? No One Knows - Queens of the Stone Age ?
Iset my phone on the table between us, the soft hum of the refrigerator behind me and the sound of George humming along every so often to whatever song is playing through his speakers up front providing the background noise I’ve come to appreciate in these quiet moments on the road.
The shows have been some of the best I’ve ever been to, each night bringing something new. I’ve grown closer to Josh, Max, and Kevin while hanging out in the greenroom before the show starts. Dani, Kate, and I spend every night together talking and getting ready and then standing in front of the sound booth on the floor, dancing like idiots and screaming lyrics at the top of our lungs.
I’m “in” on the little things they do. Like when they switch the set list around mid-show, it’s usually just to mess with the lighting guys to see if they can keep up with the order change.
Or when they put “Breathe” into the setlist, it’s to give Josh’s voice a break. The last minute and forty-three seconds of the song is a heavy instrumental, and he’s able to duck away behind Eric’s kit and take a breather or a few swigs of hot tea from his thermos while Eric, Max, and Kevin work the crowd.
But it’s these quieter moments I’ve come to cherish, too. The moments when the beautiful mystery sitting in front of me lets his guard down and trusts me enough to let me in.
I watch him take a sip of coffee and his eyes meet mine over the rim of the mug. I smile, thinking back to a few nights ago at the hotel when I could have let him win so he could kiss me. Hell, I probably wanted it more than he did, but the logical side of my brain won out, and I knew I couldn’t let it happen.
At least not yet.
He admitted he’d been dying to kiss me since that night we had together, and if it were true, then he could wait. If he still wanted me at the end of this tour, then it would be all the proof I needed to know that he wasn’t looking for another one-night stand. No man in his right mind would give chase for six months just for one night. If he wanted one night, he could find it along the way with someone else. If he wanted more, then he could have it.
“What’s that smile for?” he asks, a smile of his own appearing on his face, revealing those dimples I love so much.
“I could ask you the same question,” I say, deflecting.
“I can’t seem to help myself. You smile, I smile,” he says, shrugging.
My heart squeezes in my chest, and I look away and out the window to the familiar mountains of the east coast as we make our way south to the next stop on the tour.
I lean forward to tap record on my app before settling back into my seat, pulling my legs under me.
“So,” I say, forcing my focus back to the job I’m here to do. “You started playing shows around Dallas?”
“Yeah,” he says, setting his coffee mug down onto the table. “Since they’d already established themselves, we were already playing pretty large venues and outdoor festivals when I joined in.”
“How did you feel during that time? Was it nerve-wracking to go from playing smaller venues with whoever you had been playing with to doing festivals?”
“The first one was, but after that, no, not really,” he says, shrugging. “It’s like I said opening night…sitting up there is the only time I feel truly relaxed. I know it’s an odd thing to say—the idea of being in front of large crowds tends to freak most people out—but it’s never been the case for me.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He laughs and scratches the back of his neck.
“Because I’m fucking good.” He says it so confidently that I can’t help but smile. “I might not be good at much of anything else, but I know I’m good at this. I’ve always known. And maybe saying it like that makes me an asshole, but I don’t care. It’s true.”
“It doesn’t make you an asshole,” I say, chuckling. “You’re confident, not cocky. There’s a difference.”
And it’s true. Watching Eric behind his kit is almost like watching a storm—unpredictable but undeniably captivating—and in the midst of all that chaos, he’s calm, collected, and completely at ease. His confidence doesn’t come from a cocky arrogance; it comes from the quiet knowledge that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
There’s a certain fluidity to the way he moves, as if his body is entirely in sync with the beat. His hands, quick and sure, become a blur against the skins and cymbals, but somehow every strike is precise—perfect timing in every hit.
When he’s on stage, he doesn’t just play the drums, he commands them. Coaxing sounds out of them like they’re extensions of himself. His entire body sways with the rhythm, every movement purposeful but effortless, as if he’s having a private conversation with the music and we’re all lucky enough to be overhearing it.
He has this quiet intensity, like he doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, yet he somehow makes you feel like he’s the only one who matters in that moment. And even though he’s in the background, it’s impossible to keep your eyes off him. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no second-guessing. He knows exactly how powerful his presence is and embraces it fully.
The King, indeed.
“So,” I say, trying once again to focus. “When did things change for you? What would you say was your ‘big break’?”
Eric takes another sip of his coffee, his eyes flicking to the window as if he can see the past unfolding in front of him, and he smiles. “Probably the day we found out we were going on tour.” His voice has dropped lower, almost reverent, and I can feel the change in the air, like the gravity around us has shifted just slightly, pulling everything toward that moment. “That’s wheneverythingchanged.”
TRACK 2
