Chaos

by Jamie Shaw

  I’ve spent the afternoon frustrated, but it was worth it. The fact that we’re a secret makes this thing between us even more fun, makes us even more desperate, and every moment I have with him feels like something I’m stealing for myself.

  “Kit?” Kale’s voice asks in my ear, and I shake my head of thoughts of my morning with Shawn to answer him. I’m sitting on a curb outside of a Bojangles fast-food joint while the guys finish their breakfasts inside, a phone to my ear and my skin melting off.

  “I’m sticky.”

  “Huh?”

  “Georgia,” I grumble, wiping the sweat off my arms and peeling myself from the curb to find the shade of an overhang. “It’s sticky. Seriously, my skin is like goo right now.”

  “Ew.”

  “I look like a melting wax figure. I swear to God, the insides of my ears are sweating.”

  “You’re nasty,” Kale says.

  “I know.” I cradle the phone against my shoulder and flap my arms like a chicken to get some airflow. “Don’t you dare bury me in Georgia. Scrape me off the sidewalk and ship me to Antarctica or something.”

  My brother chuckles, and I lift the back of my oversized band tank to press my back against the shadowed brick of a nearby building, ignoring the judgmental looks I get from passing pedestrians. “So I take it you’re ready to come home this weekend?” he asks.

  My thoughts immediately jump back to Shawn and the way he kissed me in the kitchen this morning. The one morning Adam decided to wake up early, it had to be today. Every damn time Shawn and I start getting too hot, something always happens to hose us down, and I’m not sure if I should be thankful for it or flatten all six tires of the bus.

  “No,” I admit, and then I sigh and start pouring my heart out. “Shawn and I—”

  “Uuuggghhh,” Kale groans. “I knew it! I knew it.”

  I close my eyes behind the dark shades I’m wearing. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get home.”

  It’s not like I haven’t thought about it a million or two million times. I don’t want us to stay a secret forever, but I’m the one who made us one in the first place, by hiding what we were up to in the kitchen from Joel, and Shawn has been content to keep it that way. How will I look if I change my mind now? Needy. Desperate. Pathetic. Shawn hasn’t said what he wants from me, and I’m too scared of disappointment to ask. I’m too scared of having my heart broken. Again.

  “Did he actually ask you out, or is he just using you as a fuck buddy?” Kale asks.

  “We haven’t fucked.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you not know?”

  “I think we’re together,” I say, mostly to appease my brother, because honestly, I’m not sure what I think.

  “You think?”

  I wipe a layer of sweat off my brow. “I think I’m falling for him again.”

  “Bullshit,” Kale says, like I’m his petulant kid sister, which I am. “You love him, and we both know it. You never stopped.”

  My twin says out loud what my heart already knows, and there’s no use denying it anymore. “I thought I was over him.”

  “Yeah,” Kale says as I wipe my clammy hand on my shorts, “because you’re stupid.”

  I slink down against the brick wall until I’m sitting with my knees against my chest. I don’t bother arguing with him, and he doesn’t bother rubbing it in. We both know I’m teetering on the edge of another heartbreak, and we both know I’m going to risk it anyway. Because Shawn has always been worth the risk to me, and these past few weeks have only given me a million more reasons why.

  It’s because he puts honey in Adam’s whiskey before shows to help his voice, and because he tapes a bottle of aspirin above Joel’s bunk when he’s doomed to wake with a hangover. It’s because he makes me smile when he smiles, and makes me laugh when he laughs.

  Getting to know him—really know him—has only made my feelings for him deeper. What I felt for him when I was fifteen is nothing compared to what I feel for him now—now that I know he feels something for me too, even if I don’t know exactly what that something is.

  Kale and I let my confession hang between us, not needing to say anything else because we both know what each other would say. He’d say I need to stop messing with Shawn before I get hurt again. I’d say it’s too late for that. He’d tell me he doesn’t like him. I’d say I know. He’d ask what I plan to do when he does hurt me again. I’d sigh and have no answer to give him.

