by Max Henry
Always the guilt.
“Good.” He pops the last of the meat in his mouth before asking, “Ready?”
I nod, rubbing my hands near the side of the heater. I made the mistake of standing too close to the front earlier, and promptly learned how fucking nuclear leather and studs can get in the space of seconds.
“Fifteen-minute call, guys.”
Toby waves off the crew member—Stuart, I think his name is—and goes right back to ignoring the rest of us. I eyeball the fucker as he taps his phone screen with his thumb, a small smile making his lips quirk up every so often. Who is he messaging? Café Girl? Nah—couldn’t be. Maybe?
My gaze drifts right, and I find Emery now doing the same. Only I know whom it is he messages. He thinks we’re all stupid, flicking his screen to eBay listings when we get too close. But it’s her—that fucking manipulative bitch back home.
Kris reclines on a beanbag, deep in his preshow ritual of listening to the set list one last time. I figure if the three of them want to be antisocial assholes, then I can too. My fingers wrap around my phone, deep in my pocket, and I pull it free to check the notifications.
How the fuck did I miss that? I don’t get message previews to my home screen anymore, not since we took off and the sheer number of old “friends” crawling out of the woodwork would clog my screen. I don’t even pay mind to the fact the tiny red circle always has a “99+” in it because I never clear them all. Nope. But I do try to open the app regularly so that I catch anything important.
Anything like a message from Tabby-cat.
T: How did your practice go?
Jesus. What do I say to that? Eventful? Depressing? Same old shit, different day?
R: Run of the mill. Get the rest of your food home safely? Or is there a Hansel and Gretel trail from where you dropped the milk to your door?
The blue circle switches to her profile pic. Hello, kitty. I watch the dancing dots, mesmerized by them while I alternate which hand holds the phone, and which one gets warm.
T: Shouldn’t you be on stage?
My lips kick up on one side. Does that mean she’s following our tour now?
R: Fifteen minutes or so. Whatchya doin?
Her dots dance, then stop, then dance. I could skip the show and happily cozy up beside this flame from heaven and watch her dots dance all night, knowing it meant another little glimpse at the girl behind the tough façade.
T: You really want to know? I promise it’s not as glamorous as your life.
Oh, she has no idea. Life is never glamorous; you can just afford to mask the ugly truth better the more money you have to spend on the illusion.
R: Give me something to think about, Tabby-cat.
T: Like you’ll have any time to think…
R: Maybe not for the next two hours, but I’ve got all night, baby.
Her dots don’t show. Too forward? Did I push it a bit far with that one?
“Ten minutes, guys!”
I throw up a hand to show I heard, the tension melting from my shoulders as her dots begin to skip again.
T: I’m in bed, listening to music while I write my own. Leave it up to your imagination whether I sleep naked, or not ;)
Snap. There she is, that little vixen she likes to pretend doesn’t simmer beneath all that anger. The text at the top of the thread changes from “Active now” to “Active 1m ago.” She’s switched off. Left me hanging.
Girl sure knows how to play, and she’s got me holding on like a fool. I lock my phone and leave it in the secure area before giving my reflection the once-over. My hair’s spiked as usual, my clothing black on black.
I’m at ease, comfortable, and entirely in my element. And thanks to Tabby-cat, horny as a motherfucker.
Going to be one hell of a show.
TWENTY-FOUR
Tabitha
“Heart-Shaped Box” - Nirvana
The snap of my neck as my head lolls forward wakes me up in a flash. Fast enough that my addled brain leaves me nauseous. I tried to stay awake until after Rey’s show would be finished, I really did. But given the last few days, I’m exhausted. Heaven knows how he does it.
Probably with one or two illegal substances in his system.
I don’t exactly know what I waited for, anyway. Another cheeky message? Another rub to my ego?
Don’t make it out to be more than it is, Tab. He probably thinks the messages are a bit of fun: the celebrity rock star playing with the gullible pauper violinist. He taps out one harmless enough question, and I metaphorically spread my goddamn legs for him.
Leave it up to your imagination if I sleep naked…. Pfft. What the hell am I doing? I’ve got no interest in a guy like him. Do I?
Like the weak individual I am, I reach for my phone and seek out his validation. Is my self-esteem really that low, that I’m resorting to innuendo-laden messaging with a guy who could easily tear my career to shreds with one lash of his tongue?
Yes. Yes it is.
I wake the screen, giddy to find a message waiting from Rey. Even more thrilling is the fact he sent it less than an hour ago and that he’s still online. Eep! It must have come through as I dozed off.
R: I’m putting money on you not sleeping naked. I’m seeing a cute little tank and booty-short combo, maybe kittens with ice cream cones as the print, maybe polka dots. I can’t imagine you being reckless enough to risk the paper cuts to sensitive areas if you’re writing music like you say.
T: Maybe I don’t write on paper? Can’t get a paper cut with an iPad.
My heart matches the pace of his dots as he words a reply.
R: See, now you’re starting something very, very dangerous, kitty.
R: Shouldn’t you be asleep?
All manner of sex-orientated replies flit through my mind; he’s left it wide open for me. Yet I hold on to the last strands of my restraint and type a simple reply.
