The Heart Rate of A Mouse Vol 1 PDF

The Heart Rate of a Mouse
Anna Green
Copyright 2010 by Beggar’s Notes Inc.
This book is a non-profit publication, but Green encourages readers to donate to LGBT,
HIV and animal welfare organisations. The author does not financially gain from this
publication. This is a work of fan fiction, initially made available online. The characters,
incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be
construed as real.
PROLOGUE
I should never be trusted to drive a vehicle of any kind; not because I am a lousy
driver, but because I tighten my grip of the wheel with every passing truck. I
look in the newspaper every day for that one headline of a car crash where they
simply don’t know what happened. Maybe the driver lost control of the car.
Suffered a seizure. Was trying to dodge a child running across the street.
Something to explain why his car and insides ended up painting the front of a
Canadian frozen goods truck on its way from Montreal to Detroit.
I drove from Portland to Los Angeles once. It was a pleasant trip,
heading south, the air getting warmer and the people more tanned. It took me
four days to drive because I kept getting distracted and took a small detour in
Nevada where I got drunk as hell with a guy who had worked as a circus clown
all of his life. We were exactly alike, me and him. It’s easy to distract me because
I never know what I should be paying attention to. Is it a new guitar model, the
glimpse of something better and more dignified, a pair of brown eyes that
always amplified the smile on perfectly shaped lips? During my West Coast
road trip, I lost count of the times I saw an oncoming car and considered
twisting the wheel to the left. Crash. Bang. Smoke.
I don’t know if anyone else has these thoughts when they drive. I’ve
never asked. When I crashed the tour bus back in ’74, I found myself wondering
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PROLOGUE
if it was on purpose or not. I didn’t mean to do it, but maybe I subconsciously

wanted to.
For a while, we thought Joe would never walk again.
Now I’m driving in a Chevy rental, navigating from O’Hare to an
address scribbled on a napkin in messy handwriting that isn’t mine. The car is
brown, a light brown that resembles baby shit. It was the only one they had left.
The wipers make a wheezing sound as they try to battle away the heavy, wet
snowfall.
“Are you nervous?”
I don’t bother looking at the kid on the passenger seat. “No.”
“Brent said,” he begins, launching into yet another lie someone has said
about me. People love to talk and talk and talk about me, “that, during Jackie,
you were so nervous that you got drunk before every show.”
“He flatters me,” I note, annoyed that this one isn’t a lie at all – the only
way I could deal with the pressure of a ten thousand-headed crowd was
alcohol. Thanks, Brent, that one will make me look good. No. It will make me
look like a victim. Maybe that’s a good thing.
“He also said that it got better during the second leg. You drank less,
were more focused. You know, after you met him,” he points out obnoxiously. I
resist the urge to steer the car off the road just to shut him up, and when he
takes in his dying breath, mouthing an anguished ‘Why?’, I’ll tell him why:
because he couldn’t hold his damn tongue.
The white snow turns an ugly shade of traffic fume black when it hits
the ground, making the surface of the road slippery, but I keep us on the road
for now. “Now Gabe. He said that you were never nervous during
the Pearl tour. I suppose you changed.”
“You love the sound of your own voice, huh?”
“Yup,” he beams, light brown locks falling in front of his enthusiastic
eyes. He has got a young, good-natured face he tries to mature with stubble, but
it’s still irrevocably made childlike by the bright energy that’s always there in
his words and actions. He’s got slightly hollow cheeks and narrow line-like lips,
and a forehead just a fraction tall enough to look like a mismatch. I concentrate
on driving, and he falls silent for a while. When he speaks, he sounds troubled.
“What if he’s forgotten? Or what if he’s still mad at you?”
“What if I’m still mad at him?”
“You’re not,” he says knowingly. I hate it when he’s right. The snowfall
is slowing down, and I shift in my seat uncomfortably and feel the seatbelt
scraping the side of my neck. “I’m nervous for you,” he concludes, the
excitement now back. I don’t need his nerves, support or shoulder to cry on. He
has no idea how much his enthusiasm wears me out. He looks at the map in his
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THE HEART RATE OF A MOUSE
lap. “Take the next left,” he commands, and I change lanes. “You know, I
wonder what he’s like. I’ve heard so much about him. It’s slightly surreal to
meet a stranger that you’ve pictured naked a dozen times. Well, actually, I
found this one picture in your house where he was in the nude, so –”
I pull up to the curb, coming to a fast stop. He tenses up, eyes wild as he
looks around. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve told you not to touch my fucking stuff,” I say again. Again. The
nosy little bastard. “Here, your stop,” I tell him and point out of his window to a
shop door that has green, cursive letters: C-A-F-É. “Go get yourself coffee.” Like
he needs to be more hyper.
His mouth drops open dramatically. “I’m coming with you!”
I grit my teeth and smile. “No, you’re not.” I glare at him, and he glares
back. “Out, Sisky! Out!”
Sisky throws his hands up into the air. “You’re seriously not letting me
witness the reunion that would make Romeo and Juliet seem like –”
“There was no reunion for those two – they died.”
“Oh.” Sisky pulls on his bottom lip uncertainly, but recovers quickly. “I
never finished the movie, truth be told. They spoke English in such a weird
way.”
I unbuckle myself and get out of the car. Chicago is cold, snowflakes
landing on my black coat and melting into it. I round the Chevy and open
Sisky’s door.
“Okay, okay!” the kid shouts, lifting up his hands. “I’m out! See! Look
at how out I am!” He scrunches his nose at the cold, looking more comic than
hurt as he shoots me a nasty look.
“I’ll come get you later,” I promise.
“If you don’t, I know where he lives!” He has taken out his black leather
notebook and is scribbling in it furiously, completely ignoring the sleet.
I stop at my open door and give him a disbelieving look. “Don’t take
notes now.”
“As the infamous Ryan Ross nervously re-entered the car, dumping his devoted
and loyal companion by the side of the road like yet another groupie he had loved then
abandoned like an unwanted kitten –”
I don’t hear the rest as the door slams shut and I take off. Sisky’s
reflection sulks into the café in the rear-view mirror, and I glance at the map on
his now empty seat. It doesn’t take me long to get where I’m going.
The car on the driveway is black and classy, this year’s model, a ‘79. It’s
much more tasteful than what I park in front of the house, and for a wild
moment, I hope none of the Chicagoans living on Brendon’s street notice the
has-been rock star arriving in such a tacky excuse of four tyres and a wheel. If it
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PROLOGUE
is Brendon’s house, which I have my doubts about. A young man with a guitar
case is coming down the street, and I wait for him to pass. It’s paranoia to fear
he’d recognise me, but I never did know what to say to the fans to begin with.
Music is not about the man behind it, and therefore any interest people
have in me is unwarranted. All they need to know, all they should want to
know, is already there in the music. And no one ever understood that apart
from me. They never –
But I don’t want to think about it anymore.
I take my bag to the door with me. It’s presumptuous, but with the final
shows being local, I’m assuming Brendon is staying at home. I shouldn’t assume
anything when it comes to him. I learned that the hard way.
The door opens on the fifth ring.
“Ye –”
The rest of Brendon’s sentence fades away as his eyes land on me.
Brendon looks a little older, which makes me realise how overdue I am. He has
a slightly off look that comes with his line of work, bags under his brown eyes. I
would know how that life throws anyone off balance. But if anything, he looks
more like a man, more mature. He keeps doing that to me. I don’t mind.
“Heard you’re shacking up in Chicago now,” I explain and state it like a
fact I have as much interest in as the heart rate of a mouse, the melting point of
silver. None at all.
“Yeah,” he nods tiredly, eyes averting, the cornered prey after an
exhausting hunt where he is the deer and I am the wolf. After a long, long time,
neither one of us seems to be running. Brendon doesn’t look surprised to see
me. I am not a predictable man; he could at least gasp a little. The tiniest bit. Just
to amuse me. I’m fucking surprised that I’m here.
“So much for being old friends,” I note and don’t give him a chance to
reply. “Invite me in for a beer.”
Brendon shakes his head. “I’m busy.”
Sisky was right. He is still mad.
“I’m busy too, but here I am anyway.”
I stare him down. My stomach curls up now that I am in his presence,
but he doesn’t sense it.
Brendon sighs and holds the door open, and I step into the living room,
throw my bag onto the couch. Being here, travelling across the country for the
one guy, the only guy who ever came out to look at the night sky with me and
invent new constellations, and I – Fucking hell. I will stand my ground and act
my best to convince myself that it means nothing to me. I lick my lips,
remember what he tastes like.
“One beer, but then I have to go,” Brendon mutters and heads for the
4
kitchen, and I stare after him quietly. He slows down and turns back around, a
hesitating look on his face. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”
“I was counting on it.”
He looks straight at me, and I am right back there in Ottawa, outside
Civic Center where we kissed next to the tour bus that I had not yet smashed.
I’m in the cabin up in Bismarck where I handed him some part of me that he
politely declined. I’m in San Francisco picking a fight with him, in New York
watching him go through records he doesn’t plan on buying as he sneaks
glances at me working behind the counter, and then we are on the backroom
floor, hoping to god Eric doesn’t come early for his shift. Brendon says, “I can
get you a backstage pass.”
“Could you get two? I came with this kid.”
“What kid?” His voice is tense.
“My stalker.”
He makes a disbelieving ‘tut’ with his tongue. “You sure know how to
pick your friends.”
“And lovers, though he’s not one of those,” I say calculatedly.
Brendon doesn’t deny that that’s what he was asking. “I can get two.”
“Thanks.”
He points at my bag. “You staying here tonight?”
“Sure,” I shrug. He nods nervously and heads for the kitchen.
I have swerved my car onto his lane, and we have collided yet again.
Crash.
Bang.
Smoke.
5
Volume 1:
Over the Tracks
"It must be love-gone-astray, or just plain perverse,