  “Leti wants me to come out to Mom and Dad,” he says, and I’m thankful for the favor he’s doing me by changing the subject.

  “Of course he does.”

  Leti and Kale really hit it off the night we all went to Out. Even though I texted them to tell them they could sleep on the bus that night before heading home, they never showed up. They partied all night, have talked almost every day since, and have even gone out a few times. I’ve rubbed it in Kale’s face that I told him they’d be perfect together, and he hasn’t denied any of it.

  When he goes as quiet as I had, I ask, “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you know what I think.” I push to my feet as the guys file out of Bojangles, with Adam already lighting a cigarette and Joel already complaining about the heat. Shawn has his cell to his ear, and the look he gives me when he sees the way my ripped white tank is clinging to my skin makes my sunburned cheeks blaze even hotter.

  “I know,” Kale replies. He pauses and then adds, “Kit, no matter what happens with Shawn, you know I’ll always be there for you, right?”

  I never doubted it, not even for a second. “I know. I love you, Kale.”

  “Love you too, sis. Call me if you need me.”

  I join the rest of the guys to walk back to the bus, asking Mike who Shawn is talking to.

  “Van.”

  One word, and I’m nearly tripping over my combat boots. The guys give me weird looks, and I blame an imaginary crack in the sidewalk.

  Van Erickson, a name so big that the surname is optional. He’s the lead singer of Cutting the Line, one of the most popular bands around right now. I scored tickets to one of their shows last year, and even though my friend and I showed up three hours early, we still ended up being far, far back in line, and then right in the middle of the pit. I got clobbered, but it was one of the best shows of my life. Every single person there that night knew every single word to every single song, and we all screamed them at the tops of our lungs, hands in the air and chaos in our veins.

  I shamelessly eavesdrop on Shawn while Adam, Joel, and Mike joke and carry on—like having Van Erickson on the other line is no big deal—but I barely catch the tail end of the conversation before Shawn hangs up and goes into business mode.

  “Change of plans,” he says. “We’re heading back to Nashville.”

  “When?” Adam asks between puffs of his cigarette.

  “Now.”

  Shawn’s ear is back to the phone in no time, and I manage to get only short answers from him while he simultaneously talks to Driver.

  Apparently, Cutting the Line’s opening band came down with a nasty bug that’s putting them out of commission, and Van wanted to give us first dibs on filling in. Shawn said yes, and in a few hours, I’m going to be opening for Cutting. The freaking. Line.

  WHEN WE GET back to the buses, the engines are already running. Driver pulls out of the parking spot practically as soon as the last man’s foot leaves the ground, and then we’re on the highway toward Nashville.

  Joel chuckles as I pour myself a Red Bull and sip it while staring absently at the kitchen wall. “You nervous or something?”

  My eyes drift to him, and I realize I’m as white as the T-shirt he’s wearing. “Aren’t you?”

  He shakes his head and sits on the tabletop. “I’ve played with them before.”

  “You’ve played with Cutting the Line?”

  “Th
eir bass player drank way too much at Manifest,” he explains.

  I would’ve sold every last inch of my hair to go to that festival last spring, but tickets sold out before I could get my hands on any. “What was it like?”

  “Loud.” His devilish grin gives me chills that stay with me the whole way to Nashville, and when we pull up to the venue, my eyes go wide in a window of the bus. The line for the show tonight stretches for blocks and blocks, kids with dyed hair and piercings and T-shirts even more faded than mine. I swallow thickly and peel my eyes from the window when Shawn sits next to me on my bunk.

  “There’s only one thing you have to remember,” he coaches. He’s dressed for the show, in exactly what he wore this morning—faded, ripped jeans and a vintage Nirvana shirt.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re the best damn rhythm guitarist these kids have ever seen.” He smiles softly at the look of doubt I give him and tucks my hair behind my ear before standing up to walk to the front of the bus.

  “Shawn,” I call after him, standing up and facing him in the aisle. “How do I look?”