T: Shouldn’t you be out partying it up or whatever rock stars do after a show?
R: Hate to disappoint you, babe, but you shouldn’t believe everything you read. I’m tucked up in bed, ready to rest up before tomorrow night’s show. Leave it up to your imagination if I’m naked or not ;)
Hot damn. I fan myself with the phone. All I can hear is the sound of my blood as it whooshes through my ears. Dangerous is a mild understatement when it comes to the fine line we walk.
T: I’m picking you don’t like the cold much—most pampered types don’t—so you’re all wrapped up in a super sexy, alluring onesie, complete with the buttoned-up butt flap.
I get a line of teary-eyed laughing emoticons in reply… right before the now-familiar Messenger alert sings out as my screen changes. Shit. Totally not prepared for this. I run a quick hand over my hair, and then the side of my finger under my eyes, before checking the sheet is high under my arms and tapping to answer.
“Ha!” I’m greeted with a huge grin. The fact his head and shoulders fill the screen, hair fanned out on the pillow, tells me he holds the phone above him in bed. “Knew it.”
“What?” I glance down, and then back at the tiny picture in the corner that shows me what he sees.
“I figured if you took ages to answer, it meant you were naked and needed to get dressed. But you answered in five seconds, so I’m right: you wear pajamas to bed.”
I cock an eyebrow. “No kittens or ice creams though.”
He makes a mock sad face, shifting around in the bed to seemingly get more comfortable. “Can’t have it all, I suppose.”
“Well?” I square my shoulders and cock an eyebrow. “What about you?”
He smirks, the sort that I’m sure has destroyed thousands of hearts, and twists the phone to scan down his body. The blankets lift out of the way, the camera panning across his notably tattooed chest, and then down over his flat, yet undefined stomach. I suck in a sharp breath, waiting for the edge of the screen to crest past that telltale V, certain he’s only winding me up because he has boxers on, yet the image blurs as he whips it
back to his face with a chuckle.
“That’s as far as I’m going.”
“What?” I say with a laugh. “You could still be either. That doesn’t answer the question.”
He grins. “I sleep completely in the buff, kitty.”
Lord have mercy. That glimpse just ramped itself up the hotness stakes times one hundred.
“How the fuck did our conversation go from spilled milk to this?” I muse.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Dunno. But I’m not complaining.”
Neither. But that doesn’t appease the icky feeling in my gut that says this has only got one way to go: south. Nothing wholesome or worthwhile can come from what we’re doing.
His eyes hood a little as he seems to wait on me to speak next. I slouch a little against the headboard and decide to run with honesty as the best option. “Why me?” My mother always taught me to let people know where they stand with you—I’m not about to go changing that now, just because he’s famous.
“How do you mean?” Rey frowns, tossing his free arm over his head.
I pause to read the script along his forearm. Everyone is a moon.
“Kitty?”
I snap my attention back to his face. “Sorry.”
“I asked why you said ‘why me?’” His hand flexes, drawing my focus back to the quote.
It’s weird. I want to know what it means, its significance.
“I, um.” I frown, thrown by the ink. “You could pick anyone, Rey,” I explain, my focus slowly seeping back over to my original interest. “So why chat to me?”
“Am I bothering you?” His entire mood shifts, so noticeably that I swear I feel the chill in my room.
“No.” I set the phone against my bent legs and tuck my arms under the blanket. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I had a father who lied to me for most of my childhood—I know bullshit when I hear it.
His hand flexes again, drawing my focus back to the gothic script.
“If you’re going to pretend that nothing is wrong, then at least humor me and tell me what that means.” I nod toward the top of the screen.
He seems to take a moment to realize what I gesture to before he slowly brings his arm down and appears to read the words. “Everyone is a moon?”
“Yeah. What does that mean?”
“Kitty…” His lips kick up, his mood doing a complete one-eighty. “Does this mean I’m more cultured than you?”
Ugh. I roll my eyes. “For this moment, let’s say yes.”
He chuckles. “It’s a Mark Twain quote.”
“You read Mark Twain?” I lift one eyebrow.
He smiles sheepishly. “Nope. But I know some of his words. That’s cultured enough, right?”
His laugh is infectious, yet not quite enough to make me forget the deeply disturbed Rey that peeked out from behind this mask mere seconds ago.
“The whole quote goes ‘Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.’”
My gut bottoms out. There it is: the reason for that shift in mood. “Why does that mean so much to you?” I ask carefully.
“Why do you care?” he asks with nothing short of snark. “Would my answer change how you feel about me?”
“What is the answer, Rey?” I bite. No, it wouldn’t change a thing. But it would sure explain a lot. He’s been up and down like a goddamn whack-a-mole, and if I can pick that from two ten-minute Messenger conversations, then what the hell is it like to tour with him? “I’m only asking because I want to learn more about you.”
“Now I’m calling bullshit,” he snaps.
I hold my breath, chewing on my bottom lip as he huffs and looks away.
“Maybe it’s time we both got some rest,” he says in a monotone. “Good night, kitty.”
His finger comes toward the screen before it cuts to black. I’m still stunned by the complete and utter shutdown, unable to think of what to say, let alone come up with anything fast enough to stop him disconnecting.
