With the Band

by Jean Haus

  New Orleans!

  And we’ll be here four days. The past few days passed in a whirl of bus, sandwiches, sound checks, concerts, and back to the bus for a crappy shower and then bed. Dallas, Oklahoma City, and Little Rock passed by in a blur. The pace was exhausting, and I wasn’t even performing. Though traveling in general is exciting, New Orleans and New York are highlighted in bright pink in my copy of the itinerary. Other than fulfilling my band responsibilities, I plan to spend the next three days sightseeing.

  Making a quick trip to the bathroom, I see the guys are still sleeping, so I’m quiet as I pack up my stuff and get dressed. When I head out of the back room again, everyone is up. Bags and other items are already piled by the front of the bus. Romeo’s up there by the driver’s chair, talking with Gary. Sam and Gabe stand in the kitchen area, digging cereal out of bowls.

  “Room’s not ready,” Gabe says through a mouthful of cereal as soon as I step into the main room.

  “I didn’t expect them to be,” I say, scooting around him and Sam. I dump my stuff onto the pile.

  Gabe shrugs. “Guess the king rooms are.”

  “King rooms?” I ask in confusion.

  Sam pours me a bowl of Cheerios and hands me the jug of milk. He points a plastic spoon toward Romeo. “We’re with Gabe this round. Riley and Allie are flying down today. Justin and Romeo went in on another room, since the tour only pays for one room, so they could each have their own.”

  “Oh,” I say, doing the math in my head and taking a bite of cereal. They’ve been apart from their girlfriends for over a week and a half. Geez, hooked at the hip much? How are they going to last six weeks? Maybe the ladies wanted to visit the Big Easy. I know if I were going to visit my rock star boyfriend, it would be here or New York. I’d have to toss a coin to decide. I lift my cereal bowl to Sam. “Thanks.”

  He nods as Romeo comes over to us.

  “They have only king rooms ready,” Romeo says. “They’re putting your stuff in our rooms so you can take showers and change. Your room won’t be ready until after four.”

  The bellboys start moving our stuff and we finish clearing out of the bus because Gary has to fill it with gas and water before parking it at tomorrow’s concert venue. Everything belonging to Sam and me ends up in Justin’s room on the ninth floor. We take turns in the bathroom while Justin talks to room service. I hear words like “flowers” and “champagne” and “chocolates” being thrown around as he paces the length of the room. I turn on my laptop and finalize a new blog post while Sam showers. I want to get out of this room and into the city streets. Obviously, Justin has some serious romantic plans happening, and I’m eager to give him some space.

  Sam comes out of the bathroom and gives Justin crap about being pussy whipped, then we head to Romeo’s room on the twelfth floor.

  Gabe and Romeo are watching TV, but it’s obvious that Romeo is distracted. He hardly says a word when he reads over my blog post—unusual, to say the least—and he’s constantly checking the time on his phone. He must be waiting for a text from Riley. Once he okays the post and I load it for the legions of fans, Gabe, Sam, and I make a quick exit.

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” Gabe says as we get into the elevator. “What the fuck are we supposed to do for five hours?”

  Sam and I both look at him like he’s nuts.

  “Dude,” Sam says, “we’re in New Orleans. Music, booze, tits, gambling, food . . . twenty-four/seven. You name it, they got it.”

  “Yeah,” Gabe says in a sarcastic tone. “You looking to get high?”

  Sam shoots him a scornful look. “Like I’m going to walk around the streets of New Orleans and ask about scoring. I may be a dumbass, but I’m not that fucking stupid, asshole.”

  Scoring? Pot seems a little out of the realm of scoring.

  Adjusting his ball cap, Sam turns to me. “Where do you want to go, Peyton?”

  Everywhere. “How about we start with the French Market?”

  “All right,” Sam says, pulling out a little guidebook from his back pocket.

  “French what?” says Gabe.

  All of us pause as we step out of the elevator and into the huge, ornate lobby. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Satin couches and wingback chairs fill the space. And a small fountain gurgles in the center. I may be sharing a room with two idiots, but for a minute I’m filled with gratitude to be here. I’d never be able to afford to stay in this place on my pathetic restaurant salary. I don’t even want to imagine the price of one night, let alone three.

