Since I had slept in late and then had that nap out by the pool, I wasn’t ready for bed yet so took a seat at the table in the center of the bus and set up my makeshift editing studio around me. I turned off the sound on my phone and used my laptop to go through social media and my video from the day as, one by one, everyone headed back to their bunks.
I’d hoped Max would stay up, and we’d be able to chat in relative privacy but either he missed my telepathic plea for him to stay up or was intentionally ignoring it because when he and Darren finished a race on their NASCAR video game, they both decided it was time to hit their bunks. As they passed by me, Darren wished me a good night, but Max barely spared me a glance and muttered something that I didn’t catch.
Damn. Grabbing his arm and stopping him would have been awkward and something he would have hated. If there was one thing I had learned about Max, it was that he would only speak on his own terms. Trying to force him would just piss him off and would never work. But maybe a bit of gentle prodding would.
Once it was just me up front, I gave him a few minutes to get settled in his bunk and grabbed my phone.
As I unlocked the screen, I noticed there was a message from Ted that I hadn’t seen come in—my phone had been in my pocket most of the night since I didn’t want to get it all sticky with marshmallow.
The message was a casual, how’s it going? that I would have loved, had it come before this morning’s drama with Max. But now? Now, it was surprisingly...irritating.
Huh. What did that say, that a message from the guy I’d hooked up with barely twenty-four hours before was irritating?
It said a lot. And while my first instinct was to pretend I hadn’t seen it or tell him I was zonked in bed and I’d talk to him later (and then not follow up), the responsible thing to do would be to nip this all in the bud. And not just because I was all about being responsible these days, but because if I didn’t deal with it, it would just get weirder and weirder.
Hi. It’s going ok. I was about to ask him how his day was but didn’t want to get pulled into an actual conversation. Best to rip that bandage off. Listen. I think maybe it would be smart if we didn’t text anymore.
There was a long pause, long enough for me to presume he was asleep and put down my phone and try to pretend to go back to video editing before I received: are you breaking up with me? By text? The rare smilie he added after helped with context, but I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he was joking. I sure hoped so. I didn’t want to make things unnecessarily tense.
There’s nothing to break up, I sent. You knew it was just a one-time thing. But talking makes it harder.
That earned me a frowny face.
I would have thought it cute that he was starting to use emojis with me, but that was before. Now, it was just sort of panic-inducing. Was he really upset? He couldn’t be heartbroken, could he? I wasn’t so full of myself that I thought he liked me that much, but he had said he wished he could see this through, to see if it really could go somewhere and I’d agreed. At the time, at least. Now, it just felt impulsive and foolish.
Ted, you know it wouldn’t make sense.
I know. I’m just teasing. I like you Sandy. I hope we can be friends when we cross paths.
Since I didn’t see that happening, like, ever, it was easy to send back a gushy message, assuring him that we’d always be friends and I hoped to see him down the road.
I did expect that I’d see him everywhere—online, on the covers of Rolling Stone and Billboard, on TV doing interviews. But in person? Nope. Not likely at all.
He wished me well in what felt like a very final goodbye, and I did the same, surprised at how relieved I suddenly felt.
I took a few moments to take some breaths and feel good about ending that before I opened a text window to Max.
You okay? I sent.
Yeah. All is good, he returned immediately, as though he was waiting for my message.
Want to come back out and talk?
Not really.
Crap. Did this mean we had gone backward? Why did I always feel like I was standing in the middle of a seesaw when it came to him? It was like every conversation could go either way.
I barely had time to lament how unsettled he made me feel before I received: Sorry. Nothing against you. I’m just wrung out.
He was still typing so I waited for the rest without responding.
All is ok. Tony and I talked. He’s a good guy. Understanding.
He is that, I agreed. I wanted so bad to be able to wrap my arms around Max because I figured wrung out barely scratched the surface of what he was feeling. But I considered it great restraint on my part that I resisted and just offered him what he needed, which was encouragement and a person who was willing to just be there for him and not push for more.
That sort of went out the window two seconds later when I couldn’t help myself and had to ask: so what’s the plan? Next steps?
The three dots taunted me as he typed out a long message: He has a shrink who is going to fly out to meet us in San Fran tomorrow. When I told T about the booze, he said talking to a dr. is a condition of me staying on.
Wow, good for Tony for being understanding but making sure Max got the help he needed. You okay with that?
Obviously, he’d agreed to it since he was still on the bus, but I wanted to know how he actually felt about it.
Yes. I need it. I didn’t think so before, but I do. You’ve been great to talk to but you’re right that I need a pro. T says he’ll stay as long as I need him.
I suddenly felt like the Grinch right after his heart had grown. Max was going to get better, and I had helped—two of my favorite things. Maybe if working in music didn’t work out...
That’s great, Max.
I’m relieved, actually. I am so f-ing tired of being sad and angry.
I know you are, I sent.
There was a long pause where I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe he didn’t either. But then he somehow figured out the perfect thing, which was: YOU made me realize I didn’t have to be sad and angry anymore. Thank you, T-bow.