  I’m wearing a cute black bra that’s peeking out through one of Dee’s creations—a cut-up purple top that hugs where it should hug and drapes where it should drape. It matches the highlights in my hair and sports a Photoshopped image of Marilyn Monroe on the front. She’s complete with heavy makeup and tattoos, both hands in the “rock on” symbol, looking just as badass as I hope I do. My legs are snug in shredded black skinny jeans, and my combat boots are laced up tight.

  Shawn’s green eyes scan over me before he steps in close. We’re alone between the privacy curtains, and when he kisses me, it makes me forget. I don’t care about Van, or performing, or who might walk in on us. I only care about how warm his mouth is, how good he tastes—like dark-roasted coffee and sugar.

  He pulls away first, my heart pounding hard when he purrs low in my ear, “You look like trouble.”

  BY THE TIME I exit the bus, a second road crew is already outside helping ours rush things inside. Adam immediately lights a cigarette since he’s banned from smoking on the bus—even though half the time he does it anyway—and Mike stretches his arms toward the sky, growling a tired groan. When Shawn finishes shouting at the new road crew to be careful with our stuff, the rest of us follow him inside.

  Seeing Van Erickson onstage—looking like a rock god in black jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, and a studded belt that’s hanging loose at the end—makes me feel two inches tall. He hops off the stage and immediately starts walking toward us, even his confident stride screaming “rock star.” His hair is black, shaggy, and dyed red at the tips, and he has tattoos crawling up both arms. His grin is completely confident as he approaches the guys of my band. His eyes scan over Shawn, Adam, Joel, Mike, and then they rake over me from head to toe. He smirks and then claps hands with Adam and Shawn, pulling each into a guy-hug.

  “Owe you one,” he tells Shawn.

  “You’re up to like five now,” Shawn corrects, and Van laughs as he pulls away and hugs the rest of the guys too. When he gets to me, instead of a hug, he takes both of my hands and stretches them away from my sides so he can get a good look at me.

  “Damn. You’re the new guitarist?”

  If any other guy was inspecting me like he is—like I’m a juicy piece of Grade A meat—I’d yank my hands away and probably knee him where it counts. But because he’s Van Erickson, because he’s one of my idols, I just stand there with my tongue tied in my sandpaper mouth. “Kit,” I finally rasp in a single quick syllable.

  Van smirks and lets my hands fall back to my sides. His arm wraps around my shoulder, and he turns to face the guys.

  Shawn is watching me closely, and I suddenly realize that I’m standing there with Van’s arm around me, like I’m his property, like I’m a fucking groupie. My cheeks redden, and Van’s implication is barely veiled when he glances at me one last time before saying to the guys, “You’re sticking around after the show tonight, right?”

  He’s asking if I’m sticking around after the show—me, the girl with her bra mostly showing; me, the girl who just let him inspect her like a cut of prime rib; me, the sure thing.

  In a moment of absolute insanity, I lift my hand to my mouth . . .

  I suck on the tip of my finger . . .

  I shove it right in Van Erickson’s ear.

  In an instant, his arm is flying from my shoulder and he’s jumping out of reach, hollering at the top of his lungs, “What the fuck!”

  A heartbeat of silence, and then every single one of my bandmates is laughing his ass off—loud, probably loud enough for the kids to hear outside—while I just stand there with an oh-my-fucking-God look on my face.

  Did I seriously just give VAN ERICKSON a wet willy?

  Oh my God. Yes. I just gave Van Erickson a wet-freaking-willy.

  “Why’d you do that!” he shouts at me.

  With my eyes still wide, I simply say, “It seemed like the thing to do . . . ”

  “It seemed, it seemed—” Van is stuttering his ass off, which only makes the guys laugh even harder. Mike grips his side as his laughter echoes off the walls of the venue. Shawn and Adam are cracking up so hard they’re crying. Van stops stuttering to gape at me and say, “You’re fucking crazy!”

  Mike howls, and I just nod. “A little . . . But I play good guitar.”

