only list I’m on is the robocall spam list to refinance a mortgage I don’t have.
And now I’ll be spending hours upon hours with her, practically living together due to the intimate nature of touring. I was only invited because she wanted to work while we’re on the road, which means I’m literally here for her.
I’ve spent my entire life chasing a bunk on a tour bus like this. It only took an hour to regret it.