It was the first time he’d ever used the nickname Darren had given me, and it made my heart ache even more but in a totally good way. I didn’t even know I was crying until a tear landed on my phone.
I’d thought he hated me and now, now that I knew why he’d been that way toward me, everything was different. A million times a day, all I wanted to do was pull him into my arms and...well, I don’t know what I wanted to do. Or maybe I did, especially after that moment out by the shed, but I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, and definitely not him.
And the last thing he needed right now was a hookup anyway.
You’re welcome, I sent, even though the words were terribly inadequate and couldn’t begin to sum up what I felt at that moment. But they’d have to do because I knew instinctively that less was more. Now go to sleep and let me cut this tape, k?
He sent me a smilie and a good night.
I wiped away another stray tear, suddenly glad I was alone up front because it would have been weird to have to explain not just the tears but this new connection Max and I had. Especially because I would have to leave out a very big detail. That one where he’d kissed me, and it had turned me inside out.
My fingers rose to my lips as I remembered the feel of his mouth on mine. How right it had seemed in some ways and so wrong in others. I tried to push thoughts of him aside because I couldn’t afford to get mixed up with him. He needed to heal, not have more complications.
But the more I tried to not think about him, the more I did. And my brain kept wanting to relive and analyze that kiss down to every millisecond.
With a sigh, I closed up my laptop and secured it before I grabbed a big glass of water to take up to Gary. Maybe a late-night conversation with him would be just what I needed to clear my brain of thoughts about Max and that scorching kiss.
But overall, yeah, it had been a very good day.
Under the Bus
By the time I woke the next morning, we were parked at the San Francisco venue. It was late morning, and it only took me a second of listening to know it was just Gary and me left on the bus.
It made sense since everyone else would already be inside the hall, doing sound checks, rehearsals, and generally getting ready for the evening show. I probably should have gotten up to go with them, but after my late night, chatting with Gary about nothing in particular as we motored down the road, I treated myself to a little sleep-in time. Anyway, I had a ton of sound check footage already, and it’s not like it differed much from show to show.
Although, as I thought about it, tonight might be Chris’s first actual show now that he’d returned from the surgery that had made him miss the beginning of tour, the reason Will was even on board.
Damn. I probably should have gotten up to capture Chris’s first rehearsal and sound check. But after a moment of regret, I realized I’d be at the actual show and would make up for it. Assuming Chris was even playing, of course.
I’d have to find out from Nessa on what Tony was planning for the guys because I doubted that he’d have all six on stage at the same time. Or, on second thought, maybe he would. If he was going by basic boy band math: six hot guys on stage is always better than five. More is more.
With that thought in mind as I left the washroom with a smile, I headed up to the front of the bus to fortify with caffeine. “Good morning,” I said to Gary, who was sitting at the table with his regular cup of sleepytime tea, his pre-bed ritual.
“Hey, Sandy. How’d you sleep?”
“Not near long enough,” I said as I put a pod in the coffee machine and hit the button before I turned back toward him. I leaned back against the counter and crossed my arms. “Though it’s my own fault. Quality over quantity, I guess.”
“You should make sure you get more rest. It’ll catch up with you. Sleep is important. You’ll learn that as you get older.”
He sounded a little judgy, but I knew it was coming not only from a place of caring but also experience. If anyone knew how to survive tour life, it was Gary. And I secretly liked that he cared so much. Between him and Tony, I sort of felt like I had two dads on tour which was nice, since a lot of times, I felt like I didn’t even have one dad.
Speaking of, I pulled out my phone, but still nothing. Hmm.
“Sandy?” Gary said, pulling my focus back to him.
“What’s that?”
“You heading out there?” he asked, with a nod toward the window and the building beyond.
The coffee machine gurgled and hissed, signaling it was done. “No.” I pulled my mug out from under the spigot and reached into the fridge for cream. “I was going to be nice and take everyone’s sheets to a laundromat. This bus smells like a campfire.”
“Oh good,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I’m glad it isn’t just me who thinks so.”
I took a big gulp of my coffee, cursing the burn, and started back toward the bunks. “I’ll do yours first and make it up,” I said. “Then you can hit the hay.”
He shook his head at me. “You don’t have to make my bed, Sandy.”
“It’s okay,” I said, patting his shoulder as I passed him. “I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do for my late night buddy.”
He smiled up at me and reached for his tea. “You’re a good kid,” he said. Which was totally worth making up his bed for him.
The other guys, well, they’d just owe me.
Nessa always left out a list of local car and other services we might need in each town, so after texting her to let her know I was off on an errand, I took it upon myself to order myself a vehicle. When it arrived, I took the big sacks of sheets to the laundromat.
Two short hours later, I wasn’t just done loading a bunch of posts on social media, but I was heading back to the bus with fresh sheets for everyone. Still warm from the dryer even. It would be many hours before they’d even notice, let alone make use of them, but I still felt proud of myself for my good deed and knew it would be appreciated.
As the driver pulled into the secure lot behind the building and up to the bus, it didn’t take a detective to know something was going on.
