“What?” Clayton asked, standing up. Then his lips curled into a slow grin. “Let the games begin.”
Ruth looked between them, still confused. “What happened?”
Clayton bent down, grabbed a bright red balloon from under the bunk, and smirked. “Looks like someone pulled a prank.” With dramatic sweeps he yanked back the curtains, revealing hundreds of balloons crammed into every bunk, a chaotic rainbow.
“Your band?” Jamie chuckled, nodding in approval. “That’s a pretty good prank.”
Ruth opened the bathroom door and more balloons floated out.
Clayton sighed and said, “We’ve got to get them back.”
During the drive to Birmingham they brainstormed practical jokes—discarding those that were either too cruel or too risky. When Clayton’s band finally arrived at the venue they were in for an unexpected shock.
When they pulled up to the venue, Jamie couldn’t wait to get out. A prank was already planned for that night and she was determined to kick it off. Although Clayton had offered to go first, she insisted if she wanted to be accepted by the guys the first practical joke had to come from her.
“Where are you headed?” Clayton asked.
“I’m off to see the guitar tech on Mr. White,” Jamie replied.
“Mr. White?” he echoed.
Jamie nodded. “I’ve named the buses Mr. White and Mr. Blue, and our bus is Mr. Black.”
“Why those names?”
“Haven’t you ever seen Reservoir Dogs?”
“No,” he admitted.
The answer didn’t surprise her.
Stepping off the bus Jamie made her way toward Mr. White parked by the curb. After knocking on the door the driver opened it—a face that seemed vaguely familiar, leaving her to wonder if he’d ever driven on one of her tours.
“I’m Jamie,” she said, extending her hand.
He shook it and replied, “Russ.”
She hesitated. “Do I know you?”
“No, I’m Gus’s brother. We look alike.”
“Funny—you and your brother both have names that rhyme with ‘bus’?” she teased.
“Occupational hazard,” he replied with a chuckle. “Are you looking for someone? Buddy’s inside the venue.”
Jamie nodded. “I’m here for the guitar tech.”
Russ pointed toward the back of the bus. “Oh, Deaner. I think he’s stringing up some guitars.”
They were only three hours into their tour and the bus already reeked. She recognized the familiar stench of body odor—one she’d grown accustomed to from living with AJ, who only showered when he had a date, whether with a woman or for a court appearance. Moreover the cigarette smoke was even more overpowering than that of a casino, a consequence of the cramped space and lack of ventilation aside from the windows.
“Dean?” She walked to the back and noticed their bus slept ten to Clayton’s six—and it was in much worse shape.
“Yeah?” a man with his long hair tied in a ponytail replied.
“I’m Jamie.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, pausing his work on an acoustic guitar as he extended his hand. “Deaner.”