  Sam reads over a page in the book, then glances at Gabe. “French Market,” he says. “Sounds like it’s basically got tourist junk and food.”

  Gabe curls his upper lip in revulsion.

  As we pass the fountain, I’m seriously contemplating taking off by myself if everything we do is going to trigger an argument.

  Sam taps a map in his book with his finger. “It’s not too far from Bourbon Street.”

  Gabe’s face is blank.

  “Tits and booze.”

  Gabe nods, slowly agreeing. “All right, let’s go.”

  We catch an old-fashioned trolley that runs along the edge of the river to the French Market. The thing is fabulously antique-looking but has air conditioning, lucky for us. Late June in Louisiana feels worse than August in Michigan. Humidity hangs like a limp rag in the ninety-degree heat.

  After roaming the stalls at the market, where I buy my mother a key chain shaped like a fleur-de-lis—the flower that represents New Orleans—and a Jazz Festival T-shirt for Jill, we decide to try the various food booths. We each pick something to sample and share. I go with boiled jumbo shrimp. Gabe picks crab hush puppies. And, of course having to be goofy, Sam brings back fried alligator. It’s not too bad, but the thought that it may have originated in a swamp has me washing each bite down with a gulp of water.

  Gabe whines about the heat the whole time we’re eating.

  “Dude,” Sam says, setting down his beer, “we’re in the South. Like the bottom of it. Deal with it or go back to the hotel and crash on a couch in the lobby.”

  Gabe drains the rest of his beer. Sweat is dripping down the sides of his face. “The couch it is.” He stands. “I’ll check out the strip clubs later. After the temperature drops.” He grabs the last hush puppy, pops it into his mouth, and gives us a wave as he heads toward the nearest trolley stop.

  Sam and I each get a bottle of water to go and start walking. Near Jackson Square, he catches me watching one of the many horse-drawn carriages that tour the French Quarter. Before I can agree, he drags me to one of the carriages lined up along the street.

  Our driver, dressed in a white shirt and black vest, tips a worn straw hat and tells Sam he should sit on the backseat, next to his pretty lady instead of across from her. A grin spreads across Sam’s face, and in seconds he is next to me with his arm around my shoulders. His body feels burning hot next to mine in the ever-increasing heat, so I nudge his side with my elbow until he pulls back a little. Just a tiny bit. The carriage driver smirks, says something about young love, tugs at the horse’s reins, and we’re off.

  As we pass Creole homes with ornate balconies, our driver describes various significant aspects of the architecture. When he explains that the spikes on some of the balcony poles are called Romeo spikes, Sam chuckles. He further explains they were to stop a woman’s suitors from climbing onto the balcony. Sam reaches for my hand and makes a stupid comment about how spikes couldn’t hold him back from true love. The driver grins wide and knowingly. I squeeze the crap out of Sam’s sweaty hand and he releases mine. But even though I don’t want to hold his hand, I’m having fun.

  The tour takes us past an Ursuline convent, several celebrity homes, the oldest bar in the United States, some narrow shotgun houses, and along the way, we hear several ghost stories. Sam makes wide eyes at the scary parts and hugs me closer. I nudge him away each time. My elbow is getting quite the workout on this carriage ride.

  Wh
en we return to Jackson Square, Sam refuses to let me pay. So I leave the tip instead. Then we head to Bourbon Street. We argue as we stroll. I’m adamant about not going into any strip clubs—unless he’s willing to check out a nude male revue with me.

  He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Fine, then, we’ll find something else to do,” I say. I drag him into some shops that we pass, including a voodoo store, an art studio, and a T-shirt place. At a store that sells miniature versions of everything, he puts his foot down: no strip clubs for him, no stores with miniature crap for me. Unless I want to make a deal? I walk away. Miniatures are cute but not that cute.

  Our first stop on Bourbon Street is the Hard Rock Cafe. We spend an hour wandering around and studying all the memorabilia. The next stop is an absinthe bar with walls covered in old newspaper clippings. Excited to try the famous drink, Sam orders an absinthe for each of us. The bartender pours cold water over a sugar cube in a slotted spoon perched over each glass, and after the cube melts into the liquor below, we each try a sip. It has a strange flavor, like licorice mixed with herbs.

