She hums the melody for him again and he nods, matching it to the lyrics so flawlessly that she breaks into a delighted grin. When he hits a gap in what they’ve written, he runs with the melody she gave him, singing, “Ooh ooh and something clever here. Mmm mmm something that makes me sound really sexy.”
Jera laughs. “Okay, and the little lift you did at the end of the line? Let’s keep that.”
I flip my phone over, straightening in my seat as I send a quick response.
No deal.
I give Danny a level look, and the corner of his mouth kicks up even before his phone vibrates. I flick my ponytail back over my shoulder and start typing a reply to the promoter who was giving me trouble earlier. Considering his venue is close to selling out since I posted that picture of Jera and Danny this morning? There’s no way I’m swallowing additional “advertising” expenses now. Thank you, Instagram.
Danny types for a long time, fingers quick on his battered old phone.
Jax steals the guitar and adds in a high chord that makes Simon and me wince in unison. Jera laughs. “Sorry buddy, looks like I won that round. We should always write with an audience.”
Jax just keeps playing, dropping his voice to make the second repeat of the chorus sound like the words suddenly contain secrets you’re straining to hear.
“That one,” Simon murmurs.
Jax’s fingers jar on the strings as he glances up, but then he grins and jumps right back in, starting from the top without the new chord but with the new melody change.
My gaze is glued to my inactive messaging screen. Maybe Danny’s texting someone else? But then he finishes typing and grips his phone in his hand, resting the corner of the phone against his lips as his right index finger taps restlessly at the back.
I click my screen off and on again, wondering why his message isn’t coming through. But then it appears and I skim so fast that when I finish, I have to go back to the beginning and read from the start.
I don’t make bullshit promises. We’re living in this tin can with ten other people. They might see things, guess things. If you want me to be your secret, I’ll try to respect that because you asked me to, but I don’t like to lie. As for the end of the tour, it is a day that is not today, and it means nothing. When you want to be done with me, you say the word and I’ll be on a plane headed out of your life.
My teeth worry the inside of my lip. If the crew finds out, I’ll be little better than a star struck groupie to them, all my credibility shot in a second.
As I’m trying to word a response, my eyes catch on the last two sentences and my pulse kicks up. Is he trying to say he wants longer than a few weeks or is he just a decide-in-the-moment type? I can’t help being a little flattered that he’s already talking about more time, but it’s not like that’s really an option. After this tour, our careers go two separate ways.
Jera steals the guitar back from Jax and starts in on the last verse, slamming a new chord on the end that clearly bookends the sound and pulls a wolfish grin from her singer.
“Uh-huh.” He nods. “That’s it.”
Jera gives him back the instrument and he starts to put it all together, his voice skimming just above the guitar line while she hugs her knees, smiling as she watches him try out their creation.
I didn’t see Danny move, but a new text comes in, the letters gleaming at me dark and final from my screen.
Deal?
I look out the window, cars skimming by in the other direction. I’ve stated my boundaries and he can think what he wants about them, but they’ll hold firm. I shake off the tiny, girly part of me that wants to dissect his motivations, and decide to up the ante.
I start to type.
Hard boundaries?
Danny reads my message and then his gaze finds mine across the bus. He doesn’t answer right away and my skin starts to tingle, my mind racing through all the things he might send back, the lines we’re about to draw to narrow down all the possibilities into the enticingly in-bounds.
Finally, he bends his head to type, and my fingers twitch when the new message bubble appears. But it’s not from him: it’s my mom’s neighbor, letting me know she left for her therapist appointment.
“Thank God,” I mumble and Danny pauses, somehow hearing me over Jera bickering with Jax about the second verse of the new song.
I shake my head slightly, avoiding his eyes, and he goes back to his phone. I’ve worked so hard to get Mom to the point where she takes ownership of her own stability. If she’s going back to her therapist, I might actually make it through this tour without adding more red ink to my resume where I had to leave a band in the lurch to bail Mom out of a crisis.
Danny’s list comes in, both hard boundaries and the soft ones that he might be open to dabbling in.
I lean my elbows on the table, toying with the end of my ponytail and trying to look casual as I read it. It’s short, in the quick shorthand of the fetish world, and covers most of the stuff I would have put out of bounds as well: anything too painful or too gross or dangerous. He’s even more open to receiving pain than I am and okay with multiple partners. I glance up at Jax, watching his nimble fingers climb the fretboard of Jera’s acoustic.
I can’t help but wonder if those guys have shared a woman before. They’d make a hell of a pair: Jax’s sweet consideration and Danny’s intensity, their large, guitar-calloused hands on my body...
I swallow and cross my legs. Threesomes: so much fun and so not worth the drama that always comes afterward.
Danny smirks, but keeps his eyes on his phone and another comment bubble pops up.
Which of my soft boundaries got THAT response?
I toy with the idea of telling him and decide even the fantasy is too dangerous to admit to, so I taunt instead.
Show you later.
I lean back, staring out the window as I consider if I need to alter my list for Danny’s purposes. I’m betting he’s kinkier than I am, which means I might need to push my comfort zone a little to let him stretch his legs.
