That’s the plan.
“Don’t get in my way,” I warn again without looking at her.
She doesn’t look up either. “You’re not the way I’m taking.”
It should relieve me. It doesn’t. It sits there, same place as the unplayed chord, humming under my ribs like it knows my name.
I turn the guitar face-down on the bench and let my eyes slide shut. Not sleep. Just the performance of it. Outside, the highway unfurls. Inside, Hayden breathes, Mikey taps, Sadie flips another page.
She’s going to be hell. And the worst part? Hell sounds a little like home.
Chapter Two
Sadie
Welcome To The Jungle
Guns n’ Roses
The bunk is eight inches taller than a coffin and only slightly better lit. I’ve slept in worse. I once slept on a concrete floor in Berlin with my backpack for a pillow and a drummer snoring like a chainsaw two feet from my face. Compared to that, a rolling shoebox with clean sheets is a luxury.
Still, my knee pokes the curtain when the bus hits a seam in the road, and the whole tiny cave thrums around me. I blink into the thin glow leaking through the fabric. Someone’s up front, low sounds, fingers on strings. It’s too early for ego and just late enough for ghosts. Of course he broods at sunrise. Probably broods in his sleep, too.
I queue the day in my head before I move. Swap batteries, clear two SD cards, back up last night’s pull, label the folders like a good girl, then ruin the label with content I have no business catching.
“Two months.” My editor texted last night. “We need the soul, not the press-kit smile.” I sent back a thumbs-up and a skull emoji. She sent a black heart. We pretend this is normal.
I slide out of the bunk sideways, feet to the runner, shoulder to the wall so I don’t flash the whole bus. My shirt is yesterday’s, my cutoffs are permanent, and my hair is living its best chaotic life on top of my head. Boots first. Always boots first. My camera waits exactly where I left it, on the lip of the table, cap on, strap coiled, like a well-trained dog.
The guitar stops when I slide open the curtain to the main cabin. I pretend not to notice. I pretend so hard I deserve an award.
Hayden is a lump under a blanket on the bench. Mikey is a hoodie with eyebrows. And Dean, Dean is a long line of “don’t even” back in his corner in the booth, green eyes the color of trouble and rage. He’s got his guitar angled across his lap and his jaw set like he’s trying not to grind it to powder.
On the table, there’s a single paper cup, steam curling out of it. Hot, black coffee. Just how I like it. No note.
“Communal?” I ask the room, because I am a professional and professionals don’t assign meaning to beverages. No one answers. Dean doesn’t look at me. Hayden snores. Mikey pops one eye and smirks like he knows a secret. I take the coffee. I drink the coffee. It tastes like asphalt, but it’s hot. Whatever. I need it.
My phone buzzes against my pocket. I slide it out.
Editor: Day two check-in. Getting anything?
Me: Moody guitarist. Caffeine shortage resolved.
Editor: We love a narrative.
I tuck the phone away and crack my knuckles. Quick wipe on the lens because fingerprints are the devil. The bus takes a long curve and the dawn drags the world into view; pine, fog, a skinny silver river cutting through it like a vein. Seattle by morning. Stage by night. Two months to either make the story or get eaten by it.
I swing my camera up to catch the empty aisle in a wide shot. Blanket, boots, guitar case, coffee cup, a strip of sunlight like a promise. Click. File it under establishing mood and men who think silence hides them.
“You sleep?” Dean asks the window. Not me, the window. This guy doesn’t give an inch.
“Sure.” I scoff. “Like a baby on a rollercoaster.”
He huffs something that could be a laugh, which could also be a fault line shifting. “You’re used to this.”
“I am this,” I clarify. He nods once, like that explains a thing. It does.
We roll into the venue too fast for anyone with a regular day job. Crew drops the stairs. Cold air knifes in and wakes up the rest of my skull. I’m off the bus before words can start a fight. Light first; find where it falls. Then people; see who they are when they think no one’s looking. The truth is rarely centered.
