34. Kid, Time to Go
34
KID, TIME TO GO
FELIX
Slow it Down By Benson Boone
T he crew is already dismantling the stage, the clatter of equipment being loaded onto the bus echoing in the vast parking lot. “Felix, you coming?” Gunner’s voice cuts through the noise, his figure silhouetted against the bus’s open door. I’ve been riding with the guys during day trips to allow us to work on songs.
I scan the area, but Maggie’s nowhere in sight. We’ve made a habit of riding together since our relationship became public knowledge. She’s always running late, but this is really cutting it close.
Across the expanse of asphalt, I spot her, a solitary figure drifting toward her bus. What the hell? A surge of confusion propels me forward. I intercept her just as she’s about to climb aboard.
“Hey, everything alright?” My voice betrays a hint of worry.
She startles, her gaze lifting from the ground. “Hey,” she replies.
“I thought we were riding together?”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to get edits to Dylan and put together some clips for my agent.”
“Oh?” I step closer, my brow furrowing in confusion. “You can work on my bus. I won’t bother you—much,” I tease, nudging her with a smirk.
She tilts her head, skepticism dancing in her eyes. “My laptop and everything is on my bus, and I’m behind. You know how the boys are. I won’t be able to concentrate.”
“Come on, they’re not that bad,” I argue, but her expression remains unconvinced.
“Last time, Dex took out a window with the Nerf football,” she retorts, planting a hand on her hip.
“Who knew he had such a good arm? I’ll keep them in line,” I promise.
I offer her a smile, but inside, I’m wrestling with the fear of being a clingy boyfriend. If she needs space, I need to respect that. “Are you sure that’s all?” I probe.
“It’s just stress. I’ve never had this kind of pressure before,” she confesses, her vulnerability striking a chord. Maggie’s not one to admit defeat easily.
I run a hand through my hair, the thought of not riding with her leaving a bitter taste. But I understand the demands on her and truthfully, I need to be more focused as well.
She grabs my shoulders, her touch firm yet gentle. “You should work on your songs on the ride to Sioux Falls. We’ll see each other before your show,” she suggests, her smile finally reaching her eyes.
I gather her in my arms, kissing her deeply. Her arms encircle my neck, holding me with a desperation that speaks volumes. The intensity of her kiss tells me she’s savoring this moment, perhaps as much as I am.
“Get your fucking ass on the bus or we’re leaving without you!” Dusty’s distant bellow breaks our embrace. I lift my eyes skyward, seeking divine intervention that never comes.
Maggie chuckles, her hand giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll see you at the show."
I pull her in for one last hug.
“I’m not fucking around,” Dusty’s voice grows louder, and the sound of the bus gearing up sends me hurrying away.
I pause at the bus steps, casting a longing glance back, but Maggie’s already disappeared. My heart sinks, and Dusty slams the door shut, missing my ass by mere centimeters.
I make my way down the aisle, the bus lurching away from the venue.
Dex waves me over, a new Nerf football cradled in his hand. “I’ll let you be quarterback this time.”
I sneer and shake my head. “Does Dusty know you have that?”
Dex’s face falls, and he glances nervously toward the driver’s compartment. “No, and don’t be a snitch.”
Dex tries to throw the ball but it doesn’t move. “What the fuck?” he shakes his hand but the Nerf ball stays fastened to his palm.
Bash starts shaking with laughter. “That’s for the fucking glitter in my hair.”
“You fucker!” Dex hollers, and Bash ducks as he throws a shoe at him with his other hand. “How am I gonna play the drums?”
Bash gets a sheepish look on his face. “I didn’t think of that,” he admits.
“Really Bash?” I shake my head, annoyed. “He better be able to fucking play at the show tonight.”
“Relax, we’ll get one of the girls to let us use some nail polish remover, that shit works on everything.”
“Better fucking work,” Dex hollers, still struggling to get the Nerf ball out of his hand.
I shake my head trying to ignore the chaos and pull out my notebook, the words refusing to come as the memory of Maggie’s kiss lingers on my lips.