  Sam takes a long sniff of the liquor. “Absinthe was banned around nineteen hundred in a shitload of countries, including ours. Lots of people thought it was a drug. A psychedelic one.” He takes a long sip.

  Recalling the moment I saw him smoking the joint at the WZIK Rock event in Texas, I stare at the green liquid in my glass. “Is that why you wanted to try it?”

  He shrugs. “Well, yeah, but I know it’s just alcohol.”

  His disappointed tone has me wondering if he wishes it weren’t “just alcohol.” “Do you like it?”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay.”

  I gulp down the rest of the licorice-tasting liquid to get it over with. “So where to now?” I ask, setting my empty glass down.

  “If a strip club is out of the question”—he gestures across the street—“how about some karaoke?”

  “Um, no, never. Just no,” I say, vigorously shaking my head.

  He finishes the absinthe and pushes his glass across the bar. “Let’s just check it out.”

  “I’m not singing,” I say stubbornly. But it’s hard to resist Sam’s enthusiasm as he nearly drags me across the street. When we step inside, the bar is half-full, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. On the small stage, a middle-aged white guy is destroying the tune of “Sweet Home Alabama.” I go to the ladies’ room while Sam finds a table.

  When I get back, I find him at a small round table, sitting on a vinyl stool. He’s lifting a pencil to a karaoke list. I sit down across from him. “Don’t even think about it,” I say.

  He taps the pencil tip on the paper. “Is it okay if I sing?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Of course.” I wrinkle my nose as I glance at the small stage and its bright yellow backdrop covered with cat paws painted in black. “Why would you want to? Not enough that you’ve spent the last week and a half on a real stage?”

  “This is different from performing. Cheesy fun,” he says with an offhanded shrug that makes him look young. Suddenly, I’m charmed. He seems so easygoing, like his old self. The waitress drops off our drinks. Two shots and two beers. Sam digs into his leather wallet, flipping out money, and I notice a picture sticking out of one overstuffed pocket. The photo of two preteen boys, holding bats and wearing baseball caps backward, causes a tiny knot to form in my stomach. After a deep breath—and Sam handing the waitress a five for her tip—the knot loosens. Sam told me that he and Seth are doing fine.

  My brows rise once the waitress leaves and I ask, “Shots?”

  He shoves one at me. “We’re in New Orleans, baby, live a little.”

  I ignore the “baby” and reach for the shot. He lifts his and we both swallow them, staring at each other.

  Fire burns down my throat. Coughing, I slam the shot glass onto the table. “What the hell was that?” I ask in between gasps.

  He grins. “151.”

  “Sam! It’s only . . .” I dig my phone out of a pocket in my shorts and look at the screen. “Five thirty in the afternoon!”

  “We’re in—”

  “Don’t say it,” I warn.

  The rum goes straight to my head and creates an instant buzz. He smiles and pushes a beer at me. We sip suds and watch the caterwauling onstage, grinning every now and then at each other over a missed note or a screech. My toes tap to the singing, which by the time I’m halfway through my beer doesn’t sound that bad anymore.

  We’re on our second beer, and I’m feeling rather mellow when the announcer calls out, “Next up, Sam and Peyton!”

  “What?” My voice comes out as a screech, and the plastic beer cup in my hand wobbles. Beer splashes onto the table.

  Sam removes the cup from my hand and tugs me up.

  “Come on.”

  “I told you no karaoke!” I hiss.

  He keeps pulling me, saying over his shoulder, “It will be fun. Besides, you’ll never see any of these people again.”

  As we near the stage, I try to escape his grip, but he holds me tight and leads me up the stairs.

  A girl in a short skirt hands us microphones as the announcer says our names again along with “Here to sing ‘You’re the One That I Want’!” The announcer points to the screen across from us, then steps offstage.

  Oh fuck. Could Sam have picked a worse song? It’s the epitome of cheese and it’s not exactly easy to sing.

  The bouncy music starts, and I swear a groan goes through the crowd as they conjure up memories of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John in Grease. Sam turns his baseball cap backward, struts toward me, and starts to sing without looking at the screen. The dork must know the song by heart.

  Walking around me, he nails the first line perfectly. Damn. He can actually sing. I mean, more than backup. Compared to the crap we’ve been listening to the last hour, he sounds like a professional. Well, I guess he is. Everyone in the room turns toward us.