“D, want to start laying the bass line in under this?” Jera pipes up, and she must have stolen the guitar back because it’s now resting on her crossed legs.
“No.”
My nostrils flare as I try to hold back a giggle at his staccato answer. Another text pops up.
I want your green lights.
I smooth my leggings and tilt my head, slanting him a sideways peek through my lashes. He has his phone raised, but it’s a poor cover for the way his eyes are devouring me as I type.
D/s, not S&M.
It’s just on the edge of a lie: I like the dominance of a whip even more than the pain, but to hold onto my control with him, I need to keep it to leather and cuffs and not push to the next step of sadomasochism. That must not be a deal breaker for him, though, considering the way he has to shift and tug at the leg of his jeans when the text comes in. I pull my lip gloss out of my purse and apply a little to keep my smile a secret from the whole bus. When I check again, he’s watching my shiny lips. I squirm as I calculate all the hours between us and hotel room privacy.
Playfully, I send one more text, letting his imagination run wild.
I like it rough, preferably with ropes.
“Danny, why don’t you stop being such a knob,” Jera suggests with a roll of her eyes, “and pretend writing songs for your band is more important than watching Ink Master on your phone?”
“I’m not watching Ink Master,” he mutters. “I’m busy, I’ll do it later.” His fingers flicker and then another text comes in.
Master/slave?
My mouth goes dry at the thought of him in black leather pants, my hair fisted in his hand.
Jera passes the guitar off to Jax and dives across the aisle, landing on a startled Danny and scrabbling for his phone. I bang my knee on the table as I leap up, a curse at my lips when I realize exactly everything she could read in his text messages. Jera laughs as Danny shoots to his feet, holding the phone out
of her reach. She hops up onto the couch and jumps at his arm, hanging her whole body weight on it to bring it down to where she can pry his fingers off the device.
“Hey, you guys—” I start, the edge of panic driving my voice too high. Danny clicks the screen lock button just as she gets the phone away from him, leaping back to the other couch.
Danny goes after her and she burrows her tiny body in behind Jax, using him as a human shield as she taunts, “Like I can’t guess your passcode!”
Jax tosses the guitar across the aisle to a startled Simon, who catches it in both hands. Jax raises his arms, blocking Danny from getting to their drummer, who’s curled around the phone with her knees under her like a mischievous child, punching numbers in to unlock Danny’s phone.
“Danny has a se-cret...” Jera sings out, trying another combination.
“Take it down a notch on the bus.” My heart stutters in my chest. Christ, this is going to be embarrassing. “Reggie’s got traffic to deal with, for Pete’s sake.”
“Ahh, since when did you become a hardass, girl?” Clancy calls from the bunks. “Let the kiddies have their fun.” I toss a glare back at him only to find heads poking out from both sides of the aisle, enjoying the show as Jax dodges from side to side, shoving Danny away from their bandmate and the stolen phone.
Jera whoops in triumph. “Told you I’d guess it! Third try’s the charm!”
Oh fuck me. My hand leaps to my throat.
Just then, Jera’s phone sings out with her boyfriend’s ring tone and her head comes up. Danny dodges around their lead singer, swiping his phone away from Jera and I can see the green on white of our text message bubbles before he locks the screen and drops the device into his pocket. He flops onto the opposite couch as if nothing happened.
I snap my hand down, mustering up a glare to give credence to my sudden policy change regarding horseplay on the bus. “Keep your fighting away from the driver, okay?”
Even though I’m not yelling at him, Simon stares straight at the ground, his shoulders hunched tightly over the guitar, and I feel bad that he got caught in the crossfire.
“Hey, sweetie, what’s up?” Jera asks, already on the phone.
Jax gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, uh, no problem.” I turn back to my chair and wish I could get five minutes alone without crawling back into my bunk and having to take some more ribbing from Clancy.
Apparently, Danny was right about the probability of keeping a secret on a tour bus, especially from his bandmates. He seems unperturbed by our near miss and is already messing with his phone again. Hopefully he’s changing his damned passcode.
My screen lights up. While the band was roughhousing, I’ve gotten four new emails—probably all work-related—and one text. My fingers inch in that direction, but our cover is already close to blown. I cross my arms and look out the window, squeezing my hands against my sides so I won’t fidget.
He doesn’t move, but somehow I can tell Danny’s waiting for me to read his message. When I don’t budge, he claims the guitar from Simon, plucking a couple of random strings before settling into the slow, lingering intro to the Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge.”
As he plays, my shoulders soften into the cushions of the seat, and after a while, I decide it must be safe. Picking up my phone, I click to the text message and read the single word.
Tonight?
My thumb jerks, and I have to delete the letters I accidentally hit before typing my reply, sending it before I can overanalyze my decision.
Not tonight. But soon.
Chapter 9: Switch
I really freaking love my job. Especially today.
I snuggle a little farther into the dressing room couch, enjoying a rare break with a hot-off-the-press magazine the record label messengered over. It is the premiere tattoo publication on the market, and every time I look at the cover shot, my mouth goes dry and my brain cells fizzle into silence.
