32. Keep It in Your Pants
32
KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS
MAGGIE
I’m With You By Avril Lavigne
I close my laptop with a frustrated slap and pick up my phone again, even though I said I wouldn’t. The glow of the screen feels like a trap I willingly walk into. The videos are everywhere—Felix jumping off the stage at the Chicago show, his face a storm cloud as he argues with security. And, of course, my personal favorite: the ones of me, tucked into his side like some stray fawn he felt compelled to rescue.
My cheeks burn as I watch myself, small and wide-eyed, clinging to him. It’s like a trainwreck I can’t stop staring at, even as I roll my eyes at my own idiocy.
The phone vibrates against the table, the screen lighting up with Dylan’s name. My stomach twists, tight and unforgiving, as I cringe. I’ve been waiting for this call, the way you wait for a storm to break—tensing at every distant rumble, bracing for the inevitable. There’s a slim chance he doesn’t know about the concert, a one percent sliver of hope, and I hold onto it as I drag my thumb across the screen to answer.
“Way to keep it in your pants, Maggie,” Dylan barks, his voice sharp enough to cut through my fragile optimism.
Fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I sit up in my bunk, my heart thudding in my chest.
“I sent you out on tour to do a job , not the rockstar.”
“This feels a bit misogynistic,” I counter, my voice laced with misplaced humor. “Did you call Felix and yell at him to keep it in his pants? Maybe he started this whole thing.”
Dylan barks out a laugh, the kind that’s more disbelief than humor. “Come on.”
“Hey! I take offense to that,” I say, though even I’m not entirely convinced. My mind flickers back to the kiss—did I kiss Felix first? Or was it the other way around? The instant replay in my brain is frustratingly inconclusive.
Shaking the thought from my head, I press on. “Besides, we’re not hurting anyone.”
“I beg to differ when the main band walks out on a performance,” he huffs.
“He went back out there and finished,” I argue, but I don’t add the part where he fucked me on the speaker backstage first, although Dylan doesn’t need to know that.
“The damage is already done,” Dylan says, his voice heavy with judgment.
“You weren’t there,” I snap. “The security guards you hired were manhandling me. I couldn’t do my job. They took my camera!”
“And why would they do that?” he asks. He already knows the answer; he just wants to hear me say it.
“Because I forgot my badge,” I admit, the words bitter on my tongue as my heart sinks and that familiar feeling of inadequacy sits heavy in my stomach. “But all they had to do was get Dusty or someone else to vouch for me!” Like last time.
I still forgot it. I still messed up.
Silence stretches between us, the kind that feels like a weight on my chest. I can hear him breathing on the other end, steady and deliberate.
“Is he worth it?” Dylan asks finally, his voice quieter, almost resigned.
Those four little words feel like a punch to the gut.
“Look, it won’t happen again,” I say.
“Let me rephrase,” Dylan says pointedly. “Is. He. Worth. It?”
“I think so,” I answer noncommittally.
“It’s either yes or no, Maggie. There’s no room for maybes here. Your career and his career are on the line.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, but the words feel hollow in my mouth. Deep down, I know he’s right. Felix has so much riding on this tour—building a fanbase, cultivating an image, laying the foundation for his future. Jumping off stage for me, while undeniably hot and romantic, isn’t exactly the impression he should be giving.
“Maggie,” he says, his tone weighted with a mix of disappointment and concern.
“I know what I’m doing,” I insist, though the words feel more like a plea than a declaration.
He doesn’t respond, and I blink back the sting of tears threatening to spill over. Tears of frustration—at myself, at the situation, at the careless mistakes that seem to follow me like a shadow. I’m a distraction and not a welcome one.
The door swings open, and the muted chatter of the crew filters in, breaking the tension. My bunk feels suddenly too small, too suffocating.
“Listen, I gotta go,” I say, my voice tight.
“Yeah, okay,” Dylan replies, but neither of us hangs up right away. The silence between us feels like a fragile truce.
