by Jean Haus
“What’s going on?”
He lifts a brow at me and tilts his head toward the window. “You haven’t noticed the lack of speed?”
I glance out at the bumper-to-bumper traffic around us, and realize that we’re moving at the pace of a turtle. I shake my head. “Guess I was too absorbed in my work.” When Justin paces past me to the end of the bus for the second time, the implications hit me. “Are we going to make the show?”
Sam shrugs, then yawns. “Not sure, but there’s not much we can do now, is there?”
Ignoring his nonchalance, I do the math. We left Michigan yesterday at one. Even with a long stop for gas, we must have done ten hours yesterday. The trip to Denver takes eighteen hours. We were supposed to get there at four o’clock, which would have given the band three hours to do sound checks and get ready before going onstage at seven. I glance at the time on my phone. Three o’clock. Denver has to be hours away, because the landscape around us is rolling hills. Out the front window, the mountains are visible in the distance, but getting to them might take forever.
Romeo glances out the window and swears. I shut my laptop. I’m guessing he’s not going to be interested in checking the post right now. Sam goes back to his book. Justin continues pacing. Feeling a little anxious, I head to the back room and put away my computer. The bus comes to a complete stop and someone up front yells out, “Fuck!”
Sitting on the couch, I use my phone to check our distance from Denver. According to the map, the journey there should take a little less than two hours. I glance out the window. The horrendous traffic could easily eat up the next two hours. Whoever made this schedule is an idiot. It doesn’t allow much time for error.
The bus doesn’t move. I look at my phone again, glance out the window, and then clench and unclench my hands repeatedly. There’s nothing else to do.
Sam comes into the back room. He nods toward the TV and puts his book on the table. “Mind if I watch? Gabe’s couch drumming and the nonstop bitching up front is getting on my nerves.”
“Be my guest,” I say, shaking my head. How can he be so calm? This is their first show. “This really isn’t fazing you?”
“Nothing I can do. I can’t worry about everything in life,” he says absently, grabbing the remote and starting to flick through channels. He props his feet on the table, next to his book. I glance at the cover: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It must be funny, because I faintly recall that Sam used to carry around books, even at parties, and they were always humorous. He would read lines to me from them. Sometimes I would get the humor; other times I just laughed at the goofy way he read the lines. I’m suddenly annoyed that the only side of him I ever see is the grumpy one. The fun-loving side of him seems to be gone.
“What do you have to worry about?” I ask, ticking off the options in my head. Getting laid? Partying? Maybe grades?
“You still interviewing, Ms. Couric?” he asks snidely.
Yup. He’s nothing but a total jerk when he’s around me. Twisting away from him, I check my phone. We haven’t moved much.
Sam keeps flicking through channels.
I watch too. Well, kind of. Mainly I’m trying to understand his indifference. I’m betting his demanding girlfriend sucks all the energy for worrying out of him.
An hour passes with me checking my phone and glancing at the latest channel Sam has landed on. The bus alternates between a stop and a crawl, once in a while rolling forward suddenly in a spurt. As it nears five o’clock, we’re a little less than an hour away. We could make it. Like minutes prior to seven.
Sam gets a call and within seconds, he’s arguing again about trust.
Feeling as if I’m unintentionally eavesdropping on his dysfunctional relationship, I decide to get ready for the show. My suitcase is under the bus, and my backpack has a limited wardrobe, but there’s not going to be enough time to unload the suitcases, which are behind the instruments, before showtime. I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.
In the bathroom, I drag on a pair of low-riding jeans and a Clash T-shirt emblazoned with the cover of London Calling, which I usually use for sleeping. The shirt is big, so I tie it at one corner, leaving a slice of my stomach showing, which I never do, even though Jill is constantly telling me to show off my abs. They’re quite toned because I’ve been working out three times a week since senior year of high school. After sliding my flip-flops back on, I wash my face with as little water as possible and then apply some makeup. Lastly, I scrunch my hair and add gel. Without electricity, there’s not much else I can do with it.