When one is led to hate what one loves,
Or to love what one hates."
- Henri d’Avranches
I
CHAPTER 1: THE APOCALYPSE AND TAKE IT FROM THERE
I have to be insane or suicidal. Maybe both, because the two certainly are not
mutually exclusive.
Pete sits across from me, a lazy smile on his lips. My mouth remains
hanging open as I look back to the paper and then back at him again.
“We can still make a few changes,” he informs me reassuringly, and it is
clear that he would be happy to squeeze a few more dates somewhere in there.
He would be pleased, the money hungry bastard. He is without a doubt the
most capitalistic hippie I know.
I pass the paper to Joe, who pushes frizzy, brown locks from his
handsome face and peers at the list of tour dates. His blue eyes light up, and
knowing him, it’s from the prospect of all the girls and all the partying he will
get to do. Brent leans over Joe’s shoulder, making approving sounds. I knew Joe
would be pleased, but Brent? Goddamn backstabber. Spencer takes the news
like a man, playing the mediator like he always does.
I shake my head, laugh in disbelief, and my bandmates take no notice of
me. “Come on!” I cry out to get the attention I deserve, and the words echo back
from the walls of Pete’s office. The noises from the outside offices of Capitol
momentarily go even muter, and in my mind’s eye, I see their interns and A&Rs
sneaking to eavesdrop outside Pete’s door.
“Is there a problem?” Pete asks calmly, his voice like peaceful waves
coming from the sea, gently making contact with the shore, his brown eyes
staring at me patiently. Black hair flops to cover his left eye, and that’s right.
Hide, you bastard.
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VOLUME 1
“Yes!”
I grab the sheet again and throw it at Pete. My hands are bound as far as
firing the fucker is concerned, but I can complain as loud as I can and let him
know that this front man is not happy. “What the fuck is this? I had agreed to a
summer tour, but this? Fuck! Five shows in New York? Why the hell do we
need to do five shows in goddamn New York?”
“They love you there. They love you everywhere, or have you slept
through the past few months? You guys are the shit right now, you’re groovy.
Also, you really should check your contract – you’ve already agreed to do this
tour. You can’t weasel out of this, Ryan.”
Pete has placed a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. My hands are
bound.
Spencer nudges my shoulder. “Not like you had other plans, right?” he
asks, but his voice conveys almost as much enthusiasm as I feel.
“I did have other plans,” I claim. Get drunk. Get laid. Get high. Write
songs. Record them. Refuse every interview that gets thrown at me. Spencer is a
good spokesperson; he can handle the press. Call up Dad, remind us both of the
constantly forgotten existence of a family and see if I can drive up to Bismarck to
spend a few weeks in his cabin, just me and the pine trees.
But no one cares about what I want. They want the fifty-five sold out
shows, roughly and clumsily divided into two legs: East and West. The venues
are bigger than anything we have headlined in before. Brent and Joe begin to
talk about the stage performance, Spencer suggesting that we do a light show.
That is exactly what we need, to copy bands before us, to do tricks that
in no way convey our uniqueness.
Pete says that the tour dates are still subject to change. Spencer insists
on a gig in Cincinnati, and Pete promises to make some calls to promoters in the
area.
I imagine tens of thousands of faces that my eyes will land on in the
near future. I feel sick.
“Also, now that we’re all here,” Pete says, “I suggest a band meeting.”
“Funny thing, that. You’re not in the band,” I point out.
“We should clear the air before the tour. Start it with a positive feeling.
So any thoughts or concerns, now is the time to share.” Pete folds his arms and
leans back in his chair.
Thoughts or concerns? Well, let’s see. I don’t even want to go on this
tour. We haven’t done anything except fight since we went to the studio to
record our chart wonder. If the album is filled with ‘swirls of dark energy’, it’s
because we were fucking pissed off. Most bands start with a group of friends
who just want to play their music, but then the business gets in the way. Fame
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distorts reality. You no longer make music for you, but for the fans. What will
they respond to? What do they want? What will keep you on top? And everyone
has a different idea of it. We’re stuck together, the four of us plus Pete, and the
bonds that keep us together are getting thinner and thinner. Pre-tour thoughts
or concerns. Let’s start with the apocalypse and take it from there.
“I think I should be a bit closer to Ryan on stage. And up front like he is.
Not in the back left,” Joe states firmly. “My fans want to see me.”
“Naturally,” Pete nods.
“More spotlights on me. And I want a mic.”
“You don’t sing,” I smile.
“But I want to engage with my audience,” Joe smiles back.
“Brent?” Pete now asks.
“Cheese crackers in the dressing rooms. Courtesy beer bottles. Only
four-star hotels on hotel nights. There always has to be jam donuts and condoms
on the bus. I want one roadie to be responsible for my bass and keyboards, no
fucking about with that. Just one guy so I know who to yell at. Um... let me
think... You know what, I’ll make a list.” Brent grins, a hint of self-adoration on
his roughly carved face, like God just couldn’t be bothered to go the extra mile
that day. When Brent is in a bad mood, his eyebrows furrow over his dark
brown eyes, lips looping downwards, and I am always faintly reminded of a
chimpanzee.
“Spencer?”
“I’m good.”
“Come on, now.”
“No, really. We’ve decided on the drum kit, so I don’t need anything.”
Pete turns to me. “Ryan? What do you want?”
I look through the window and watch the spring wind push and shove
a tree outside, and I wonder if there could be a wind strong enough to whisk it
up into the air, break all the roots that have tangled up in the ground for far too
long, and if there is such a wind, then it has to tell me its secret.
“I don’t want to share any hotel rooms,” I mutter.
“Done!” Pete grins, like it’s fixed, sorted out. We’re cured. Joe keeps
giving me dirty glances, Brent shifts restlessly, Spencer tries to keep smiling,
and I wish I had never gotten up this morning.
Spencer attempts talking me into it over a few beers. We have already sold out
two of the five New York shows, so it isn’t like I even have a damn say in it.
“It’ll be fun, man,” Spencer says half-heartedly, not meaning it, and my
head jerks upwards as I realise that the radio is playing our song. The bald
bartender of the smoky bar is humming along to it, but he didn’t recognise me
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VOLUME 1
when I went over to get our second beers. Good. It’s a rock station, and it’s
nearly midnight, which must justify them playing our track. They better not
play it during the day when picket fence America is picking up their children
from school.
“Ry, are you even listening?”
The bartender is miming the lyrics, mouth opening and closing to
accommodate my voice and my lyrics. He doesn’t know what the song is about,
how I felt when writing it, what the message is. But there he is, pouring another
beer and abusing my words, stealing them, robbing them, dressing them up in
velvet when I aimed for satin.
“Never mind,” Spencer sighs and stares at the beer left in his glass,
which is not much. Spencer is overwhelmingly gifted in that department.
Spencer is used to our radio airplay, but I feel surreal whenever I hear my own
voice on the radio. Spencer downs his beer, his blue eyes starting to stand still
slightly. He scratches his beard, and I watch the strong muscles of his arm move
beneath the skin. He’s got a friendly face, the kind that makes you want to tell
him all of your secrets. It’s taken me years to try and resist the urge.
The radio commentator says, And that was The Followers with their
single Alienation from their brand new and critically acclaimed album Boneless. I don’t
know about you, but the record is definitely already in my collection!
I tune out the rest.
“Look, remember when we supported Floyd back in ‘71?” Spencer
starts again, and I nod. Fucking hell I remember. Nine thousand people and the
four of us on stage. No one knew us. No one cared. “Venues big like that, it’s
like... having sex with a stranger.”
“Something I do regularly, then?” I suggest, and Spencer waves his
hand to tell me to shut up.
“My point is that, yeah, we’re headlining this time. But they already like
us, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. And the venues are so big that there is
absolutely no intimacy. So whatever, you don’t have to impress these strangers.
We get on stage, we play, we bow. We leave. A one-night stand,” he explains. It
makes sense in its own way. I can bear my soul for the fans to see. They won’t
look closely enough to notice it.
“Maybe,” I grant him eventually, putting down my empty bottle. “I
gotta get going. Jac said she might drop by.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you put up with her.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” I ask and put my jacket on. “She’s faithful most of
the time. More than you can ask a woman these days.”
Spencer scoffs, but he’s young. His head is still dazed from heartbreak,
but when it clears up, he will realise that we’re not in the fifties anymore. Sixties
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happened, you can’t take it back. I lost my virginity at Woodstock, you can’t
take that back either, not that I would want to because Fauna was a beautiful
woman. She didn’t want anything of me except that one night. That’s how
women are now – they want to experience something beautiful with you, and
they’re not that bothered if you disappear afterwards. It’s 1974, for Christ’s sake
– the world has changed, and that change is irreversible. There is a sexual
revolution to go with our musical one.
“Is Jac coming on tour?” Spencer asks.
“Nah.”
I don’t want her fucking all of my friends. Spencer asks me to stay for
another drink, but I decline. “I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but
you shouldn’t drink so much. Seriously. It’s been months and months, man. She
was just a girl, and she certainly didn’t deserve you,” I tell him firmly, and he
nods wearily. He knows, of course. She was a girl, he thought it was love, and
it’s over now. He made the right choice by choosing the band, even if we are...
the knights of destruction. The ambassadors of loss. Coming together, but
mostly just falling apart.
“Dime a dozen,” Spencer concludes, and I feel us coming together just a
little bit.
I find Jac outside my building, smoking a cigarette that I stop to share
with her. She tells me about her bitch of a sister, and a hickey is peaking through
the blonde locks of her hair. I don’t really care who left it there, right above her
left collarbone. I know she’d want me to be jealous, but I’ve never had it in me.
Not for her, not for anyone. It’s not like she loves me.
“Fifty-five shows,” I tell her. “We kick off in a month.”
Her eyes light up, and I know that look. It means she’s up to no good,
but she will get away with it. She’s a pretty girl with a doll-like face and big,
innocent eyes. She’s tiny and astoundingly beautiful naked, and plenty of men
know that. A few girls too if there is any truth in her stories, which I doubt there
is. Jac uses her looks to get under people’s skin because she is scared shitless no
one will like her for herself. She has confidence for the two of us, which is
probably why I have stuck around. Or maybe she has stuck around. She keeps
me guessing about that.
“Come on, let’s go up,” I say.
We don’t make it to my bed. We are half-dressed in the living room
with her panties down to her ankles and my fly open when she finds out I have
no intention of taking her on tour with me. She swears and pushes me off, steps
out of the pink underwear and heads for the door.
If she never comes back, I could keep the panties as a memory.
“It’s a small bus,” I explain. “There is no room for you, baby. You can
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VOLUME 1
fly up to meet us in Detroit if you want.”