Before I can say ‘love you,’ he hangs up.
“Bonfire in the pit,” Kate calls, her voice breaking through my spiraling thoughts. She’s leaning against the doorway, her hair a wild tangle and an easy smile. “For Dusty’s birthday,” she reminds me.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I reply, forcing energy into my voice. I pack my things into the locker, pausing to check my reflection in the mirror before Kate and the girls swarm to fight over the shower. I can’t shake the overwhelming feeling of dread. Dylan’s gotten inside my head and what I was once so sure about, now I’m questioning.
I’m here for a reason and I feel as though I’ve temporarily lost sight of that. It’s like I take one step forward and then two steps back. It would be fine if I were messing up my own career, but this is Felix’s chance to have everything he ever wanted, and I’ve become the distraction that could tank him.
* * *
I meander from my bus toward what the crew calls “the pit”—a makeshift gathering spot cordoned off in the heart of the buses.
The evening air carries the faint scent of burning wood mingled with the cool summer air. The bonfire crackles ahead, its orange flames dancing vividly against the deep indigo of the encroaching night sky. Most of the crew are here and few of the other bands.
My hands bury themselves deeper into my pockets, but the chill that prickles my skin feels less like the weather and more like the lingering tension from my call with Dylan—or maybe it’s the knowledge that Felix is somewhere close by.
As I near the fire’s warmth, the sound of the familiar strum of a guitar reaches me. The melody is distinctive, achingly so, and a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. I know without hesitation—it’s Felix. The sound is raw, unhurried, and uniquely him, each note coaxing my heartbeat into a frenzy as my chest tightens at the sight of him.
He’s perched lazily on the bench of a weathered picnic table, one long leg propped up on the seat, the other stretched out casually. His fingers glide over the strings of his guitar with a carelessness that belies his precision. His head tilts slightly, the firelight catching the sharp edge of his jaw and the tousled strands of his hair.
Bash sits beside him, tapping out a rhythm on the edge of the table, while Dusty lounges in a camp chair, pizza in hand, nodding along to the music like he’s the king of some private concert. There’s a rare softness to Dusty tonight, a relaxation I haven’t seen before.
Felix sings a few lyrics of a familiar song, his voice low and rich, the words unmistakably directed at me.
He’s worth it.
That’s what I should have told Dylan. But I’m questioning whether I am.
And then Felix’s eyes find mine.
Through the flickering embers that spiral into the night, his gaze locks onto me with a quiet intensity that pulls the air from my lungs. His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile, one that feels like a secret, and then—God help me—a wink. My stomach flips, the knots tightening as he continues to strum, unfaltering. Every part of him radiates ease that I wish I had. Especially since everyone knows about the two of us now.
A sudden burst of movement snaps me out of my reverie. Two little girls with pigtails come barreling into the circle. Dusty sets his pizza down and catches them mid-leap, one in each arm. The conversation around the fire halts as everyone turns curiously to watch this massive, tattooed man, known for his gruffness, be reduced to mush by two giggling toddlers.
I can see his bright white smile through his thick beard. Especially when a stunning woman with caramel waves cascading over her shoulders approaches. “Happy birthday, baby,” she says with a smile. He leans down, still holding his daughters as if they weigh nothing, to give her what looks like a toe-curling kiss.
“Did someone slip me Bash’s magic brownies?” Dex mutters beside me, his voice dripping with exaggerated disbelief. “I think I’m having a bad trip.” Next to me he clutches Bash’s arm dramatically and I try not to let their antics distract me as I dreamily watch Dusty with his family, but it’s being ruined by two annoyingly childish musicians.
“Get it together, man,” Bash deadpans, but his lips twitch with amusement.
“What the fuck is happening right now?” Gunner asks loudly, taking a long sip of his beer, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Correction. Three annoyingly childish musicians.
Dusty whips around, his girls still dangling from his arms. “Hey!” he barks. “Watch the cussing in front of my angels!”
The guys collectively avert their gaze, looking anywhere but at Dusty as he sets the toddlers down.