  Oh double fuck. So much for “Danny.” It’s “Sandy’s” turn.

  Pissed that Sam got me up here, I belt out the words, keeping an eye on the screen as I stalk toward him. He shuffles backward and the crowd goes nuts. At the edge of the stage, he leans toward me, and I shuffle backward. Even my buzzed brain realizes we’re kind of imitating the movie.

  By the middle of the song, we’ve got our routine down, circling each other and shooting fireworks into each other’s eyes. I stop worrying about how badly I sing and start having fun.

  The song ends with us staring at each other, both breathing heavily. The crowd goes nuts, clapping and whistling. Someone shouts, “Kiss her!”

  More people join the chant.

  Sam grins at me, and though I lean away, his hand catches the back of my head and his lips descend. His hot mouth covers mine, moves over my closed lips, and sucks at them before letting go. The kiss is quick but sets my wet lips tingling and my heart racing.

  My temper flares and I pull away, but the crowd goes more nuts as the announcer repeats our names. Sam grabs my hand and tugs me down into a bow.

  “Paybacks are hell,” I remind him as we’re bent over. He grins at me, then pulls me off the stage.

  Chapter 11

  I’ll have a water,” I say to the bartender.

  “Wussy,” Sam says to me, then lifts his beer glass to the bartender for another.

  I slide my empty beer glass back and forth over the wooden bar top. We sit in an open courtyard with a bar in the center. It’s almost nine p.m., but the heat and humidity are still fierce. “Whatever. I have to pace myself or you’ll be carrying me back.”

  He looks at me innocently. “How do I get to carry you?”

  I pause, still sliding my glass back and forth. “What do you mean?”

  His eyes twinkle at me. “Let’s go for piggyback, so your breasts are pressed against my back all the way to the hotel.”

  I toss my beer-soaked cocktail napkin at him. “Shut up, you pervert.”

  Catching the napkin,
he ignores me. “Let’s do shots.”

  “No. More. Shots.” We’d downed some Jägermeister about an hour before to help me forget my kiss-induced bad temper. Guess it worked, because I’ve stayed in that warm, happy place ever since and almost forgot about planning his payback. Thing is, I don’t want to get way too drunk, which is why we’d also split a shrimp po’boy. After eating it, we decided to skip the dinner the tour promoters are putting on tonight at the hotel. I check my phone. Five more minutes until the jazz band we’re waiting to see will come on. “Ready to move up front?” I ask.

  Sam hands me my water and a beer. Taking the beer I didn’t want, I give him a dirty look. He shrugs and heads to a table near the dancing area in front of the stage. Minutes later, the stage lights up and the band, a group of older men, comes out. Unfortunately, after a few songs, Sam and I are frowning at each other. Though the band clearly has some good musicians in it, they start with Sinatra and segue into Louis Armstrong. I like both just fine, but in New Orleans, I want to hear something more than a cover band.

  Since the music is loud, especially the horns, I point to the exit and lift my brows. Although he can take it out to the street, Sam points to his beer. I sigh, and turn back toward the stage.

  A woman comes out and a hush falls over the crowd. She steps in front of the microphone, and the drummer hits a beat while the guy playing the upright bass plays a low tune. The rest of the band members don’t touch their instruments, and instead only snap their fingers into the microphones. Before I can figure out what the song is, Sam hauls me up. “We have to dance. I love this stupid song.”

  He drags me to the flagstones in front of the stage. The woman starts singing, and I slowly realize the song is “Fever” by Peggy Lee.

  Holding my hands, Sam shimmies away from me, moving to the beat of the music. Then he draws me close, like body-to-body close. I can feel the muscles of his chest and his thighs, pressed for several long seconds against mine. Then our bodies part, moving to the slow, hypnotic beat and the woman’s lush voice. Until he pulls us flush again, and the fever she’s singing about feels all too real as I press against him. This time he doesn’t let me go. Instead, he tugs my hand up to his shoulder, wraps an arm around my back, and holds our joined hands up, swaying his hips to the rhythm perfectly. Damn, this boy can dance. The hand on my back slides to grip my hip, and he shows me how to move with him.