“And what the fuck would I want in Detroit?” she barks back. The
illusion of her doll face vanishes fast when she hates my guts. Her eyebrows get
drawn together, forming a thin line there is no crossing. Her hands are in fists,
and she raises them up dramatically and brings them back down, making a
sound like, instead of the skinny woman she is, she is a wounded bull staring
down the matador.
“I dunno,” I shrug.
“Fuck you, Ryan Ross. Fuck. You.”
She points a finger at me to make sure I know I am the Ryan Ross of her
nightmares before leaving with a bang. I mutter a curse and find a whisky
bottle, getting out my black electric and playing White Light/White Heat to calm
myself down, and I force myself not to think about the fifty-five shows, fifty-five
shows, fifty-goddamn-five shows.
I will hang myself in the dressing room in Philly. That’ll show Pete.
The old lady next door starts banging on the wall to shut me up. Count
that as one person who will be delighted to hear of my upcoming absence.
The studio lights are making me sweat. I have makeup on me, but it’s not
enough to put me behind a defensive wall. The audience is seated and not a
mass of cheering, beer chugging rock fans. They are members of charity
organisations, house wives, bored husbands with even the top button done, and
they stare at me over their glasses and wonder what my parents did wrong. The
woman from makeup is trying to convince Joe to tie his curly, long hair in a
ponytail, but he refuses while Spencer swirls drumsticks and adjusts the
bandanna around his head. It’s a new touch to his stage look. Brent doesn’t
really have a distinctive style of his own, he just lets his dark brown hair hang
over his head like a wet towel, the tips sweeping past his shoulders. He doesn’t
give a shit. Joe goes for the same impression by obsessing over every belt and
skin-tight costume that show most of his chest through a V-cut that goes all the
way to his belly button.
I know we’re behind the times with our mix and match approach,
riding the wave that could be the last one for prog. I went to see David’s show
last summer, when he was promoting Ziggy. When he was Ziggy and the band
were the Spiders. It was an amazing show, I admit that, but it would be too
much fuss for us to come up with characters and stories. Not that we’re tame.
Fuck tame, and forget the boy choir haircuts and matching suits, this is not the
fucking sixties. We’re just us. I wanted to have that level of immediacy with the
music with no bullshit theatrics involved, but the ship of musical sincerity has
sailed. A big show alienates the audience, distorts the music. Big venues are to
14
blame. Money is to blame. I don’t want to become another Ziggy.

But when you hit the charts, you have three options. You either suck it
up, gloat in it, or you fall apart. I’m trying my best not to go for the third option.
“Are you ready to play?” the director’s assistant now asks me. I nod,
making sure my bandmates are ready too. Spencer clears his throat behind the
drum kit, Joe tests his microphone one last time. Our first TV performance.
We wait for some more lighting fine-tuning, and I watch the director
snapping at the sound engineer. Behind the cameras, Pete and Jac are watching
on beside the bleachers. Jac waves and blows me a kiss, a wild smile on her face,
exactly the same as it was on the night I met her. She’s taller than Pete in her
green platform shoes. I’m wearing one of her hat designs to go with my tweed
vest, t-shirt and jeans. The hat has got red flowers sticking to the side. I didn’t
choose it, but I genuinely like it. It’s a nice change when I don’t have to lie to
her.
“I thought she was mad at you,” Spencer mumbles when I go have a
word with him.
“She was,” I shrug. Her threats and our fights mean nothing. “When do
we have the crew practice?”
“Brent, when’s the crew practice?” Spencer calls out.
“Tomorrow,” the bassist says. Already. I need to pack up for the tour.
“You better be there,” Spencer mumbles and shoots me a look. I scoff
loudly and silently curse him. I was only maybe thinking about having my
grandmother die a thirty-sixth time.
The TV people are finally ready, and the overenthusiastic host
introduces us as they begin recording. We play our song. It’s the shortest off the
new album, only five minutes and twenty seconds. I forget the cameras and
focus on the music, the moment where the drums kick in between the third and
fourth part, the second before we change the signature to 11:13. Brent switches
between bass and piano halfway through, and I sing. My voice is raw and
untrained, just like the music strives to be, though every second has been
calculated and obsessed over. I know I have made a decent song if I have driven
myself insane and lost sleep over it.
The director keeps motioning for me to look up into the cameras. I
ignore him and sing to his shoes.
“The Followers, everyone!” the host says as the audience applauds. Joe
and I are directed to the chairs where we sit down for the interview. Joe has
insisted that he should be interviewed more. Good. The fewer interviews I do,
the happier I’ll be. But still the host mostly addresses me because they know I
am the songwriter, front man, lyricist, vocalist. I am the product which they
buy.
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VOLUME 1
I give replies to his awkward questions.

