It’s amilliontimes better.
We still have two roadies slash drivers and our brand new manager—Jodie—in our new digs with us, and they’re cool, but beside them, it’s just me and my three band members. It’s the best. There’s more room to sit, the bathroom is fancier—andcleaner—and since there are fewer bunk beds, there’s room fordoublesinstead of the small cots they dared to call beds on the old bus. We all have our own little place to fuck off to when we need to be alone and starfish the shit out of it.
Not that Asher and Ava use theirs to sleep in, since there’s also a small bedroom in the back that they claimed, which makes sense because they’re still a couple. And after three months of them trying to be quiet, and me sleeping with earplugs in, I’m happy they’ve fucked off. Literally. Even though I know Missy’sin the bunk beside mine, and there is a roadie in the one beneath me, when the curtain is closed, I can at least pretend that it’s just me and enjoy some solitude.
Doesn’t mean Mick can’t find me whenever he’s pining for my attention. He’s everywhere, and I can’t outrun him, no matter how hard I try. And I don’t mean physically, because I’m beating his famous ass as we speak.
“Jesus, dick. Can you justtryto slow down?” Mick yells from behind me.
“What? Can’t keep up with the young ones anymore?” I shout over my shoulder.
“Fuck you, I’m only thirty-five.”
I scoff and push harder instead of replying, my feet pounding against the pavement, heart beating in my throat, determined to keep ahead, even if it means leaving Mick in the dust.
Fuck him. The only one that Iwantaccompanying me on these runs is miles away.
I don’t even know where I am right now. Somewhere in Massachusetts, that’s where my topography of this part of North America ends. It’s not too hot in the mornings, which is ideal for running. In Florida last month, I couldn’t go for a run unless I wanted to drown in my sweat. Being on stage there was a bitch as well, but with half a gallon of Gatorade to keep hydrated, we managed.
Lost my favorite shirt at that show, though. I only performed in a pair of shorts, wearing nothing else and still have no clue where it went. But hey, I can buy a new one since it turns out that if a label believes you’re going to be the new it-thing in the biz? They pay well to sign you on.
Not that I’m in this for the money. So far, it’s a nice benefit, but I do this for the very thing that makes meme: the music. For the intoxicating rhythm that pulses through my veins, for the way it speaks to my soul like nothing else can.
The only feeling thatmighttop my love for music is my love for Tyler, my honest-to-godboyfriend. I never expected that I could miss something so much as I miss him. As much as Icravehim, need him, and long for him.
I just never had something to miss like this before.
That’s a reason I’m pushing hard on these runs as well, I have to let itout. The missing, the pining, the overwhelming need sometimes to just say fuck it, fuck this, and fly back to where my heart is.
But I won’t do that. It will not be fair to the band, to us. To him. To me. I know that. He was right. We both have our lifelong dreams we have to follow, and we can make this fit in our lives somehow, some way. We just have totry.
And up til now, we were doing great. But we haven’t seen each other in ages, and it’s coming to a point where IknowI have to makesomethinghappen soon.
Because I can see it in his eyes whenever we FaceTime, how the light has dimmed these past weeks, how his smile wavers more and more. I can even hear it in his broken voice, especially after I called him yesterday with the news that I can’t make his birthday tomorrow.
He might decide that it’s not worth it.
ThatI’mnot worth it.
I can’t have that. If there’s one thing I learned while on this tour, it’s that if I’d have to choose between Ty and the music?
Ty would win.
Hands down.
So, Irun, clear my head, think of solutions, since thereisa solution, I’m sure of it. I just need to work out the details and I do that best when I push myself. Plus, it’s also a perk that dumbass Mick can’t keep up.
Taking pity on the seasoned rock star, I slow down to a walk and shake my arms out when I see the stadium in the distancewhere we have to play tonight, towering over the beautiful, lush green landscape. It’s still early, the sky a gorgeous mixture of pink and blues.
When he has caught up, Mick jumps on the low, stone wall next to the dirt path we’re on, arms out for balance, and walks along it. With his dark hair hidden under the hood of his sweatshirt, he reveals a multitude of tattoos on his hands and fingers, peeking out from under his sleeves. I know that if he’d turn around and pull down the hood, I’d also see them on his neck. As he stumbles and laughs at himself, it’s easy to forget how this moron is actually one of the biggest rock stars alive, a legacy in his own right.
To me, he’s just meddling Mick. But that wasn’t the case at the start of our weird acquaintance. Nope. He might act all nice and cocky and flirty now, to me at least; he was every bit the arrogant ass he’s famous for the first time we met, when me and my band flew in as an emergency opening act to join the tour that had already started and had to get on stage within an hour. Because the flight was delayed and we arrived hours later than we were supposed to, it was a hectic, chaotic mess.
I’ve been on stages before; I’ve performed before. I played in dive bars, at weddings, in gay bars, in normal bars… Even in some of the bigger venues back in the Netherlands.
But the first time I had to go on stage opening for Six of Hearts, in a fucking stadium, I swear I almost vomited right over my shoes.
Mick the Dicklaughedat my discomfort, poked his bandmates and proclaimed way too loud that he would bet a hundred bucks we wouldn’t make it until the end of the set.