What the hell was that? So he has darkness inside of him. Don’t we all? Why is he so touchy about it?
I tap on my screen to save it going to sleep, and then send a quick message before closing the Messenger app.
T: I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I was genuinely curious. I don’t know enough about you to judge you. Sleep well.
Fuck knows, I won’t.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rey
“Black Hole Sun” - Soundgarden
The following night’s show was flat, despite the fact the rain decided to hold out. The crowd was pumping; it wasn’t their fault. Nope. It was all me… as usual. Hard to have a kick-ass show when the front man would rather lie on his back in a dark room and listen to Pink Floyd on repeat.
I didn’t sleep much. Couldn’t find it in me to relax when my mind decided to open the old albums, dust off the home videos, and show me a play-by-play of why I’m such a goddamn fuckup. “It’s all in your head” is the most common response I get from people who genuinely think they’re trying to help. “You need to think positive.”
Trust me, fucker, I’ve tried. I try daily. Fuck. Every goddamn hour of every goddamn day. Do you know how demeaning it is to stand before a mirror and try to do the exercise laid down to you by a shrink—tell yourself five things that you appreciate about who you are—and to fail after number two? Nope? Well then I bow down to you.
I know it’s all in my head. It’s chemical, it’s mental… whatever the fuck it is, the most important thing to know about a condition like this is it doesn’t go away. You learn how to manage it, and some days you fail.
Kitty asked me a simple, honest question and I froze. I mean, fuck it, I put the fucking words on my skin so that people would see them. So why did I choke?
Why am I now sitting here six days later on a goddamn bus to our next stop on the tour, constantly waking my phone so it goes back to her message on my screen?
“Googling how to get a stick out of your ass?” Emery asks as he drops onto the narrow bench seat beside me.
I kill the screen and then slide my phone onto the small table facedown. “How much longer do we have before I can get out of this fucking sardine tin?”
He squints as though consulting some map in his head. “Less than an hour, I reckon.”
“How the fuck do you know that without looking?” I tease, leaning back and spreading my arms wide across the back of the seat.
He gives me a cheeky grin while thumbing over his shoulder. “Saw the sign back there.” Emery jerks his chin toward my phone. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope.”
He shrugs. “Don’t blame me then when you’re chugging pills and crying for your mom.” He rises out of the seat, yet stalls when I block him by stretching my leg out under the table.
“Sit down.”
He drops wordlessly, allowing me his undivided attention.
“Would the band do better with a new front man?”
He visibly pales. “What?”
“I wreck the mood, right? I want to know your honest opinion: Do you think there’d be more cohesion, that the new material would flow easier without my shit getting in the way?”
He sighs out his nose, slouching into the seat. “Is this you breaking up with me, man? Because I thought we were in this ’til death do us part.”
I chuckle. “Nope. No break up, sweet cheeks.” My face falls before I press again. “I really want to know what you think, though.”
He pauses a moment, staring out the window on the opposite side of the bus as the scenery buzzes by. Kris sits up near the driver, knees up against his chest as he plays Xbox. Toby lies crashed out in one of the narrow beds, snoring his ass off. Turns out the rain didn’t agree much with him, either, and he’s got a fucking head cold.
“Look,” Emery starts, drawing my focus back to him. “You are who you are, Rey. Take away the mood swings, the arrogance when you’re happy, and the dra
ma when you’re not… what would be left just wouldn’t be you. You get me?”
I shrug one shoulder. “I think so.”
“My point is, if you’re unhappy, then change what’s within your control. But don’t go trying to be somebody else.”
“That’s fucking deep for you,” I tease in an effort to deflect from the fact I want to hug the shit out of his sorry ass.
He gives a soft smile as he rises again. “Sometimes I can be honest, too.”
Fucker hits me right in the feels as he walks away to rib Kris. I twist my lips and stare at the phone before me. It wasn’t Kitty’s doing that I can’t stomach talking about my issues. Not her problem that giving voice to my faults makes me loathe myself even more. Denial is a pretty flower that grows in your shade when the garden around you withers in the heat.
R: How did you learn our song so fast?
I reread the message after I’ve sent it and mentally slap myself for how cold and blunt it comes across.
R: I never told you how fucking awesome it sounded.
There. At least now she knows I’m asking not because I doubt her talent, but because I really was impressed.
It takes half an hour before she replies. Half an hour where I sit and replay the last few weeks through my head. If I’d looked hard enough, the signs were there that I was due to crash again. I’d hit a high. We stepped off that plane for our impromptu layover and I thought I was a fucking god among men.
I’d reached mania. And what follows mania? The slide.
T: I learn by ear.
Her reply is short, and most definitely not sweet. Can’t blame her, though, when I’ve been radio silent for the better part of a week.
R: I apologize for being a complete asshole.
T: I’m legit framing this message.
Emery glances over as I chuckle at her reply, concern in his eyes. I ignore the justification behind that, and settle in to talk to Tabby-cat.
R: Don’t tell me you’re surprised that the spoilt rock star would be such a jackass?
T: To quote my mother (shoot me now) I’m not angry, just disappointed.