When I head out to the front room, the guys are still despondent about the traffic jam. Justin now sits on the couch across from Gabe, whose sticks continue thudding on leather. Romeo’s still on the phone. Since there’s no sign of Sam, I’m guessing he’s still watching TV in the back room.
I see mountains surrounding us when I look out the window.
I check my phone for the time and the distance. Ten after six and only twenty-two miles left.
“You should get ready,” I announce to no one in particular.
Justin’s expression is mocking. “Our clothes are underneath the bus.”
“You don’t have anything up here?”
Gabe hits his sticks together with a loud thwap. “No stage clothes.”
“Well,” I say, lifting my backpack to my shoulder, “maybe you’ll have to go for the college student look tonight.” I glance at my phone. “We should make it. We have a little over twenty miles left, and we’re moving now.” I look again at the traffic outside. It’s not fast, but it’s moving.
Romeo puts down his phone. “She’s right. Get dressed.”
“What about a shower?” Justin asks.
Turning toward the front window, Romeo says, “There’s enough water for everyone to have just one. Pick before or after.”
Frowning, Gabe says, “Definitely after playing the drums.”
In the back room, I find Sam dozing, legs propped on the table, his hands folded across his lap. Seeing his face so tranquil startles me for a moment. With his long, dark lashes and his full, chiseled mouth, he’s all male but somehow sweet.
Using my foot, I tap his foot resting on the table. His eyes flutter open, then his gaze turns hard as it focuses on me.
Sweet? Please. What was I thinking?
“You have about forty minutes to get ready. Forty-five minutes until you’ll be onstage.”
His eyebrows shoot up in a question.
I gesture to the pajama bottoms he’s still wearing. “What I’m saying is, you might want to change.”
I move to the corner where my stuff is piled, but stop just short of bending down when I sense his gaze on me. When I glance over my shoulder, his eyes are roaming my body.
My gaze turns pointed. “You need something?”
His eyes continue to travel over me slowly—too slowly. My arms itch to wrap around my body for cover because his deliberate gaze is starting a flutter in my stomach, butterfly wings gone crazy . . . I resist tugging my shirt down over the inch of skin showing above my belt and glare at him.
“Nice shirt,” he says with a grin.
Though I know he’s a Clash fan too, it’s completely obvious that my shirt is not what he’s checking out. “Thanks,” I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.
His gaze sweeps over me again. “You’ve filled out since high school, huh?”
When he met me during my senior year, I was living on carrots and celery. My goal now is to eat reasonably and maintain a healthy weight, not to look as skinny as a teenage model. But he’d better not say I’m bigger or something. My body image issues from high school still linger, and they can creep up on me.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “You’ve finally got an ass.”
My jaw drops and I grab the remote from the tabletop to throw at him, but he’s up and off the couch before I can toss it.
“A seriously hot ass,” he says under his bre
ath, then steps through the door.
Shocked, I drop the remote, which lands on the floor with a thud.
Chapter 5
I miss their first two songs because it takes forever for me to sign in and get the backstage pass. With a pass around my neck, I head down a hallway, passing locker rooms along the way—this arena is usually used for sporting events—until I end up behind the raised stage. The music and the volume of the crowd, along with palpable energy in the air, hit me as I come around one side of the stage. Security guards stand in a line, forming a wall in front of the stage. A few glance over their shoulders at my pass but maintain their impassive faces and crossed arms as I keep moving between them and the stage. The floor beyond the bouncers is packed, yet the seats beyond the floor aren’t even half-filled—unfortunately for Luminescent Juliet, an unknown opening band is good inspiration for a beer run. Except for the diehards standing on the floor. They’re camped out for the duration.