It displays a picture of Danny in high contrast black and white, his tight forearms folded on a table and tattoos climbing the fretwork of his tendons and veins. His eyes blast out just above the line of his arms and they’re the only color on the whole page: a razor touch of deep indigo blue surrounding a forest’s shadow of green that brightens to amber around his pupils.
One restless, tattooed finger is a touch blurred, caught mid-movement as it taps the table, the bass clef branding him as tattooist and musician all in one.
The headline reads “Special Artist’s Profile: The Red Letters In Black Ink.” The article is about Danny’s tattoo designs, or at least the part of his portfolio worn by his band. Looking at him in print, I’m having a hard time processing the idea that this man wants me to help him figure out what his kinks are.
The first photo is Jax and Danny, bare to the waist with fists clasped in an intense arm-wrestling contest that displays the riding crop on Danny’s forearm. On Jax’s inner arm, there are sharp, scrolling lines that find the form of an electric guitar.
The second full-pager is of Jera, wearing a halter top that leaves the line of her back bare and gorgeous as her arms blur over her drum kit, a tattoo of delicate wings stretching across her shoulder blades. There’s an inset zoom picture that shows that each feather is made from tiny drumsticks, and I catch my breath, reading the caption.
Jera McKnight, the band’s drummer, says her skin is virgin to the needle despite the temptation of her accomplished bassist, who frequently creates elaborate temporary tattoos for her. The example above was done with fine-point pen. “When he comes up with something really special,” McKnight says with a wink, “then maybe we can talk about making it permanent.”
There are some beautiful shots of Danny, Jax and Jera draped across a stage, lounging together with each angle showing different tattoos: permanent on Danny and Jax, all in pen for Jera.
They did the interview and photo shoot before we left on tour, and from a business standpoint, the release couldn’t possibly be better timing. The interview is all just friendly banter between band members, the sensuality of the pictures a trick of the light and the staging of the photographer, but it doesn’t matter. The truth is one thing. What people see is another.
The rumors about Jera and Danny were already growing, but the Dera hashtag is exploding with traffic today. Most of the online chatter is pretty dirty speculation about where Danny puts all those temporary tattoos. The rest is from people calling Jera a tease, claiming that her inklessness is just another way she’s willfully crushing Danny’s heart by refusing to give him hers.
Jera turned off her phone by noon, and glared at Jax until he finally turned his social media alerts to silent. The only thing that kept the mood on the bus from going entirely nuclear was Danny pulling Dalton, Clancy, and finally a reluctant Jayna into an impromptu jam session, improvising long instrumental solos for old Aerosmith songs.
I already called the next few venues and suggested they nudge up the prices on remaining show tickets. This is definitely going to help our concert attendance, and song downloads and Spotify requests are already through the roof.
My official duties with this article are done, but I can’t seem to put down the magazine. It feels illicit to read the interview, if only because it’s the first I’ve read where Danny said more than two sentences to the reporter. And the pictures are even more intimate.
I keep paging through, drinking in each of Danny’s tattoos I’ve never allowed myself to stare at in person. I know someone else applied them, but every concept came from his mind, every curve was born from his fingers first, and seen in the homes he gave them on his body? They are spectacular.
His tattoos are photo-sharp realism, but as soon as I think I know what they are, my perspective changes and they’re something else. Thorns become fingernails become fangs. What I thought was a tribal design knots together and then unravels into foreign, beautiful words I can’t read.
Lines I thought were boundaries become their o
wn pictures.
The music pulsing through the walls catches my attention as I recognize the last song before their mid-set break. I close the magazine and set it on the table for later, grabbing three bottles of water from the cooler before I head up the hall toward the stage. It’s a job the runner could easily do, but I like to be there to check in before the second half of the show.
Besides, I don’t want Danny to think I’m avoiding him in our professional life just because we haven’t settled all the details of our new sexual arrangement.
I arrive at the stage exit just in time to leap out of the way as Jax comes barreling by, a pink-and-turquoise bra flying after him. It falls on the hem of his jeans as he turns and fires off another bra at Danny. The bassist bends to gather more ammunition off the floor of the stage, laughing as he sprints to catch up with Jax’s retreat, nailing him right in the back of the head with a black lacy one that has a little weight to it.
I wince. You’ve gotta be careful with the gel kind: throw them too hard and they burst. That’s a mess nobody wants to clean up.
Jera blows some kisses to the audience, who is uproarious at the men’s antics, and follows them out of the light. Danny fires a heart-dotted garment at her and she catches it with drummer-quick reflexes. It looks alarmingly like a training bra.
“Ugh.” She drops it. “Sweaty...”
I snicker at the face she makes, passing her a water bottle.
She tips back her head and drinks, her smile fading when she tosses a glance back out at the audience, just visible through the tangle of equipment separating us from the stage. “Everybody out there is probably just wishing I’d pelt him with my fucking bra,” Jera mutters, “and calling me a tease when I keep my top on.”
I grimace. “You can tell them the truth, you know. It’s great publicity for the band, but you absolutely do not have to play along for ticket sales.”
She gives me a look. “Easy for you to say when anything I do is just going to fuel speculation. Even a ‘no comment’ looks like pleading the fifth at this point.”
Playing the Pauses Page 10
