? Life Is A Highway – Tom Cochrane ?
We were somewhere in the middle of nowhere, the RV bumping along the highway like it was trying to shake us loose. The windows were cracked, but even the cool night air didn’t help much against the smell of beer, sweat, and the remnants of whatever fast food we’d eaten after the show hours before. It was the kind of smell that clung to you after a show, but it was worse in the closed quarters of the RV. Tour life was new—messy, chaotic, and a little bit disgusting—but fuck, I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Josh was up front, playing DJ and cranking some classic rock through the RV’s speakers. I was lying on the couch with my feet on the table, staring up at the ceiling and trying to relax, but I was having one of those nights where it was hard to shake the feeling that we weren’t really safe. Like at any moment I would hear the sickening sound of metal crashing against metal, our world falling apart as we careened off theroad. I know I was paranoid, but sometimes it was hard not to be.
It’s strange, how much time you spend thinking about everything when you’re on the road.
I can’t really remember when it all started to feel real. Maybe after Chicago, when we stepped out on stage and the crowd screamed louder than ever. That night, I was so wired I could barely sleep. We were a few shows deep at that point, but it wasn’t until then that the adrenaline really kicked in and I realized this might not be a one tour thing for us.
It was also starting to feel more like a job. Don’t get me wrong, it was still fucking awesome to be out there, but when you’re in an RV for sixteen hours straight, moving from one city to the next, it starts to take its toll.
You also get to know your bandmates in ways you never expected.
Josh, for example. When we’re on stage, he owns the room. He has this intense presence that you can’t ignore. But when we’re off stage, he’s the most laid-back man I’ve ever met. Nothing, absolutelynothing, rattles that guy. He’s the human equivalent of a golden retriever. He was always the one who kept the atmosphere light. He’d joke about anything, never took things too seriously, and had a knack for knowing exactly what to say when someone was about to crack.
Kevin, on the other hand, was the quiet one. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was usually something profound. I’d noticed that he was starting to become more withdrawn. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe he missed his wife more than he let on, or maybe it was the tension between all of us. We were getting along fine, but being in a small space for weeks on end with four dudes can start to wear on you. But, like Josh, he never complained.
Max was the wildcard. He was the one who got us into the afterparties or convinced a group of girls to join us for drinks after a show. He was the one who turned a bad night into a good one, and a good night into a fucking great one.
The night of our last show in Denver was a perfect example. We’d played our hearts out, and the crowd was super energetic. After the show, we ended up at some dive bar Max found where the drinks were cheap, and the women were easy. That’s when I met the first woman I’d slept with on the road. I don’t know her name (that part of the night was kind of a blur), but she was hot as hell. Dressed in a black leather jacket, tight jeans, and these stiletto boots that looked like they could cut a man in half.
I hadn’t been interested in anyone for a while, but there was something about her. Maybe it was the way she leaned in close when she talked, or the way she laughed like she knew something I didn’t. Either way, I didn’t care. We hooked up after a few too many shots and a dance that felt more like foreplay.
It wasn’t anything special, just a one-night thing. But the next morning, as I woke up to the smell of her perfume and cigarette smoke, I realized how much of this life was just that—one-night stands, one city, one show. We weren’t really building anything long-term. Just going through the motions, trying to keep our momentum up until the tour ended. Completely unsure if we were going to make it big or go back to playing local shows.
Josh seemed to think we would. He was always talking about how this was finally our time, like he knew something we didn’t. I don’t know if I believed him in the moment, but the idea was seductive. Iwantedto believe it. I wanted to feel like we were more than just some random band who got luckybeing invited to tour with a big name like Waves Apart. But I also knew the reality of this life. It was a grind. And for every high moment we had on stage, there was an equally low moment waiting for us somewhere off stage.
Then there were these moments. The little ones. The ones when we’d all sit together after the show, cracking open beers, talking shit, laughing about some dumb thing one of us did. Not that I didn’t appreciate the fuck out of the nights that I spent tangled up in a hotel bed with a beautiful woman, but those little moments crammed into an RV with the guys always meant more.
The road, as chaotic and unstable as it was, had this way of bringing us together. None of us were related by blood, but the road made us a family anyway, bonding us closer than blood ever could because we chose each other. We chose to do this—to keep doing it—together.
****
Halfway through the tour, we’d gotten word that our latest single, “Chaos,” had entered the charts at number forty-seven. Charting at all was a big deal, but charting for the first time in the top fifty? We were on Cloud fucking Nine.
Combine that with the fact that the people who had seen us so far on the tour were hyping us up on social media and our follower counts were climbing, which lead to us being recognized while we were out and about exploring the cities we were touring in. Most people were cool as hell, but we did have a few run-ins with people who were super pushy about photos or autographs (Josh literally had someone follow him into a stall in a restroom) or gave us bad vibes (people following us down the street or trying to grope us).
We had to get lawyers involved to help us take down a website that contained incredibly personal information. It listed our full names, addresses, phone numbers, the license plate numbers of all of our tour vehicles, and what hotels we were staying in when we arrived at each city.
After my first encounter with a fan who rubbed her hand over my dick through my jeans while I was signing an autograph, I vowed to deepen my commitment to advocating for victims of sexual harassment. I’d always identified as a feminist, but being in a situation like that firsthand opened my eyes to how powerless one can feel when someone else decides to take control over their body. No one—regardless of gender—deserves to be touched without their consent, and “no” absolutely fucking means no.
That woman’s name was the first of many we had to add to a blacklist—a list of people who were banned from meet and greets or coming backstage. We shared that list with other people in the industry so they could be aware of who had caused problems and why they were blacklisted. The last thing I wanted was for someone else to find themselves in a similar situation.
We’d just come off the stage in Miami after playing to our first sold-out crowd when Max suggested we head out to some club across town. I wasn’t usually one for the club scene, but the adrenaline of the show had me agreeing faster than I normally would have.
The bassline of the latest track on the speakers reverberated through my chest, a familiar thrum that felt both surreal and exhilarating on a night like tonight. We were sitting in VIP on low leather couches, white linen draped across the tables in front of us, and bottles of champagne setout for the taking, watching the crowd as the lights flashed in time with the beat of the music.
That night, I didn’t want to think about anything except what was right in front of me. And right in front of me were a couple of women who had been eyeing us from the bar ever since we stepped into VIP. They were clearly interested and there was a certain level of confidence in the way they carried themselves. They weren’t like the usual groupies who hovered around the stage after a show. These women didn’t need to make it obvious they wanted attention—they already had it.
I caught one of them looking over her shoulder again, her lips curling into a half-smile when our eyes met. She had dark, curly hair that fell in waves down her back, a form-fitting dress that shimmered under the lights, and eyes that seemed to see right through me. The other woman, a blonde with piercing green eyes, was leaning in close to her, whispering something, her gaze flicking between us and back to her friend.
“You going to make a move, or do I have to handle this?” Josh asked, nudging me.
I smirked and shook my head. “You can handle it if you want, but don’t expect me to rescue you if you screw it up.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll let The King work his magic.”
I stood from the couch and placed my arms on the railing in front of me, resting my weight on my forearms as I studied the women at the bar. The brunette looked back up and then away again, before turning and facing me fully. I smiled and she smiled back before pulling the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. I nodded my head to the stairs leading up to VIP, and she nodded once before grabbing her friend and heading away from the bar and tothe stairs.