“Who’s the hottie?” Dex whispers, giving me a nudge with wide eyes.
“That’s his wife, Claire,” I say, giggling as I watch Dusty pull her down in his lap, the two of them in deep conversation as he gestures animatedly with his large hands.
“He’s married?” he asks, startled.
“If you weren’t so scared of him, you might actually have a conversation and learn something. He can’t shut up about how much he misses his wife and daughters,” I tease, smacking his arm lightly.
“Ow!” He rubs his arm. “You’re freakishly strong for a pipsqueak,” he grumbles.
“Or you’re just a wimp,” I shoot back, annoyed.
“And I am not scared of him,” Dex says, rolling his eyes.
I cock an eyebrow.
“Much,” Dex adds. “I mean, have you seen his arms?” He gestures toward Dusty and I giggle.
“If I were you, I’d worry less about his hot wife and more about the ass kicking you’re gonna get for pulling that prank on him,” I remind him.
“You’re a buzzkill, Maggs,” he says with mock disgust.
Across the bonfire, I watch as one of Dusty’s girls reaches out to pluck the strings on Felix’s guitar. The smile on his face is genuine, and he has a patience with her that’s very sweet as he places the guitar in front of her. The guitar is bigger than her and her tiny hand barely wraps around the neck. He tries to position her fingers, and she struggles with the awkward angle.
I can’t hear what she says to him, but he barks out a laugh as his eyes flick over to Dusty, who’s occupied with birthday cake. Felix’s eyes find mine, glinting with amusement as he talks to Dusty’s daughter.
“You thinkin’ up baby names?” Bash jokes, interrupting my spying, and I glare at him.
“Shut up.” I give him a push.
“Hey, watch the arm, I gotta play tomorrow,” he jokes, shaking out his arm while his blonde hair flops over his eyes.
We stand in silence watching as Felix helps the little girl strum the guitar. Then he takes the guitar in hand and starts playing a rock version of a popular nursery rhyme, causing her to giggle wildly.
“I’ve been around a while, and that dude,”—Bash motions toward Felix—“is mad talented. That don’t come around often.”
I scuff the ground with the toe of my high-top. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. What’s your point?”
“You know how much me and the guys love you. You’re mad talented in your own right.”
I scoff, giving him a disbelieving look.
“Serious, Maggs. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. What you’ve done for Velvet Drift wasn’t just for Felix, it was for us too. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”
There’s so much more I’ve done while on this tour than film the band, and it’s nice to know that someone notices.
“You can flatter me all you want, but I’m never going to sleep with you,” I say jokingly and then motion for him to get on with it.
“You’re killin’ me, Maggs,” he laughs, and I knock my shoulder into his playfully. “Hey, all I’m saying is I hope you’re serious about our boy if he’s stopping shows for you.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that.”
He arches his eyebrow and scoffs. “You don’t have to. Would you expect anything less from him?” He shifts his stance, and this is the most serious I’ve ever seen him. “Look, this is the best opportunity we’ve had,” he looks toward Gunner and Dex, who are helping themselves to cake. “There’s more than just yours and Felix’s career riding on the success of this tour.”
Bash’s words land like an arrow that hit a bullseye right in the most vulnerable part of me, causing me to shrink, and I wrap my arms protectively around my middle.
“What happened to being backup dancers?”
Bash looks at me surprised.
“Yeah, I heard that radio interview, you idiots.”
“Hey, I’m happy being a backup dancer, but none of us are getting any younger. This could be our shot,” he explains.
He just pushed the arrow a little bit deeper, and I can feel myself erecting walls, a need to protect myself even though I know he’s right.
“And you’re riding Felix’s coattails to do it?” I scrutinize him.
“Call it whatever you want, but we got his back every night on that stage.”
“Are you saying I haven’t?” I ask, offended.
He doesn’t answer.
“I don’t need this shit from you.”
Bash says something, but I’m already pushing my way through the crowd.