  “You—” Van cuts himself off as his brows pinch together. He studies me for a long, long moment, before his expression softens and he shakes his head. “You play good guitar,” he repeats, like it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard, and then he laughs a little. When his face cracks into a smile, I manage a cautious one back. “Okay, Kit. You play good guitar? Let’s hear you play guitar.”

  DOING A SOUNDCHECK with Van Erickson and his band watching is even more nerve-racking than playing a full set for a sold-out venue, but I’m the only one who seems to think so. It isn’t until Adam starts belting out lyrics to Donna Lewis’s “I Love You Always Forever” that I have no choice but to loosen up. I can’t help laughing along with everyone else, and when Joel accidentally snorts, I have to let my guitar hang loose from my neck because I’m laughing too hard to support it.

  With a crowd this big, here to see a band as popular as Cutting the Line, the opening act can go one way or another. The audience can like our sound and we can gain new fans, or they can get impatient and float in the pit like dead fish in the sea.

  The first song, we get mostly dead fish. A few kids know us and sing along, but most are just biding time until Van takes the stage. Then comes some banter, during which Adam introduces our band, gives our names, tells where we’re from. He explains what happened to the scheduled opening act, and then he and Shawn joke back and forth about rushing four hours to get here to give the kids a show. They tell the entire crowd about my wet willy incident, teasing me about it until the crowd is cheering loudly and my cheeks are burning red.

  By our third song, we’ve completely won them over. Everyone is jumping in place, hands in the air, screaming their heads off at the end of each song—and even though most of them don’t know the lyrics to our stuff at first, by the third time Adam sings the chorus, new fans are singing along with him.

  Song after song, we convert them, and at the end of our set, Adam makes them go crazy. “ARE YOU READY FOR CUTTING THE LINE?”

  The crowd cheers for the headlining band and for the kick-ass performance we put on, and I practically bounce off the stage, high off the show and for a chance to see Cutting the Line—from right backstage. A year ago, I would’ve killed for this, and now, this is my life.

  Van’s band is heavier than ours, with his backup singer growling hardcore lyrics into the microphone and Van’s voice assaulting all sides of the room. The girls in the front row are showing even more skin than Adam’s groupies do, considering they all have breast implants that are about five sizes too big. I wonder if that will be us someday, staring down at G-cup tits and pl
aying to a room this big.

  When Shawn’s hand discreetly sneaks into my back pocket and gives my ass a squeeze, I don’t risk acknowledging him. The guys and I are all standing in a line just offstage, and he’s using the leverage of my pocket to coax me closer to his side. I pin my bottom lip between my teeth as he teases me, and then, when I can’t take any more tempting or I’m seriously going to mount him where he stands, I slip my hand in the back of his T-shirt and rake my fingernails down his lower back.

  Shawn’s hand stops moving, and then we’re both just standing there tortured. We were supposed to have today off, and I’d planned on sneaking away with him to a Laundromat or something, but instead, I’m stuck with his hand in my pocket and not a damn thing I can do about it.

  When he gives me a look, I give him one back, and I realize what he’s seeing—me, with my big black eyes, staring up at him with a pouty bottom lip bitten between my teeth. He frees his hand from my pocket like he’s considering using it to haul me somewhere private, but then he rakes it over his scalp and strangles his hair between his fingers.

  The corner of my mouth kicks up into a satisfied little smirk at how frazzled he is, and he immediately pulls his phone from his pocket, typing something out before mine buzzes in my jeans.

  If you don’t want to be dragged back to the bus, you have to stop.

  You started it.

  Let’s finish it.

  I peek up at the promising expression on his face, my blood flashing white-hot before I turn my attention back to my phone. The desire to go with him is so, so strong. For the past few weeks, all I’ve wanted is half a damn hour of privacy so I could see if fitting together with him would feel as good as I remember.

  But what happens after? What happens when that half hour is up? What happens when we get home?

  “We’re going to Van’s hotel party after this, right?” Adam asks, giving me a much-needed excuse to tuck away my phone before I type something stupid—like, “Can we talk about our feelings first?”