With the Band

by Jean Haus

  He stares at me for a long moment. “Well, that sucks. I’m sorry. I never meant . . . Things were a bit tense after that—that night.”

  We stare at each other and emotions churn in my stomach, both from the release I feel from talking honestly and because his confused frown makes me want to reach out to him.

  The whirl of a washer halting its spin cycle fills the sudden silence between us.

  He stands and tugs a rolling wire cart over to a machine.

  I get the other cart and push it next to his, filled with fresh resolve that it’s time to get over the past. “It’s been nearly four years,” I say, opening a washer while trying to separate my emotions from the facts. “We were all kids. Somehow, after seeing you at the U-Palooza, I started feeling ready to let go of the what-ifs.”

  Without looking at me, he heaves clothes from the washer into the cart. “Yeah, it’s better for you to move on. I guess with things fucked up between Seth and me, I didn’t consider how much everything might have affected you.” He pauses, pulling out more wet clothes, and focuses on me. “It’s just that when you showed up at my door before the tour, all that shit resurfaced, and I went into dick mode.”

  Nodding, I reply, “For one quick second, I was overwhelmed with the past too when Romeo called me. I’m just not that person anymore.” My lips press together as I glance at the wet pile of clothes in the cart. “I never was the person Seth made me out to be after that night.”

  I glance up and he’s frowning at me. “Peyton, for what it’s worth, I never thought you were that person.” He rolls the cart over to a dryer.

  I’m left standing there, staring at the muscles of his back move as he shoves clothes in a dryer. Sam should be the one person who was aware I wasn’t a slut. Usually virgins aren’t considered sluts.

  I too toss wet clothes into a dryer while my mind churns in confusion. If he knew I wasn’t a lying, slutty bitch, why all the condescending glares over the past years? Why so much silent hate? I slam the door of the dryer.

  Maybe because you came between him and his twin brother, Peyton?

  The thought hits me like a bolt of lightning. Like Sam, I’ve been regarding what happened through how it affected me. I’m not entirely dense. I was aware to a certain degree that night pitted brother against brother—but I never considered how it might have torn two brothers apart who’d once been inseparable. Maybe the rift had even sent Sam to a different college. Instead, I imagined him hating me because his brother did. Not because of what happened afterward or how it changed his life.

  The past, the fallout, my hurt, everything suddenly shifts, and the laundry room feels like it’s on a tilt as I push my cart back to another washer that just finished its spin cycle. Though I hadn’t been a lying, slutty bitch, I may have been a bit self-centered. Or maybe a whole hell of a lot. Less than an hour ago, I wanted to confront the past head-on. Now scared that night might have ruined Sam and Seth’s relationship, I’m thinking Screw that. At the same time, I’ve learned that denial just prolongs things, makes them fester. I don’t want to be a coward any longer.

  I open a washer as Sam moves to the machine next to it. “So you and Seth are still close, right?” I ask.

  The tumble of clothes in the dryers becomes loud. I clench the wet clothes in my hands when I glance at him. As I take in the bleakness of his gaze and the tightening around his mouth, which convey complete sadness, the wet clothes drop to the floor. “Sam?”

  His gaze snaps to mine and his expression clears. He reaches into the washer and jerks out a wad of wet clothes. “We talk every day, and I go home about every other month. We’re fine, good.”

  I’m not a coward about probing a little more, but as he drops the clothes into the cart, pushes his shoulders back, and turns the cart toward a dryer, his body language clearly signals he’s done talking about Seth.

  My mind stuck in a knot, I pick wet clothes up off the floor and stuff them into a dryer. Apparently, if Sam’s body language means anything, things aren’t right with the brothers. After all this time, I’m sincerely hoping their issues have nothing to do with me.

  I’m starting to wallow in that old guilt when I’m swept off my feet and my butt lands in a wire cart.

  Lips brush against my ear as he says, “You ready for a ride?” He shakes the cart like he’s revving up an engine.

  “No!” I yell, my voice garbled with laughter.

  Sam pushes me across the small laundry room.

