is ridiculous,” she said. “How are we going to make it through the next month?”
“Lots of masturbation,” he said. “That’s my plan, at least.”
She laughed. “Drastic measures.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave him one of those teasing sideways glances that women were so good at and that always drove him wild. “You think we’ll make it the whole four weeks?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “there’s not a fucking chance.”
* * *
He woke when the bus stopped and rolled over to check his phone. It was noon; they had probably stopped for lunch. He had been asleep for nine hours. He had that murky underwater feeling that came from sleeping too much.
He rolled out of his bunk and went to the front of the bus. The door was open, and the driver was gone. A quick glance out the window indicated that they were at a truck stop.
James was the only person in the front lounge. He was sitting on the couch looking at his phone, and he glanced up when O’Connor stumbled in. “Look who’s finally up.”
“I need my beauty sleep,” O’Connor said. He yawned, and his jaw cracked. “Where are we?”
“Central Oregon,” James said. “Just south of Eugene. Hungry?”
“Yeah,” O’Connor said. He yawned again and scratched his face. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Loitering in the parking lot,” James said. “Rushani’s rounding everybody up.”
“Is Andrew out there?” O’Connor asked. He wanted to remind Andrew of his promise to talk to Rushani. They would be in Portland in a couple of hours. Andrew was running out of time.
“Yeah,” James said. “He was up really early this morning. I got up around 10 and he was already up and drinking coffee.”
Weird, but not unheard of. Andrew kept strange hours. “You’re not eating?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” James said. “I’m replying to comments on Instagram.”
“You’re obsessed,” O’Connor said. “Let it go, man.”
James frowned at him. “Someone has to do it. Social media is the primary way that we can develop relationships with fans—”
“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” O’Connor said. “Just don’t expect me to fool around with it.”
“You have the social skills of an eggplant,” James said. “Don’t worry.”
O’Connor flipped him off and climbed off the bus.
The sun was directly overhead, and so bright that O’Connor raised one hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the parking lot. Andrew was standing in the shade toward the rear of the bus, looking at his phone and oblivious to his surroundings, like an unsuspecting antelope in one of those nature documentaries Rushani liked to watch: defenseless, isolated from the herd.
O’Connor moved in for the kill. “Morning, Andrew.”
Andrew’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want?”
What a friendly and delightful person. O’Connor cut to the chase. “Have you talked to Rushani yet?”
Andrew didn’t bother playing dumb. He hunched his shoulders, drawing them up toward his ears. “I said I would.”
“But you haven’t yet,” O’Connor said. “You’re almost out of time—”
“I know ,” Andrew snapped. “Back off, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” O’Connor said. “Whatever you say.”
Rushani emerged from the other bus and waved one arm toward the truck stop in a sweeping 90-degree arc. Time to eat.
He located Leah in the crowd of musicians and roadies moving toward the restaurant. She wasn’t hard to spot: there were only five women on the tour, and Leah was a full head taller than any of them. He looked for the chestnut sweep of her hair and headed in that direction. He had already given up on the pretense of coincidence, the stupid little fancy-running-into-you-here games that were such a staple of the early stages of flirtation. Leah knew it wasn’t a coincidence, and there was no point pretending otherwise. It was sort of a relief to dispense with all that. Under any
“Lots of masturbation,” he said. “That’s my plan, at least.”
She laughed. “Drastic measures.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and gave him one of those teasing sideways glances that women were so good at and that always drove him wild. “You think we’ll make it the whole four weeks?”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “there’s not a fucking chance.”
* * *
He woke when the bus stopped and rolled over to check his phone. It was noon; they had probably stopped for lunch. He had been asleep for nine hours. He had that murky underwater feeling that came from sleeping too much.
He rolled out of his bunk and went to the front of the bus. The door was open, and the driver was gone. A quick glance out the window indicated that they were at a truck stop.
James was the only person in the front lounge. He was sitting on the couch looking at his phone, and he glanced up when O’Connor stumbled in. “Look who’s finally up.”
“I need my beauty sleep,” O’Connor said. He yawned, and his jaw cracked. “Where are we?”
“Central Oregon,” James said. “Just south of Eugene. Hungry?”
“Yeah,” O’Connor said. He yawned again and scratched his face. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Loitering in the parking lot,” James said. “Rushani’s rounding everybody up.”
“Is Andrew out there?” O’Connor asked. He wanted to remind Andrew of his promise to talk to Rushani. They would be in Portland in a couple of hours. Andrew was running out of time.
“Yeah,” James said. “He was up really early this morning. I got up around 10 and he was already up and drinking coffee.”
Weird, but not unheard of. Andrew kept strange hours. “You’re not eating?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” James said. “I’m replying to comments on Instagram.”
“You’re obsessed,” O’Connor said. “Let it go, man.”
James frowned at him. “Someone has to do it. Social media is the primary way that we can develop relationships with fans—”
“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” O’Connor said. “Just don’t expect me to fool around with it.”
“You have the social skills of an eggplant,” James said. “Don’t worry.”
O’Connor flipped him off and climbed off the bus.
The sun was directly overhead, and so bright that O’Connor raised one hand to shield his eyes as he scanned the parking lot. Andrew was standing in the shade toward the rear of the bus, looking at his phone and oblivious to his surroundings, like an unsuspecting antelope in one of those nature documentaries Rushani liked to watch: defenseless, isolated from the herd.
O’Connor moved in for the kill. “Morning, Andrew.”
Andrew’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want?”
What a friendly and delightful person. O’Connor cut to the chase. “Have you talked to Rushani yet?”
Andrew didn’t bother playing dumb. He hunched his shoulders, drawing them up toward his ears. “I said I would.”
“But you haven’t yet,” O’Connor said. “You’re almost out of time—”
“I know ,” Andrew snapped. “Back off, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay,” O’Connor said. “Whatever you say.”
Rushani emerged from the other bus and waved one arm toward the truck stop in a sweeping 90-degree arc. Time to eat.
He located Leah in the crowd of musicians and roadies moving toward the restaurant. She wasn’t hard to spot: there were only five women on the tour, and Leah was a full head taller than any of them. He looked for the chestnut sweep of her hair and headed in that direction. He had already given up on the pretense of coincidence, the stupid little fancy-running-into-you-here games that were such a staple of the early stages of flirtation. Leah knew it wasn’t a coincidence, and there was no point pretending otherwise. It was sort of a relief to dispense with all that. Under any
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