“This is your third album. What is it about the new record that gave The
Followers the recognition the first two didn’t receive?”
I scratch my cheek. Cameras roll. Smile, Ryan. Be amiable, Ryan.
“Our first two albums got a very good reaction in certain circles. It’s not
my fault if they never reached your ears,” I say and play it off with a smile. The
audience laughs. My skin begins to itch. I feel thirsty. The host has horribly
yellow teeth.
“You are all very talented players,” the host says but frowns. “I only
have one question. Why does it have to be so loud?”
Behind the cameras, Jac covers her mouth with a hand to muffle her
laughter. I don’t have anything to say.
The crew practice is like a high school reunion except no one feels ashamed
when they head straight for the alcohol to suffer less from the awkward
catching up. Andy Hurley and William Beckett listen in and ask questions as we
go through the set. On the nights we play Sore Skill, Joe will need his blue
Fender tuned half a step down. If Miranda’s Dream makes the setlist, then Brent
will need his five-string bass. We fill the practice space with all of the gear that
needs to be taken on tour as Pete makes notes on extra strings, bridge pins and
drumsticks. Andy has photographic memory, as I recall from our previous tour,
and he looks at my effects pedals only once before remembering the correct
order. We’ve toured with both guys before.
“Where are Zack and Simon?” Joe asks as we set up to play. The real
stages will be three, four, maybe even five times bigger than the room we’re in. I
look around for the two missing roadies, and William shakes his head.
William’s around my age and has taken hair tips from Joe, but instead of Joe’s
frizzy chocolate brown curls, William’s are a lighter brown. He is as tall as me
and just as skinny, but whereas I try to hide my bony limbs, William manages to
pull on the tightest jeans imaginable. He is too effeminate and emotional for my
liking, even his facial features resemble that of a girl’s, but he is a good roadie,
and even I have to admit it, though I’m not too crazy about the guy.
“I’m sure Zack and Simon will be here shortly,” Pete hurries to say,
fearing mutiny. Spencer throws a vest over his red t-shirt and sits behind his
new drum kit, a boyish glee in his eyes. I relax at the sight of it. I need him on
this tour. I will not survive this summer if Spencer’s not there, and while I
acknowledge that, I resent myself for being a co-dependent leech. I didn’t used
to be like this.
There are a lot of things that I once were that I no longer am.
Andy fusses around with cables with a roll of duck tape between his
16
teeth, carrying it like a dog would carry a bone. He tapes my mic cable to the
floor, crawling on all fours. “You want it like this or like this?” he asks, looking
up at me and pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s got
thick, reddish brown hair down to his shoulders, slightly bushy eyebrows that
hang over his attentive grey eyes. Andy’s the philosopher of the group. He and
Spencer have sat down and talked about death, love, the war, and whatever
else, until morning. I’ve sometimes sat with them and listened. Andy swears by
acid and how it broadens your mind. It broadens his a bit too much at times, but
it’s good to have at least one self-professed intellectual on the bus.
Working out how to play the new songs live is hard. We end up
fighting and bickering twenty minutes in when Joe magically starts singing the
chorus to Her Shadow. I sing the chorus, Brent does some backups. Joe doesn’t
sing in any song. He never has.
“You said you wanted the mic to talk between songs and –”
“Well, why can’t I sing too?”
“Because you can’t hold a fucking note!”
“Oh, and you can?”
“Yes, actually!”
Joe turns to Pete. “What do you think?”
“Don’t talk to him! Was he there when the four of us sat down and
started this band? Huh? Was he? Don’t fucking ask Pete –”
“I think –” Pete starts.
“Shut up!” I point a daring finger at him.
“Don’t threaten the devil’s advocate,” Brent mutters under his breath
but loud enough for me to hear. He isn’t being diplomatic, god no. Brent is just
not taking my side.
“If I want to sing –”
“It doesn’t matter what you want! You don’t start raping my music –”
“Oh! Oh! There we have it! His music? Did you hear that, Andy?
William? Pete, did you hear that?” Joe asks, looking around for support. The
boyish glee is gone from Spencer’s face, a grey, worn out look on his features as
he lifelessly stares at his drum kit. My blood boils and I squeeze the neck of my
guitar with both hands, wanting to fling the instrument over my shoulder and
smash it against Joe’s head.
Spencer stands up. When he speaks, his voice is emotionless. “I am sure
that what Ryan meant was –”
“I know what he meant!” Joe storms.
The door slams open, and Zack Hall walks in. He’s a huge guy, roughly
the size of a bulky, eighteenth century oak cabinet. He makes me look like a
twig if he stands next to me. I’m a tall guy, but Zack is taller and probably
17
VOLUME 1
weighs five times what I do. He’s got the strength of a bull and he keeps his hair
short so that no one can grab it when he gets into a fight. That’s what he says,
anyway. But beneath the scary physical first impression, he’s a good guy.
Quirky, definitely, mean, sometimes, but he’s not evil in the slightest. He keeps
people in their places, and maybe it’s this sudden appearance of his that makes
me and Joe both shut up.
Pete exhales. “Zack! You’re here! Excellent! Where’s Simon?”
“At home. He woke up this morning, still drunk from last night, fell
down the stairs, broke his left leg in two places. I drove him to the hospital,
which is why I’m late, and oh, by the by, Simon will not be coming on tour with
us.” Zack stops and takes a long look at us all. “Why the long faces?”
That’s it. The tour is over.
I carefully put my guitar in her stand as Brent realises the damage that
has been done to him. “Who will be responsible for my instruments, then?!”
Brent asks angrily, and as defiantly as I was telling the guys not to put their faith
in Pete, I am now grateful that our manager is there to take the fall. I have
double standards just like the rest.
The room is filled with angered and frustrated exclamations as I round
Zack and walk out of the room, up the basement stairs, along the corridor and
out of the building. Los Angeles is cloudy.
I light a cigarette with shaking hands. That’s it. No tour. We can’t do it.
A homeless man is leaning against the brick wall, and I throw him two
quarters. He tells me to fuck off.
“Don’t you know who I am?” I ask, half-serious, half-sardonic.
“No!” he barks angrily, scratching his face with dirty fingers and
mumbling to himself incoherently.
“Me neither,” I admit and walk away from him. Damn Simon. My fault
for getting him into whisky on our last tour. Only three things can ruin a man:
fame, women and twelve-year-old whisky. Damn Joe. I don’t need a guitarist
who thinks he’s a vocalist. Joe is the most handsome of the four of us by general
consensus, thanks to his charisma, toned body and manly face with a pair of
sparkly blue eyes. He doesn’t need to sing to get more chicks, so why is he
doing this? To torture me? That’s it, to goddamn torture me.
The cigarette shakes between my fingers as the tension of the practice
room makes my entire body tremble. Sweat pours down my neck, and I
swallow hard, close my eyes when the world goes out of focus. I want this
music. I want this band. But laced within that are a million things I could live
without.
“Ryan.”
I open my eyes. Brent takes the cigarette from me without asking, and
18
he is nearly serene as he looks across the street like he doesn’t have a care in the
world. “So listen, William said that he has a friend, some guy he knows, who
can take Simon’s place. William swears by him.”
“But will he come on such short notice?”
“To tour with America’s most rocking band?” Brent asks, clearly
enjoying the superlative. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fucking idiot. He will.”
A new guy might not fit in, though I will most likely get voted as the
most antisocial again so it’s not likely to affect me. Maybe it won’t matter much,
but I worry. When it comes to this tour, I will worry about every damn thing.
“I was thinking we could just tell the sound engineers to turn down
Joe’s vocals during songs. Either that or let him embarrass himself once, and
then he’ll stop. The narcissistic fucker can’t sing, you’re right about that,” Brent
says thoughtfully. He thinks Joe is an asshole. Brent, by default, thinks everyone
is an asshole, and he thinks it of me too.
“Joe can’t mess up the music. He just – I have to protect it. The music.”
“Is that what it’s about? The music?” He sounds amused.
“If it’s not about the music, then what is it about?” I ask angrily. Brent
finishes the cigarette and pats my back. He pities me on top of everything else.
“The situation is not ideal for any of us. The new guy will have to learn
on the job, and who knows how qualified he is to look after my instruments?
But we’ll deal,” he shrugs. “Come on, we’ve got to figure out the rest of the
songs.” Brent pushes slightly greasy hair from his forehead and walks back
inside.
And I am expected to follow like us Followers do. Christ.
I head back for the door, and two girls walking down the street
recognise me as they walk past. My sudden emergence doesn’t give them time
to do anything except stare at me, let it kick in, their mouths dropping open, and
then they hush, “Ryan” and “The Followers”. I look over my shoulder, and Joe
would flash a charming smile, Brent would grin, Spencer would wave, but I
turn my gaze away and feel their eyes on my hunched back. Their widening
irises feel heavy in my heart.
The beggar is still by the door, looking confused that the girls are
staring our way. “You must be famous,” I remark and walk back into the mess
we have made.
19
CHAPTER 2: A MACHINE FOR THE MUSIC INDUSTRY
Jac is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn’t brushed her hair,
and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than
they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would
have melted already.
“I’ll be so bored,” she exclaims.
“I’ll be bored too,” I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the
suitcase.
“You’ll be on tour. I’ve been on tour, I know what it’s like,” she insists.
But this won’t be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on
stage from the midst of the crowd. And it won’t be the ones she has made
cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the
bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and
impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we’re
famous.
“Get dressed,” I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of
anything that is likely to go off while I’m away. I stop at the bedroom doorway
after I’m done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above her
knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.
Jac grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is
waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be
reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off,
getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Jac sighs and chews on her bottom
20
lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my chest and wraps her tiny
arms around my middle. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to?
My chin leans on the top of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my
better half says something.
“Huh?”
“Who’s Jackie?” she repeats. “Brent said that you named the tour, so
who is she?”
“Brent said?” I repeat sceptically. “When did you hang out with him?”
She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in
our brains where we don’t share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at
his wristwatch. I sigh. “Gotta go, babe.”
Jac lets go of me. “I love you.”
“You too,” I say easily. Too easily.
She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by
the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step
isn’t any heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks,
“Was that your wife?”
I suppress a spontaneous laugh. “No.”
“Fiancée?”
“My girlfriend. Occasionally.”
“Oh.” The man sounds disapproving, but he’s an old guy, almost fifty.
God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes,
growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock
and roll. God forbid us.
After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Jac’s
face. She is most likely realising the same about me.
We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of
town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Joe is organising a
huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why
be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in even worse shape
than I will be.
Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three
months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus.
It’s not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations
are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It’s brand new and
looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows
decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly
stop. I figure it’s where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Pete is
standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell
21
VOLUME 1
bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