  “Stop!” I try to shout, but I’m breathless with giggles. Before I crash into the wall, he spins me around and around, again and again. My vision swirls. “Ahhh, stop or I’m going to puke on you!”

  He spins me faster.

  “Sam!”

  He halts the cart suddenly and hauls me out. I take a shaky step and almost fall against his muscular chest. His hands wrap around my waist to steady me.

  Looking up at him and leaning like the Tower of Pisa, I laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

  He grins at me. “What’s that saying?” His square chin angles as he pretends to think. “Takes one to know one?”

  My fingers grip his shirt as I lean the other way. “The saying is false.”

  Sky-blue eyes crinkling, he laughs.

  Suddenly, Gabe pops his head into the room. “Hey, we’re all meeting for breakfast.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at the sight of our near embrace. “To go over the set for tonight.”

  I push away from Sam and stumble against a dryer.

  Gabe looks to Sam. “You coming?”

  “Yeah, we need to finish loading the dryers.”

  Snorting, Gabe shuts the door.

  Sam wheels the cart toward the last washer that contains our clothes.

  “I can finish,” I say, regaining my balance while trying not to get peeved about Gabe’s knowing look.

  “One more load and we can both go to breakfast.”

  “Just grab me a muffin or something.” I tow his cart closer to me. “But you need to go.” I wave my hand toward the door like I’m dismissing him.

  He lowers his chin and peeks at me through his lashes. “You want to touch my underwear in private?”

  The joke wipes away my irritation. With a buttload of concentration, I keep my expression neutral. “How’d you know?”

  “I’m good at spotting closet perverts.”

  I whip a wet shirt at him and he catches it. He’s about to toss it back when his phone goes off. His grin dies and he drops the shirt into the cart.

  Reaching into the pocket of his flannels, he says, “I’ll stop back with the muffin.” Then he answers his phone sharply with “What’s going on?” and walks out the door.

  I don’t know why, but I’m saddened at the thought of him having such an awful girlfriend.

  Chapter 9

  Despite being an arena, the venue in Austin has great acoustics. On the floor, in between the stage and the line of security guards again, I watch the guys onstage while music at megawatt volume vibrates in my rib cage. It’s loud, it’s in my face, and I love it. This is my sunny day. Sleeping in. Chasing butterflies. Making snow angels. Riding a roller coaster. The live music is all awesome things rolled into one.

  Simply standing here and being a part of it is like a natural high. I’m a frickin’ kite. I take a deep breath and force myself to get to work. Taking photos doesn’t feel like too much of a chore—not when there are so many amazing images to capture.

  Onstage, the members of Luminescent Juliet look rocker hot. Instead of shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes, they’re dressed in stage clothes. Wearing a cowboy hat, Justin’s in an unbuttoned white shirt and tattered jeans. I take several pictures of him in all his tattooed glory. Romeo’s sporting all black. Behind the drums, Gabe is wearing just a leather vest, low-riding jeans, and a massive studded belt. Even Sam, who in all the pictures on their former website wore old, baggy clothes, is sporting frayed jeans, a fitted gray T-shirt, and low boots. But always a bit goofy, he sprayed a strip
of orange hairspray through his curls that matches the color of his bass.

  The chicks in front of the stage are swooning like sixties schoolgirls at a Beatles concert. I take a picture of them screaming and fanning themselves.

  The band is in the middle of the song “Trace,” which from what I can gather is about memories of a girl. The lyrics resonate with emotion, but instead of being predictably layered over slow and melodious music, the song has a fast, driving beat. It works. “Trace” is one of my favorite songs by the band.

  The stage lights flicker and change color and intensity as I shoot a photo of Sam jumping to the last beat of the song with the flare of the lights bright behind him.

  Their next song, “Midnight,” has a bluesy, folk feel. The lyrics in this song are about the dark moment when partying changes from fun to desperate, which doesn’t seem like something Romeo would write, but he obviously did since all the lyrics except “Inked My Heart” are credited to him.