There were two men approaching the coach with purpose, both looking about middle-aged, so they likely weren’t fans (nor, obviously, Max’s overzealous fan, a fact for which I was very thankful). They were probably from the venue, but it seemed weird that they would come out to the bus when everyone else was inside, leaving Gary to sleep in peace.
Speaking of, I didn’t want him disturbed, so I quickly thanked my driver, signed the slip, and launched out of the back of the town car as quickly as I could, laden with my heavy bags of laundry.
“Hellooooo?” I yelled as I hurried over to them, trying to head them off before they got to the door of the bus. “Can I help you?”
As they turned, they both looked really official—definitely not excited music fans. Then I thought one of them was probably Tony’s shrink, which made sense. He’d come to the bus, looking for Max and must have brought an associate.
“Hi,” I said, a little out of breath as I rushed up to them. “Tony and the others are all inside.” I pointed toward the building.
The men exchanged a look that I couldn’t interpret before they turned back to me. The shorter man spoke, “We’re looking for Sandrine Thibeault. Is that you?”
I’ve never been a good liar or even a mediocre hider of my emotions, so when they both looked at me like they knew exactly who I was and the question was merely a formality, there was a chance my reaction to them had confirmed it. Although, looking back, they probably had pictures of me, so they knew who they were looking for. Either way, there was no point trying to hide my identity. Especially when, at that moment, I realized they were wearing uniformed golf shirts.
And badges on chains around their necks.
The clearly visible logo on their shirts identified them as U.S. Marshals, causing my heart to kick up into a sprint. Whatever they wanted with me, it couldn’t be good, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, U.S. Marshals don’t show up unannounced to invite you to go to Cirque du Soleil with them. This was not going to be a party.
A bead of sweat slid down my spine, and it wasn’t from the heat of the sun blazing down on me. Though that didn’t exactly help. I set down the laundry, hoping it would help me think.
Then, I cleared my throat and tried to paste a polite non-guilty smile on my face. “That’s me.” I glanced toward the building, praying for Tony to come out. Please come out, please come out, pleeeeeeease cooooooome oooooooooout. “I’m Sandy Thibeault.”
“We’re Marshals, Ms. Thibeault.”
I crossed my arms and kept my mouth shut, only nodding in acknowledgment because I didn’t think they would appreciate a well, duh. Then I realized my crossed arms probably made me look defensive. I had nothing to hide or feel guilty about. Did I? Could I have done something wrong that I didn’t even know about? Could I be convicted of a crime without ever having known I did it? All these things went through my head as I stood there, panic taking over my brain and sweat glands.
“We need a few minutes to talk to you,” the shorter guy said, gesturing toward the bus. “Should we go inside?”
I’m no lawyer, but I’ve seen enough TV to know my rights. Or to know that I should at the very least pretend I knew my rights because I didn’t really. I mean, I was just a teenager who had never been in trouble before—what would I know about the law? “What’s this about?” I asked, shoving my hands into my jean shorts pockets to keep from fidgeting.
“It’s best if we talk in private,” the taller officer said.
“I think I should talk to my parents first,” I said, not moving toward the bus.
The shorter guy took a deep breath and looked like he was about to say something, but it was the taller guy who spoke first, “Your parents are in custody, that’s why—”
“Sandy?” cam
e from behind the men, a voice that I was so relieved to hear that I almost fell to my knees. But wait, had they just said...
“What’s going on here?” Tony said as he approached and came up beside me, a fatherly hand landing on my shoulder.
“Sir, we need to talk with Ms. Thibeault. In private.”
Tony didn’t move. “She’s a minor. What is this about?”
The men exchanged another look. “Are you her guardian?” short guy asked.
“Not legally,” Tony said. “But she’s my responsibility. Tony Capri...” He took his hand off my shoulder to shake hands with each of the Marshals as they introduced themselves to him. Then, I guess they realized they should probably introduce themselves to me.
I shook their hands reluctantly, learning that taller officer was named Kramer and the shorter one was Kobalski. I had to force myself not to smile because Kramer and Kobalski sounded like a cheesy sitcom. They wouldn’t even need to hire actors, they fit the roles so well.
Cheesy or not, this wasn’t something to laugh about. Stuff had just gotten very real. Except my panic made me feel jittery and almost hysterical—nervous laughter could totally erupt from me at any time without warning, which made me even more nervous. Not good.
“Perhaps we should go to our office,” Kramer said. “We have some questions.”
Tony folded his arms, looking more defiant than guilty, a look I was sure I wouldn’t have been able to pull off. But wow, was I ever glad he’d happened by when he did. “You still haven’t said what this is about.”
The Marshals exchanged another glance that would totally be their signature move—the one they’d do at least once per show, cueing the laugh track—before Kobalski nodded sharply at his partner and said, “It’s concerning her father.”
Surprise, surprise. I sighed as the urge to laugh finally dissolved. I looked at Tony apologetically; it was confession time.
He must have known it, too. “Can we have a moment?” he said to the agents. “We’ll just go inside for a minute.”
Working for the Band Page 18