“Hey.”
Pete swirls around, lifting huge sunglasses up to his forehead. His smirk
spreads from his eyes to his mouth and cheeks. “Hey! Just polishing her up,” he
says adoringly, casting the bus a look he would give to his lover. “Groovy, ain’t
she? Come on, have a look,” Pete urges. I lift a sceptical eyebrow. He is being far
too nice to me when we both know that the dislike is mutual. “Come on! I’ve got
a surprise for you in the back.”
“A one-way ticket to Hawaii?” I ask and fake a laugh, and Pete imitates
me.
“So funny, Ryan. Ah, you’re a kidder.” He wipes his eyes.
I get on the bus, passing the empty driver’s seat. Pete gets on the bus
after me, and I can feel the slight tilt of our weight. I push a thin curtain aside
that can give the driver privacy when driving, and am instantly in a lounge
area. Pete eagerly shows me around, explaining how we can hang out on the
couches or on the two armchairs with the table in between, perfect for card
games to kill time or a nocturnal snack in between cities. The couches and chairs
are yellow with orange polka dots while the walls are light green. Needless to
say Pete had a hand in this. Nonetheless, I make approving sounds. A couch on
a bus? Insane. We only had normal seats the last time.
I pass the tiny kitchen counter and fridge, which is small but should fit a
few beers. That’s the latest technology right there. So far, the bus is liveable and
downright luxurious. The bathroom is microscopic, but the toilet flushes, which
is more than I can say about our last bus. We have clearly hit it big time -
everything about the new, modern bus says so.
“The guys decided their bunks yet?” I ask.
“They haven’t checked out the bus. They said they would, but...” Pete
looks like a kid whose friends didn’t show up for his birthday party after all.
“Oh, yeah. Joe is having a party in his room. I imagine he has ordered
alcohol for over a hundred bucks by now,” I mutter, and Pete goes two shades
paler. “Let’s hope they don’t trash the place,” I add with a smile that is
practically frolicking in Pete’s sudden anguish. He obsesses over every cent.
Cheap bastard.
I open the door to the bunks and stop in my inspection. A young man
with dark brown hair stands in the narrow pathway. He turns his head to look
at me over his shoulder and says, “Hey.” He has an almost too handsome face
with full, beautifully shaped lips that are slightly too big for him, a nose that
dips half an inch too low, but neither feature do nothing except enhance the
grace of his face. I’ve never seen him before. He is roughly my age and slightly
shorter than me. I can’t decide if he is buff or not: he has strong arms and
22
shoulders, but his overall impression is tiny with a narrow waist. His tight
clothes only support the impression as the shirt stops two inches before his jeans
start. I don’t get the latest fashion at all.
The man draws shut a bunk curtain and wipes his hands to the back of
his tight jeans.
“Hey,” I return, the question of ‘and you are?’ clear in my tone.
“Ryan, this is Brendon, Simon’s replacement. Brendon, this is Ryan,”
Pete explains, and yeah, figures. This is William’s friend. I conclude that he is
too skinny. Not as skinny as me, but I am not expected to lift and shift and push
and pull hardcases filled with amps, drums and guitars all day long.
“The singer, right?” Brendon clarifies and offers his hand. I take it.
“It’s my band,” I shrug, regardless of what Joe might say. It’s my music.
Don’t try taking it from me.
“Groovy,” Brendon nods, eyeing between me and Pete. “Well, I’m late
for the party,” he says, a cue stating that he wants to leave. We give him space,
and he squeezes past.
I look after him, feeling just the tiniest bit confused. Brendon looks
nothing like any roadie I’ve worked with or seen before. Where was the beard?
The rock ‘n roll hair? I don’t go for “the bigger, the better” hair policy that is so
popular in our scene, but my brown locks still speak of a level of carefree hippie
descent. Brendon’s hair was neatly cut.
Pete walks to the door at the back of the bunks while I add things up.
Eight bunks, four on each side. Four band members, one tour manager, four
roadies. There isn’t enough room.
“How exactly –”
Pete opens the backdoor, revealing what is best described as a nest of
sorts. I snake past Pete to the small back lounge, taking one step from the door
before standing by the side of a double bed that is surrounded by the bus on
three sides. It looks cosy with huge, red pillows and blankets, and Pete puts a
hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “No bunk for you. You sleep right here in
the queen-sized bed.”
Because I am not like the rest of the band. I’m the lead: I’m special. I’m
the stubborn star Pete has been trying to polish.
He is trying to make me forgive him for our fifty-five show tour. And
what’s worse, it’s working. I hate bunks. He knows that, the sly bastard. In
bunks, I toss and turn and bang my head to the ceiling, wake up covered in
bruises.
“It’s almost like having your own room,” Pete enthuses. “A groovy, big
bed, you get all the privacy you want and a good night’s rest. Not like Jac will
be here, right?”
23
VOLUME 1
“Yeah.”
I had actually worried about how I’d get laid on this bus. Now I know.
“The other guys will be furious that I’ve got my own room,” I point out
even as I salivate over the thought. Maybe I deserve this. I have far more
pressure on me than the other guys. They don’t get what it’s like.
“I’ll talk to them. You just leave it up to me,” Pete says in his I-can-fix-
anything voice. “You’ll even enjoy this tour. You’ll see.”
He’s even more disillusioned than he has been.
Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. The show is not quite sold out. Pete says it
was a close call.
Our support band is some Midwestern promise for the music world. I
follow them from the side of the stage for a while as the energetic singer takes a
hold of the microphone and shouts, “Fuck the war!” The crowd roars like his
words are new when they are not. The war has been over for a few years, a
handful of troops still lingering in Vietnam. We need something new to fight
for, but no one seems to be coming up with anything. I am sure most of the
roaring is from the enthusiasm that the singer said the F word.
Music and politics. It’s not a good idea to mix them.
“What do you think?” Zack asks from beside me, and I shrug.
“A bit pretentious. A bit insincere.”
“About the crowd,” he laughs, and I force my eyes to the right where I
see a row of people, then another, another, and then the venue opens up like the
open sea, endlessly fading into black. I make my way back to the dressing room,
where the rest of the band is getting ready. Joe is my opposite in many ways,
and over the five years that we have been in this band, Joe has made friends in
every state of this country. He surrounds himself with people, and he invites
these admirers backstage in every city, so even now the dressing room is full of
people I don’t know with backstage stickers glued to their shirts and jeans.
“Pete,” I call out, and Pete reads my expression easily enough. He looks
torn between pleasing me and pleasing Joe, but two minutes later, the room is
void of freeloaders. Joe doesn’t mind for once as he too wants to get ready to go
on. It’s the first night. That counts. He, Brent and Spencer are all hungover.
I didn’t drink last night, but I’ll drink now. I block out the voices,
laughter, excitement and nervousness, take sips from the wine bottle and stare
at our setlist. Maybe the order isn’t good. Maybe we got it all wrong.
“Ryan.”
“Huh?” I look up and see Brendon. He is holding out his hand with an
unsure smile. I blink. His smile.
“I need the setlist?”
24
“Right.” I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as William

nearly squeals, “Can I please, please be the one-two-three guy?”
Spencer is putting on his stage clothes: jeans, t-shirt, vest and bandanna.
Joe is always the most extravagant, and tonight, he is wearing a one-piece with a
V-cut so deep it almost goes to his belly button. He should shave his chest hair,
at least for my sake. Brent’s going on in a suit. Pete is calling out
encouragements, and back in the hall, the crowd is cheering and chanting loud
enough for us to hear. My breathing is shallow as I hear the increased pace of
my heartbeat soaring in my ears. One down, fifty-four to go. After tonight, it’ll
be one down.
William comes back, a big grin on his face. “Five minutes! I’ll keep an
eye on you from the back!” William is taking care of the merch, and he gives us
a thumbs up and leaves.
I keep studying the backstage pass I have hanging around my neck,
examining the font spelling out The Followers and Jackie, Me and This Lady,
brushing my thumb over ‘all access’. Pete keeps telling us not to lose these. It’s a
crown of sorts, a shield and a sword, but somehow, it still feels like an iron
chain around my neck, pulling me down.
Pete hurdles us together for a big pep talk. I don’t listen, but I put my
hand in the middle with the others. Then something weird happens: I slide to
the back of my head. My eyes become a cinema screen, and I take a comfortable
seat in the back of my brain, tilt the chair backwards, reach for the popcorn. On
the screen is a corridor, then another, a flight of stairs, Spencer’s back, sudden
lights. The side of a stage, screaming fans in the distance, a halt, Andy and Zack
are smiling at the screen, encouraging, and the ear-wrenching noise is muffled
as the halt is over, and the camera flips down, shows my shoes walking, which
is funny because I am in my brain cinema and not walking on stage. That is not
me; that’s somebody else. That’s a machine for the music industry.
A microphone. A funny metal ball with a thousand little holes, and it
comes closer to the screen. A voice says, “Good evening, St. Paul,” speaking into
it. A girl in the front row stretches out both arms and screams, “RYAN!”
Instantaneously, I am pulled from my chair and onto the floor of my
brain, and I struggle in vain, kick the air and scream as invisible hands take a
hold of my collar and drag and drag and drag me, throw me at the cinema
screen, and I fall right through.
I am on stage in front of thousands, people stretching far to my right
and far to my left, and right ahead of me until they get eaten by the dark. The
lights are hot. I’ve got a guitar around me, providing a very thin layer of
protection. How did I get here?
Spencer yells, “One-two, one-two-three-four –”
25
VOLUME 1
Play. Just play. You know how to.