  Romeo steps to the edge of the stage, lifting his guitar, playing the long opening riff. I crouch and get a kick-ass angle from below. When I move to the other side of the stage and take a picture of Sam, the camera catches him winking at me. After glancing at the small digital screen, I can’t help giving him a grin.

  Once again, I let my camera hang from my neck and drag the small notebook from my back pocket. I jot notes about the crowd’s excitement, about the intensity of the music and the energy of the band. Then I watch the band perform “Inked My Heart.” Every time he sings it, Justin is captivating. It’s hard to pay attention to anyone but him. From the emotion on his face to the passion in his voice, it’s obvious the song means something to him—and I’m guessing that something is Allie. It seems things worked out, because although the song is full of sad, raw feelings, it was apparent on the day I saw them together that they fell in love despite the heartache.

  Of course the crowd goes wild. Well, the fans who are paying attention. Again, about only half the seats are full since these guys are the opening act. By the time Brookfield starts playing, the crowd will be at maximum capacity.

  When they’re done playing, the guys head backstage to the press room, which I’ve learned is called the green room. Some random DJ from WZIK Rock interviews the band members, then has pictures taken with them. No surprise, Kayla and her clipboard hover nearby. Because the whole WZIK event left a bad taste in my mouth, I stand on the sidelines, clicking through the photos I took. When a reporter from the local newspaper interviews the band, though, I do shoot some pictures.

  After one more interview, this time for a local magazine, the band hightails it to their shared dressing room while I head to the tables in the back. Although there is a daily allowance from the tour for food, it isn’t much for five people, and it’s mainly used to stock the cupboards on the bus. From the beginning, Romeo has made a point of reminding us to take advantage of the free food available at the concerts and promotional events.

  I grab a wilted sub and an apple. A little ranch helps the sub, but it isn’t exactly tasty. I have gotten a bit spoiled working for an authentic Italian restaurant for the past three years. Food should have layers of flavor and taste good. I love to eat now that I’m finally off the diet train. Dieting like that sucked ass. Then again, starting to overeat again because I was depressed after the breakup with Seth also sucked major ass. The worst was having to go back to dieting to get rid of the ten pounds of depression weight I’d put on. After being on a diet roller coaster for years, I’ve learned that eating reasonable portions of the food I want and exercising three or four times a week, if possible, maintains my weight. Maybe it’s not my dream weight, but I’ve learned to accept it—as Jill says to me sometimes, “What’s wrong with a size six, you crazy woman?” So, yeah, the sub is pretty close to awful, but I try to enjoy it.

  Some of the roadies are also eating, and their plates are loaded with two or three sandwiches each. I’ve noticed they’ll eat anything because they’ve been here since morning, setting up, and will be here until after midnight, taking everything down. Two of them come over and introduce themselves as Chris and TJ. I’m asking them questions about the concert setup when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I dig it out and see a text from Sam. Wow. He’s texting me now. We must be getting along.

  We’re on the bus. Gary’s ready so we’re taking off early.

  Whoa. I’d planned to watch the next two concerts, but I drop the last bite of sandwich, tell the roadies good-bye, and head out of the stadium into the parking lot.

  Inside the bus, Green Day blasts from the stereo dock. Gabe and Justin are already playing a video game. Romeo is in the back room on the phone, talking to Riley, I’m guessing. And Sam is at the counter, mixing drinks. Big shocker there. Well, at least this new Sam I’m getting to know.

  “Whiskey and Coke?” Sam holds up a glass in my direction. I frown as I sit down on the couch under the TV. I try to steer clear of sugary drinks made with hard liquor. “No, thanks. Not in the mood to puke.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Beer, then?”

  I give him a thumbs-up. The bus starts rolling and he pulls a Corona out of the fridge. He pops the cap, and a second later my hand is freezing from holding an ice-cold beer.

  “Dude,” Gabe says to Sam, “you ready?”

  Sam hands him a drink in a plastic cup. “Slow your roll. Set Peyton up with a player.” He hands another drink to Justin.

  Beer catches in my throat. “What? I have no idea how to play.”