I glance up onstage, still amazed that all four band members were able to get their gear out of the bus and start performing within a half hour of our arrival. Dressed in the worn, baggy shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes that they wear to lounge on the bus instead of their usual rocker jeans and boots, they’re definitely sporting the college look tonight, but they still look hot. As their song “Bleak Moon” pounds in my eardrums and rumbles in my chest, I take a closer look at each of them, starting with Romeo. He’s at the corner of the stage, playing a solo. Justin is hanging out near Gabe and the drums. Sam is plucking his bass in the other corner. I walk the length of the front of the stage, between it and the bouncers, overwhelmed at my closeness to the band. I could reach out and touch Romeo’s shoe. For several minutes, I’m caught up in the lights, the music, the roar of the crowd, and my proximity to the band. An excited giddiness rolls through my stomach as I’m immersed in the moment and the intensity of it all. I’ve never been this close to the action at a concert. What makes it even more amazing is that, in a small way, I’m part of it.
The guitar solo ends. Justin jumps to the center of the stage and starts singing. I grab my camera just in time to catch him in another jump. The song is energetic, with a hint of blues. Before I was asked to join the tour, I’d always avoided Luminescent Juliet’s music, mainly because I didn’t want to be reminded of Sam. It took some work, considering how popular their songs have been at our school for the past two years. Once I’d agreed to come, though, I bought their new album and made myself listen to it. I was a bit shocked by how good they sounded. How well they mixed punk, folk, and blues into a rock sound all their own. That talent had strengthened my resolve to come on tour.
Done with “Bleak Moon,” they roll right into another song. I’m aware, after listening in on their last meeting on the bus, that they have thirty-five minutes to perform. It’s smart that they opted to keep playing instead of switching out instruments and going acoustic.
As the rhythm builds, I catch a great photo of Gabe in a drum fill. Then I shoot a picture of Romeo standing before a gathering crowd, the fans lifting their hands to him. Justin raises the microphone stand above his head. The pose makes a unique photo from my angle below. After getting a bunch of good shots of everyone else, I turn my attention to Sam.
He bounces, sings the chorus, and points to the crowd when he’s not plucking on his bass strings. He looks like he’s having a blast, and I’m reminded of the happy-go-lucky Sam I used to know. The Sam who is apparently gone. I lift my camera and catch him winking at a girl in the front. Next I take a picture of him and Justin sharing a microphone as they sing the chorus. When he’s done singing, he steps back and concentrates on playing his bass. The energy and playfulness he shows onstage come across as unconsciously sexy. I’m not sure if that’s a new part of his performance, or if I was too obsessed with Seth or just too young and immature to notice it before.
They end their set with their biggest indie hit, “Inked My Heart.” At the first notes, a murmur of excitement flows through the crowd on the floor. The song is popular enough that some of them must know it, but it also causes a hush because it starts in a slow, dreamy, melodic way that’s distinctly different from the songs they’ve played so far. Justin sings the lyrics with real emotion and I can feel the crowd respond. I let my camera hang from my neck and reach for the notebook in my back pocket. Instead of taking pictures, I jot impressions. The crowd swaying in sync with the melody. The band under the dimmed lights, a haze of stage fog behind them. The perfection of the music and the clearness of Justin’s voice. His sad, somber expression as he sings. The pure concentration Romeo and Sam are giving to their instruments. Gabe’s visible restraint behind the drums. I tend to catch the details better in words when I’m in the moment. I want to use my initial impressions when I write the blog post later. The song ends and the crowd goes wild.
Though I’ve heard from the other band members that Justin can sometimes ramble behind the microphone, he wraps up perfectly this time. He simply leans forward and says, “Thank you.” The band clears the stage, and takes the energy hanging in the air with them.
As the lights come on, I tuck my notebook in a pocket and move to a roped-off area on the side of the floor where backstage ticket holders sit. Some guy comes by with a box strapped around his neck that’s stocked with beer. Crazy thirsty after the exhilaration of the performance, I buy one and start sipping as I wait for the next band. While my main reason for coming was to get experience as a journalist, seeing rock bands for free—in the backstage area no less—is a huge, awesome-ass perk.
Griff, one of the bands on the tour, opens with a loud, rowdy song that gets the crowd going again. Their sound is more heavy alternative rock, whereas Brookfield, the last band to play and the one with the biggest name, is more folky. Style-wise, Luminescent Juliet is kind of between the two, and suddenly I realize why the tour manager wanted them even though they had recently hit the big time by rising up the indie charts. Of course, I’m a fan of both of the other bands, and many of their songs are on my playlists.