I let myself slip into automatic, managing to do it out of sheer horror.
After the first two songs, it becomes nothing more than a painful, sickening
throb in my guts.
I resent the audience.
Luckily, we all have certain roles on stage that we are known for. Joe is
the entertainer who jumps with his guitar, throws it up into the air, entertains,
spins around like mad. I’m famous for my lack of interaction, for being stoic and
solemn. The reviews say it’s my thing. Brent is from between the two of us,
rocking out with Joe sometimes, coming up to me to share the mic and shout
into it. Spencer can hide behind his drum kit. I should’ve been a drummer.
I close my eyes and pretend that the audience is not there, turn around
to play guitar to Spencer, who bangs and bangs, breaks two drumsticks, beats
the shit out of the drums like his life depends on it. Knowing him, he probably
believes it does. Sweat rolls down from under his red bandanna, hair stuck to
his neck. Eventually, he crashes the cymbals and the song is at an end.
Six thousand people behind me roar. I walk to the drum kit, take a glass
of water from the stage floor and pour its contents over my head. It soaks my
shirt, and Spencer grins at me. The water lands on the guitar too. Sadly, I do not
get electrocuted.
“Ryan.”
I look to my side and focus on Andy. His glasses are slipping down his
nose as he sweats in the heat of the stage lights. He is offering me a guitar with a
hand that is attached to a heavily tattooed arm, and I quickly walk back to the
mic, step on two effect pedals to turn them off and unplug my Telecaster before
giving it to him. I plug in the new one, check the tuning, and it’s just me and the
instrument as I make sure everything is ready. The audience keeps clapping, as
if beckoning me to play, to do something exciting, give them their money’s
worth.
I strum the start of the next song. They recognise it, and the girls scream
while the boys shout.
Brent is at the piano, and I can hear my guitar through the amps, the
way it buzzes like a live wire, angry and demanding.
At the side of the stage, the crew is watching. Pete has his arms crossed,
his shoulders tense. He is waiting for me to break down or storm off. Andy is
nodding his head to the beat while Zack is eyeing the audience. I know William
is somewhere around, making sure the venue workers are selling the merch at
the right prices.
The new guy, Brendon, is reading a book.
My eyes fix on him.
26
It’s the first night on tour. We are the most exciting band around, all
these fans paid to see us. We are famous. And there’s this guy, a guy who is
getting paid to stand there, the best place to watch us perform, and... he is
reading a book.
It takes me half of the song to remember what the hell I’m even
supposed to be doing.
I wait around outside the dressing room, nodding as the crew heads back for the
bus. The backstage area is full of people, all saying hi to me as they walk past
with slightly hopeful smiles like I’ll indicate I want to start a conversation. I
don’t.
“I just gotta,” I mumble and wave my hands around, and no one stops
to ask me, “What?” One brush off from me is enough. Pete simply reminds me
we have to leave in twenty and warns me of the aficionados waiting outside the
venue. Zack offers to play the bodyguard since Pete is convinced they want me
to place my hand above their heads and bless them, or quite possibly
impregnate them. I can take on a few fans. I think.
My calloused fingertips ache from the show. I can see bits of black on
them from the dirty strings. I should have practised more to prepare myself for
the tour, but we hardly did more work than the crew practice. We didn’t exactly
want to lock ourselves up in a small room with each other.
I hear movement in the dressing room, and I take in a breath and go in.
Brendon is by the dressing tables and he looks up, our eyes meeting in the
mirror. He’s just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow
waist.
“Hey,” I say, and he turns around, tightening the towel with uncertain
movements.
“Hi. Uh, I thought –”
“I was wondering,” I begin, not understanding why he is acting
flustered when he doesn’t even know what I am going to say. “What were you
reading?”
Brendon blinks at me. “Sorry?”
“Tonight. During the show.” A slight red emerges on Brendon’s cheeks
as he opens his mouth without anything coming out. “I saw you,” I cut in.
“Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises.”
I lost to an alcoholic wannabe fisherman who spent his golden years
drinking piña coladas in Key West before shooting his brains out. “What’s the
book about?” I ask.
Brendon shrugs. “This American guy who lives in Paris. He loves a
woman, who doesn’t love him back. Or, well, I think she loves him. She just
27
VOLUME 1
doesn’t love him enough to care, and he knows that.”

For a moment, I think he is describing a very saccharine and
romanticised version of my current relationship before my own ridiculousness
dawns on me. Want of love is not love.
“You know you’re supposed to be paying attention during the shows. A
mic stand might fall over, a string might break,” I list, and don’t mention how,
tragic love story or not, I should still be more captivating than a dusty book.
They said we had an amazing first show. I was there, I don’t know, but that’s
what they said.
Brendon mutters, “Sorry.”
I look around the dressing room. It’s a mess now that we’ve had our
way with it. Empty beer bottles, bits of food, one emotionally fucked up front
man and a roadie who obviously can’t be bothered.
“You ever been a roadie before?”
Brendon shakes his head. “Used to work at a venue back in San
Francisco. This is my first tour, though.”
“You live in San Francisco?” I ask, and he nods. I let my shoulders drop
as I remember that we both have to make bus call. “Just pay a bit more
attention, alright?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Come on, then. Don’t wanna be late.”
Brendon searches for his clothes, and I turn around as he gets dressed.
He checks the dressing room one last time to make sure no one has forgotten
anything, and a venue worker shows us to the back door. The place is too big for
us to be able to figure it out for ourselves.
There are fans waiting outside, just like Pete said there would be. I feel
myself tensing up at the sight of them. There are far more than I had expected. I
thought there’d be a couple like we had on our last tour, but there must be
nearly twenty of them. Brendon and I both freeze, and my eyes frantically look
around for an escape that isn’t there.
“Ryan!”
I will never get used to random people knowing my name. Twenty
people let out an excited squeal and rush over, a mob suddenly surrounding us.
The one who gets to me first, the ginger haired one, says, “Can I shake your
hand?”
“Sure.”
“That was a beautiful show. That was –”
“The new album is amazing –”
“Your music is –”
“Thanks, that’s nice. Thanks for coming out. Yeah.” I speak to everyone
28
and no one at all. They are all speaking at the same time. One girl stands in the
back and stares at me with watery eyes. Someone touches my shoulder,
someone my wrist, coming in closer and closer. I try to take steps back to no
avail. Someone is snapping pictures of me.
“I’m coming to the next four shows! Would’ve come to more, but I ran
out of money.”
I laugh uncomfortably and sign his copy of Boneless, where Brent, Joe
and Spencer’s autographs already are, smearing the cover art of the LP. Jac
designed it. She’s an artist and perfectly unknown, not counting the fame she
gets for fucking me. She is an artist, and she has her privacy, and she wants to
get rid of it so badly. Stupid woman.
I mutter, “It’s gonna be the same show tomorrow night. You’ll be
wasting your time...”
“Hardly!” he enthuses.
I can’t come up with anything to say. “What do you think of St. Paul?”
someone shouts.
Nothing. I’ve seen the tour bus, one diner, one hotel room. I think
nothing of it.
“It’s, yeah... a lovely place.”
A girl smiles appreciatively, her eyes shining. They are pushing and
shoving each other, and I feel more terrified by the second.
“Ryan, man, can I just ask –”
A hand lands on my shoulder, but it’s not trying to devour me, it’s
trying to balance me. “I’m really sorry, but we have to get going now,” Brendon
says firmly in a ‘don’t mess with me’ voice that sounds like it belongs to a man
much taller and larger and more threatening than him.
“What? No, wait –”
“Step back, please!” Brendon orders. I shrug as an apology without
being sorry at all, and Brendon firmly pulls me with him. He starts to walk
behind me, hand on my shoulder and leading me away. The fans follow us.
“Bye, Ryan!” “See you tomorrow night!” “Love you, man!” “I love you!”
Brendon has to ask them to step back a second time as we take hurried steps
and I hang my head, clearly thinking with an ostrich’s logic that hiding my head
will make the rest of me vanish too. Brendon lets go when the distance is safe
enough.
I mutter, “Thanks.”
“No probs,” Brendon says as we reach the bus. The thought of an actual
bodyguard seems exaggerated, but with every day, I slowly realise how huge
our band has become. I should let Zack play the angry dog with a tendency to
bite. “Shit, those guys were insane. Looked at you like God.”
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VOLUME 1
“I am God. To them,” I amend.