  “It’s just a fighting game. You kick and punch.” He sets his drink behind the couch. “Scoot down, Justin.”

  They all move down, saving the end of the couch for me.

  Reluctantly, I go over to the couch across from the TV and sit next to Sam, since the TV is swiveled toward the longer couch. I know next to nothing about video games.

  “Here.” Sam hands me a controller and his leg brushes mine. “Just push the X to kick and the circle to punch.”

  Ignoring the strange sensation along my thigh, I stare at the cartoon-looking characters on the flat screen. “Who am I?”

  “Fat Princess,” Gabe says with a laugh.

  “Fat Princess?” I say, instantly recognizing the character in a pink dress and crown in between a muscled man and some other guy in a flowing cape.

  “Hey,” Justin says, “she’s the only girl.”

  I hit X and my character’s short leg hits the caped guy. “This fat girl is going to kick some butt, then.”

  The fighting commences. I lose big, every time. But they keep bringing me back. Finally, after three more beers and five lost fights, I move on to the next round.

  “Suck on that, Ninja Justin.”

  Justin snorts, stands, and heads off for another drink.

  I’m pushing buttons furiously, fighting caped man, when raccoon guy—Sam—helps me destroy Gabe.

  “Okay, jackass,” Gabe says, throwing his controller on the opposite couch. “She ain’t gonna give it up ’cause you let her win.”

  “Fuck you,” Sam says.

  “Yeah, fuck you,” I say. “He’s not going to ‘let’ me win, because I’m going to legitimately kick his butt. And no one’s getting laid on this bus, so keep the giving-it-up comments to yourself.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Sam says. “Romeo’s getting phone sex as we speak.” On the screen, Sam’s muscled guy smacks my princess in the chest.

  “Gross. I sleep back there, you ass.” My Fat Princess kicks his raccoon guy in the face. “Like I want that visual in my head. I need some brain bleach now.”

  Sam’s jump knocks my pink princess over, and she lands on her well-padded belly. “Now that’s gross. I didn’t say he was spanking it, just talking it.”

  “Spanking it?” Since I know zero sweet moves, I power up on the weird orb things I’ve been collecting and saving. “What are you, fourteen?”

  “Twelve.” His character hits mine again. “My brain is forever stuck at age t
welve.”

  “Well, I was trying to be nice, but I was thinking twelve.” I let my Fat Princess’s power loose, and Sam’s character flies off my chest, slams into the wall, and falls down. I jump off the couch, bouncing up and down. “I did it! I won! Me! The worst suck-ass player of video games in the world won!” I do a little dance, shaking my elbows and butt, then toss the controller on the couch before I gulp down the rest of my beer.

  Romeo comes out of the back room. “Turn the music down. Gary doesn’t need to hear that shit.”

  Gabe flips him off, then turns down the volume on the console next to him on the wall.

  Sam stands. “You ready to lose some money, bitch?” he asks Romeo.

  Romeo jerks open the fridge and pulls out a beer. “Get the cards. Talking smack ain’t going to save your ass.”

  Sam looks to me. “You in, Peyton?”

  I raise a brow.

  “Poker?”

  I laugh. “Ah, no, I work my butt off for my money.” Literally. Waiting tables can be harsh. “I’d rather play it safe. Plus,” I say, setting my empty beer bottle in the sink with the others, “I need to make a few calls.” My mother and grandfather first, then Jill and Bryce.

  Sam’s mouth thins as I walk toward the back. Before I can pull the curtained door shut, I hear him and Justin arguing about who’s going to deal first. Gabe joins in and the argument turns into yelling.

  Sometimes I forget I’m on a bus with four college guys. Other times . . . they are all such boys.

  Chapter 10

  When I wake, the bus is still. I stretch until the leather beneath me creaks, and my body slips off the couch. I get up and peek out the little window and immediately start squinting. We’re parked outside a hotel, and bright sun gleams off the marble entrance. Bellhops in burgundy suits and little hats are hauling out suitcases from the storage compartment of the bus to a grand revolving door. I pull the blind shut.