I’m swaying to the music when Justin appears at the entrance of the gated area. Spotting me in the back, he waves for me to come over. I silently laugh as the girls around me give me cold, envious looks, thinking I’m about to hook up with a super-hot lead singer. Not. Once I get to him, he starts striding down the long hall.
“Come on. Romeo sent me to get you. We’re in a suite on the top floor.”
Dang. I almost stop and turn around. I was enjoying the concert, the close proximity to the stage, yet I’m here to chronicle Luminescent Juliet and do a job. So I force myself to follow Justin to the elevator. A security guard simply nods to us as we go inside.
On the top floor, we head down another hall and enter a dimly lit room full of people lounging on couches and sitting at long tables. Gabe and Sam sit with a bunch of girls in one corner. Justin points to a counter with buffet trays and leans close when he speaks so I can hear him over the music of the concert, which is loud even up here.
“Grab something to eat, then come watch the show.” He gestures across the roomful of people to rows of seats in front of a glass wall. Beyond the glass, a shadowy sea of people’s heads provides a stark contrast to the brightly lit stage at the bottom of the arena. He also points out the door leading to a private bathroom in the back of the room.
I slowly realize that we’re in one of the glassed-in suites at the top of the arena.
Justin heads to an empty seat next to Romeo while I reach for a plate. As the scent of meatballs, cheese-filled potato skins, and chicken wings hits my nose, my stomach grumbles. I’d been so entranced by the music, I forgot I hadn’t eaten a thing since my peanut butter sandwich at lunch. I take a little something from each tray, then fill the rest of my plate with raw veggies. Dieting like a madwoman on and off for almost two years sucked. I now concentrate on being healthy in order to stay in size six jeans instead of obsessing over calorie counts.
Once my plate is full, I notice the o
nly spot open is at Sam’s table. I’m hit by a wave of anxiety. Irritated by my own reaction, I move toward the empty seat anyway. I need to be fearless when it comes to Sam, for my own mental health. Otherwise, it feels like I’m not over the past, and I am, dammit.
I sit at the far end of the table. One of the girls scans me dismissively and Sam smiles coldly at me. “How’d we do?”
He knows they’re good, and I’m not about to lie just because we don’t like each other. “Great. If I didn’t know, I would have never guessed you’re a college band.”
His cold smile turns into a sneer. “Just a college band, huh?”
My mouth twists. I grumble, “Quit, Sam. I didn’t mean it like that. Everything I say to you isn’t calculated to come out bitchy.”
We stare at each other, firing eyeball missiles, and a hush comes over the table.
Out of the corner of my vision, I notice Gabe watching us.
Sam must notice too, because he leans back. “Touchy,” he says, then turns to the girl on his right. He twists her long hair, gives it a slight tug, and whispers something in her ear that elicits a loud laugh. Sam grins cockily.
I roll my eyes and reach for a chicken wing. Luckily, the band performing beyond the glass gives me something to look at, so it’s easy to ignore him.
After I finish eating, I sip a bottle of beer until I realize this is a great time to grab my camera and take pictures covertly. I snap a few of Justin and Romeo concentrating on the concert. Gabe and Sam never glance up as I capture them sitting with a tableful of chicks. I’m careful not to get the girls’ faces, which isn’t easy since two of them are sitting on Gabe’s lap. Unless I get them to sign waivers since they’re not in the crowd, it could be a problem to post their photos, so it’s best to avoid the issue. Gabe is clearly having fun. So much for the blonde “girlfriend” wearing the Daisy Dukes on the day we left town. Sam also looks relaxed. His mood appears so flirty and light, it’s almost hard to believe he’s the same guy who is usually such a dick to me. Seeing him act so pleasant, talking and laughing with three women, I’m suddenly pissed that he can’t let the past go. He is clearly determined to be a jerkwad to me.