Brendon shakes his head in disbelief, but I don’t share his shock. I don’t
want him to see that, for a second there, I got damn scared.
“Are you always that awkward with your fans?”
“I wasn’t awkward,” I protest, now fumbling my pockets for a cigarette. I
offer him one, but he refuses. After one puff, I nod, “Yeah, I am.”
Brendon laughs. “Figured.”
We get on the bus, and I give St. Paul one last look over my shoulder.
The fans are still lingering around, perhaps praying that I will come back to
their temple to be worshipped.
“Another beer, come on!”

Andy pushes the fridge door shut with his leg, and the guys cheer as his
arms are filled with more bottles. The entire front lounge smells of weed as
we’re crossing the state line between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I should be
sleeping, but it’s the first night. You always stay up on the first night of tour. It’s
essential for the crew to bond so that we can have a laugh for the first three
weeks. After that start the fights and the moans about missing everyone back
home. Someone threatens to quit until Pete manages to intervene. Maybe
someone will actually quit this time.
Joe, the insane fucker, is driving. We don’t have to drive when there are
four roadies to take shifts for us, but he insisted on it. Something about him,
night-time radio and the open road. I’m surprised by his act of kindness. He
firmly said that he was too big a star to drive the bus or van anymore, so I take
his driving to mean that he’s fucking furious about something and thinks it’s
best not to be in the same room with anyone. The rest of us have crammed into
the lounge area, which manages to seat the eight of us and even leaves room for
more. Pete is going through paperwork by the table, having difficulty stepping
out of his managerial role. He only looks up to make sure we’re not making a
mess.
Brendon has his Hemingway on his lap, but he’s not reading it. Maybe
he is waiting for the conversation to get boring.
“A toast!” Brent insists, and we all lift our drinks. “To the amazing,
fabulous, fucking rocking Jackie, Me, And This Lady ’74 tour!” The guys cheer and
drink up. I take a sip of my beer, feel the cool glass against my lips.
“Ry,” Zack asks, and I hum and stare at the mouth of my beer bottle.
“Why didn’t you bring Jac on tour, man?”
I snort. “As if I would when I know you want to put it in her.” The guys
laugh, even Zack. He knows how to laugh at the truth when I present it to him.
“Jac is coming to New York,” I add in.
30
Spencer joins in with, “Jac and Zack, sitting in a tree...”

“Sounds cute,” Andy grins. “Valerie was pissed as fuck that I’d be gone
for most of the summer. She’s convinced I’m gonna bang a groupie. What
groupie? Where? I’m not even in the fucking band!”
Spencer grins. “We were in Minnesota, man. The ladies will come a-
rollin’ when we find some that meet our standards.” Spencer speaks like an
expert though he never fucks any of them. He stopped when he met that girl.
Here’s hoping he will start again. It’ll do him good.
“Yeah, they’ll all probably look a lot like Jac,” Zack retorts, and I give
him the middle finger with a sweet smile as the guys laugh.
Brent, of all people, says, “Come on, don’t talk about Jac like that.” I
appreciate the support of not having my whatever-she-is labelled as cheap, even
if Brent is the biggest chauvinist in the room, which is exactly what Jac hates
about most men, myself probably included. Brent asks, “What about you?” He
is addressing Brendon. “You got a girl back home?”
“I’m single,” Brendon says, speaking for the first time in a while.
Andy nods approvingly. “Good, that’s –”
“And I’m gay.”
Pete’s head lifts from the paperwork in the blink of an eye. The
chattering dies.
Brendon’s lips press together as he scratches the side of his head. “I
don’t think William told you guys about that.”
Brent shakes his head a little. I turn to William, who, if someone had to
be, should be the gay guy in the room. William wears his heart on his sleeve, is
easy to get upset, is easy to forgive. He often acts like it’s the end of the world
when it’s just a delay with our arrival to a venue, the drama swelling up to
phenomenal levels. He talks with his hands, obsesses over his hair, and despite
all this, he at least claims to be a straight man. And he never told us that the guy
he recommended was a fag. He never said a word of it.
“Well,” William begins to fill the silence, “it’s not like it makes a
difference.” Pause. “Right?”
I quickly try to figure out what the odds of getting raped by Brendon
are. I could take him on.
“No, yeah.” “Of course not.” “Right, sure.” “Yeah.” Our voices are
mumbled, seeking to be more liberal than truly accepting. William is looking at
us all with big eyes, and I can almost see his left eyebrow twitching as he slowly
works himself up to a scene. So Brendon fucks guys. Some guys do.
Brendon looks me straight in the eye, and I look away.
Pete can sense that William is about to freak out and asks, “So, Brendon.
No boyfriend or... or anything or?”
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VOLUME 1
I am relatively sure there is too many “or”s in the question. William

leans back and lets out a breath. Thank god we managed to stop that one.
“I’m young, I’m cute, and I live in the Castro. I’m not looking for
anything, definitely not to settle down.”
“Very sensible,” Andy grants him. It takes a group effort from Spencer
and Zack to direct the conversation elsewhere. Brendon and William go to their
bunks shortly after, William with the excuse that he needs to take a nap before
he starts driving. He probably wants to calm down or vent to Brendon in
private. Joe pulls up to a rest stop, and most of us scramble out of the bus and
into the night air.
“You don’t think he and William...?” Brent trails off as we sit in the all-
night diner. I sit in my own booth and scribble down in my notebook. The
waitress comes around, but I decline the coffee with a shake of my head. I plan
to retire to my glorious nest once we get back on the bus. Joe glances at me with
a dirty look, and now I know it’s me he is avoiding. Great, what did I do this
time?
Zack says, “I hope not.”
I don’t look up but listen in with a half-interested ear. I doubt they are
fucking. I’ve seen William with women. They both live in San Francisco, and
Brendon said something about having worked in a venue. William has worked
at the Winterland Ballroom. It’s the only connection I can come up with.
Joe asks, “So he actually said that he’s cute? Jeez.”
“I can see it,” Spencer says, and I look up to watch the back of his head.
“I can see why gay guys would find him attractive. He’s pretty feminine
physically, his ass is like a girl’s, then hips and all.”
Brent snorts. “Someone’s been watching.”
“I just made an observation,” Spencer says calmly, and I recognise the
tone as one that leaves no room for suggestive remarks. It’s not really fair to be
talking about Brendon behind his back like this, but the news is far too juicy to
just pass.
“Shit,” Joe gasps suddenly. “Does this mean I have to stop walking
around the bus in my underwear?”
The guys start laughing, and I take my pen and notebook and head back
out as my friends argue which one of them Brendon will try to molest.
“Yo, Ry,” Joe calls out. “Is your highness going back to his exclusive
tour bus boudoir?”
I fucking told Pete it wouldn’t go down well. I told him. But Joe doesn’t
understand.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Well, have fun now,” Joe says and sips his coffee, asking Spencer
32
something as they all proceed to ignore me.

The night is not as warm as it would be back home, but the stars seem
much brighter. The June wind blows in the pine trees, and a car drives down the
road, headlights appearing and disappearing from sight. It’s quiet and I’m
alone, something I know won’t happen a lot for the rest of the summer.
I make my way back to the bus, and for a moment, I let myself be the
random guy with a guitar who wrote a few songs. It’s what I ultimately am.
Brendon emerges from the bus bathroom wearing a faded white t-shirt
and grey boxers with a toothbrush in his mouth just as I head for the bunks. I
say a simple, “Goodnight,” and he waves his hand, hair sticking out in random
places.
I get why he was flustered when I barged in while he was barely
dressed. I thought nothing of it, but if he’s a homosexual, he would perceive the
situation entirely differently.
It’s a strange thought.
33
CHAPTER 3: THE CONSCIENCE
In Chicago, we are playing three sold out shows in a row so we temporarily