“Where’s Maggie?” Gunner plops down on the seat in front of me.
“She had work to do,” I reply, my gaze lifting from the blank pages.
“Oh?”
“What does that mean?” I challenge, my glare meeting his innocent facade.
“Nothing,” he says, quickly backtracking under my scrutiny.
“Like she could get any work done with this shit going on,” I retort, gesturing to Dex, who has the Nerf ball between his thighs, pulling hard while Bash snickers.
* * *
I cast a look over my shoulder at the line of buses pulling up behind us. The crew disembarks in a steady stream, and it’s then that I notice Maggie’s absence.
Gunner tugs at my sleeve. I follow his gaze to a cluster of fans beyond the barricade, their anticipation a tangible energy. Despite the security’s irritation, we move toward the fans, our steps quickening. The group, a mix of teen boys and girls, radiates excitement, their faces alight with awe as we approach.
“You’re Velvet Drift!” one of them exclaims, the words bursting from them like a secret revealed.
“Can we get an autograph? From all of you?” a girl with bright eyes inquires, her voice trembling with hope.
I exchange glances with the band, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. This is new, this recognition of us as a collective, not just me as the frontman. A smile tugs at my lips as I take a proffered sharpie.
We sign posters, our names scrawled in bold strokes, and pose for pictures, arms slung around shoulders in a familiar dance. They tell us they’ve driven from Norfolk, Nebraska, which is a long way from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, their dedication a testament to our growing fame.
“Are you coming to the show tonight?” I ask.
“No, we couldn’t afford tickets,” the girl confesses, her enthusiasm waning.
I grab hold of Dex. “We need to get them tickets. Call Dusty.”
I turn back to the group, their anticipation hanging in the air. “You can’t come all this way and not see the show.”
“Oh my God!” Their reaction is instantaneous, a cacophony of screams and joyful jumps, their happiness infectious. The simple act of generosity, a mere flick of my wrist, transforms their day, their trip. It’s a potent reminder of the power we wield, the impact of our actions.
Dusty makes his way through the four of us and hands each of them a lanyard with VIP passes. He gives me an approving nod.
“I hope you enjoy the show,” I say, a warmth spreading through my chest as I watch their reactions.
“Thank you! We love you guys so much!” Their voices follow us as Dusty ushers us inside.
We’re whisked away for soundcheck, an interview, and a VIP meet and greet, the hours slipping by in a blur of activity. As we wait backstage, the familiar itch of anticipation crawling up my spine, I finally spot Maggie. Her camera, a constant companion, hangs from her shoulder, and seeing her brings an instant sense of calm. It’s been a constant this whole tour and I didn’t realize it until now.
She smiles as I approach, her eyes lighting up in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Hey, Sass. I missed you,” I murmur.
Her camera, a physical barrier between us, prevents the kiss I crave.
“Did you get a lot of work done?” I ask, trying to ignore the cold press of the camera against my chest.
“Not as much as I wanted,” she admits, her gaze dropping to the camera in her hands.
“You’re on,” Dusty’s voice cuts through the moment.
I steal a kiss, the brief contact a tease of what I truly want. “See you after the show,” I say, but her expression gives me pause. “What?” I ask, concern threading through my voice.
“Kid, time to go.”
Maggie’s touch on my cheek is gentle, her eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. “I’m gonna stay on my bus tonight,” she says, her voice barely a whisper above the din.
“I haven’t seen you all day,” I protest.
“I know, I’m sorry. I still have so much stuff to do,” she says, her words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s fine. We’re fine,” she insists, but her eyes betray her words. “I’ll see you when we get to Denver,” she says, a promise or perhaps a plea for understanding.
With a final touch, she’s gone, and I’m pulled into the whirlwind of the stage, the weight of the guitar in my hands no longer that familiar comfort. As I step into the spotlight, the roar of the crowd a thunderous welcome, I can’t shake the feeling of something vital slipping through my fingers.