move into a hotel. I have an interview on our first day there, and Pete barges
into my room at eight-thirty, kicks me out of bed and sends home one of the
girls that was lingering outside the hotel last night, waiting for us to arrive. I
head for a shower to save myself from having to say goodbye to her. I don’t feel
guilty, not exactly, but maybe I just expected myself to resist temptation for a
week at least.
An hour later, and I am dressed and fed, and Pete is leading me down
the hotel stairs. I say, “I don’t want to.”
“You have to,” Pete retorts. “They want to put you on the cover.”
“See, we’ve already been on the cover of The Rolling Stone, so it all just
feels pretty anticlimactic after that. Besides, I think Creem is a shit magazine for
pretentious assholes.”
“Right up your street then.”
“Fuck you.”
We walk down a hotel corridor to a small conference room or another.
Pete has a hand on my back, pushing. If you asked him, he’d say guiding.
“They gave the new record a fucking amazing review, so you better go
in there and talk about your music. We’ve got a photo shoot at noon. A car is
picking us up. Oh, and did I tell you Boneless is number one on Billboard’s LPs
and Tapes chart for the third week running?”
“Yay,” I mutter unenthusiastically. It makes me uncomfortable to know
34
that many people are now listening to my darkest secrets. I asked for it, didn’t I?
The interviewer is a guy in his late thirties. He is wearing sunglasses
inside. Idiot. He has a wooden necklace tied twice around his neck,
undoubtedly a souvenir of his hippie times. What does a former tambourine
banging hippie know about rock?
A lot, as it turns out.
“How do you perceive the accessibility of your music?” he asks three
minutes in. The tape recorder is on the table between us, and I can see the two
small reels rolling beneath the see-through cover. He extends the tiny
microphone towards me. I take a moment to pour myself a glass of water, take a
sip, swallow it down. The interviewer keeps the bottom end of a pen between
his lips, a curious look on his face.
“I don’t think it’s inaccessible if you look at the number of copies we’ve
sold,” I eventually say. He hums and looks at me, silently signalling for me to
continue. I stare back.
He starts again. “The opening track of the new record is a ten-minute
song that starts loudly and ends quietly, which is the reversal of the usual rock
song. What motivated you toward this approach? Are you, perhaps, seeking to
surprise the listener?”
“No. It just sounded good to me.”
I lace my fingers together on the table. I can see the interviewer getting
more and more frustrated by the second. They always hate me, squeeze me like
a lemon to try and get every drop out, but I’m as dry as the desert. I already
poured it all out. Listen to the damn music, will you?
“The lyrics, which you write, are often cryptic and obscure. For
instance, the song Less Than Graceful –”
“That song is about a ten-year-old girl who sees her father get shot,” I
supply seamlessly before realising I made a mistake by cutting short the
interviewer. They hate that. Pete will strangle me, and I will let him, happy that
this is finally over. I take in a deep breath and decide to indulge this fucker. “I
don’t make music for it to be accessible, and neither do I think my song choices
necessarily are something listeners can relate to. I’ve never been a ten-year-old
girl, and my father has never been shot in front of me either. But listeners can
sympathise with stories and allegories that, to me, say something about the
world in which I live in. The music is loud, angry, sad, and it’s quiet too at
times, and that’s how it should be: alive. And I believe that our fans can feel that
when they put on a Followers record. They feel alive. And that’s what makes the
music accessible to anyone, regardless of age, sex or gender.”
The interviewer stares at me without blinking, then exhales a dreamy,
“Exactly so.”
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VOLUME 1
I can hear bells ringing in my head. And the winner is –

The interviewer licks his lips. “You are currently on tour, yes? And the
tour is called Jackie, Me and This Lady. Are these real people?” I nod. “Is Jackie
referring to the sister of drummer Spencer Smith?”
“No.”
“Your long-term girlfriend whose name I believe is Jac?”
“Is eleven months long-term?” I ask tiredly, adding, “Don’t put that in
the interview, my private life is off limits. But the answer is no, it is not named
after her.”
He nods slowly, eyes shining with interest. “Then who is Jackie?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I inform him, falling from grace as quickly as
I rose to it.
The photo shoot takes place in downtown Chicago. The interviewer tags along,
asking the other band members questions, mainly about me. If it ends up being
another Ryan Ross article instead of a Followers one, the dirty looks Joe will
give me will most likely exceed all the resentment felt during the Hundred
Years’ War. That war, in reality, lasted a hundred and sixteen years, but fuck me
if I know who fought it or when.
“It was between the English and the French from the fourteenth to the
fifteenth centuries,” Brendon informs the car. He lost the card game between the
roadies last night and got assigned to be our slave during the photo shoot. He
might know a bit of history, but he certainly can’t play cards.
“You ever gone to college?” I ask him.
“Nah,” he laughs, looking down to his shoes in embarrassment. “My
mother was – I, uh,” he stops to clear his throat. “I just know.” He looks out of
the window.
It’s a dangerous thing to ask someone of their family because they just
might tell you the truth, so I focus on staring out of the window while the
interviewer asks Spencer what it’s like to be the best drummer alive. Usually,
it’s relatively safe to ask someone to share, but what if that person decides to be
honest? And there certainly is nothing more dangerous than honesty.
If I gave an honest answer about my family, it would go something like
this: an alcoholic, asshole father who finally lost the last bit of his common sense
in Vietnam. He was over there only for a few months back in ’64 before getting
wounded and shipped back. He beat me up a few times. One time, I punched
back, and we haven’t touched each other since. Not a hug, not a handshake. He
still lives in Las Vegas, and he will die in Las Vegas. My mother left way before
any of it happened. She must have seen what an asshole he was. Didn’t care to
take me with her. I met her on tour in support of our second album. She said she
36
was proud; I told her she might as well be dead to me. I have half-siblings
somewhere. She didn’t abandon those.
I make a point of not asking Brendon about his background, though for
some reason I’d like to know. But no, silence is better. I’ve known Zack for
years, and I don’t know a damn thing about him either. Some of the best
friendships are built on mutual indifference.
The photo shoot drags on painfully after way too much time was spent
on the makeup artists doing our faces and hair.
“Ryan, can you move a bit to the left?” the photographer asks,
positioning me in front of the other guys. I’m wearing another hat Jac designed,
and the tips of my hair curl around the sides of my face. I need a haircut.
Brendon is watching on, and he has been doing his job flawlessly since the first
night. The guys avoid him, though. I try not to care. No one has appointed me
as the defender of the underdog, as the conscience of homophobic musicians. I
will stay clear of it, even if I don’t quite share their fear of Brendon. He really
seems harmless enough.
“Ryan, can you lift your head a bit? Brent, a bit more sideways. Good,
good. Joe, your hair is – That’s much better, thank you.” Snap, snap. “Okay,
Ryan you stay in the middle. Guys, if you just take two steps backwards...”
Snap, snap. “Think rock ‘n roll! Think attitude!” Snap. Flash. “We’re done!
Thank you!” The photographer and his assistants clap.
Brendon holds the hand towel as I wash my face. The makeup that hid
the imperfections of my face comes off, revealing changes in tone, uneven skin.
A few groupies have told me I’m beautiful. I don’t see it myself. A few bangs
hang in front of my face, and I prefer it like that, with just a bit of shelter.
“Thanks,” I mutter as I take the towel Brendon offers.
Brendon leans against the bathroom doorway, his tight t-shirt riding up
slightly, exposing his left hip. If he hadn’t told us he was gay, I would definitely
be figuring it out by now.
“Is it gonna be like this the entire tour?” he asks, and I lift an eyebrow at
him. “The media. That radio show you did in Milwaukee, now this, and I know
you have some sort of a record shop appearance in Cleveland. I thought tours
were about, you know. Playing shows.”
“Gotta promote the new album,” I say and straighten up. “I’d rather
not, trust me. I think this is all bullshit. It’s politics, sales and profit. This is not
goddamn music.”
Brendon chuckles. “Lucky that all labels rejected me.”
“You play?” I ask, mildly surprised. Of course he plays, but writing
music is another thing entirely.
He shrugs. “Some. But I don’t want a profession out of it. The only
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VOLUME 1
musicians in this world without complete artistic freedom are the ones with a
record deal.”
I lower the towel from my face, feeling a burning stone set in my
stomach at his words.
“You missed some here,” he helps, motioning at his left eyebrow. I wipe
my face more and hope to god I come out clean. I feel like he is waiting for me
to speak, but I’m not the most sociable person I know. It’s not that I’m anti-
social. It’s just that I prefer silence to my own voice. Most of the time, I just
cannot be bothered with people when my own thoughts entertain me more than
the mindless nonsense of a fellow man.
“Look,” I say anyway and against my better judgement. I was firmly
planning not to get involved. “I’m sorry if the guys have been distant. William
aside,” I add. “We’ve just not toured with a... well, you know. Before.”
“A fag?” he suggests.
“Yeah. A fag.”
“I was expecting it. Hoping for something different, sure, but I had
prepared myself. I know most musicians just think about pussy, anyway. Except
you, of course. I think you think about other things too.”
“I do, but I’m pretty sure pussy is in the top five.”
Brendon laughs, revealing all of his white teeth as his lips stretch wide. I
realise that I feel like I’m speaking as a hermit to another. “I’m just saying that
we’re in this for three months. So, you know. If you want to talk some time.”
Emphasis on you because I don’t plan to do much talking myself.
I pass him back the towel. He seems genuinely touched. “Gracias.”
“You got some Latino blood in you?” I ask.
“Hawaiian,” he corrects, and that explains the hint of exoticness in his
appearance. “I just got this thing, uh. I never want to say, you know, gracias in
English. It’s not that I don’t even want to, I just... don’t? I know how to say it in
a bunch of languages, so, yeah. I always say it in one of those. It’s just a thing.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“It’s not that weird. Like, some people don’t want to step on the cracks,
you know? And fair enough, I’m one of those people, but I also have other
things.”
“Double fucked up.”
“Danke.”
I laugh as Pete comes to the door, looking between Brendon and me.
“Wow, Ry, you’re smiling. First time this week, am I right? Come on, let’s get
going. Soundcheck in two hours, we need to get to the venue.”
38
“Sure,” I mutter, giving another suspicious look at Brendon, who only

grins at me.
Fans are lining up outside the Arie Crown Theater when the car passes the main
entrance. The venue’s security men show us through the back door, and I feel
myself relax. Here, I know what’s expected of me, even if I still can’t deal with
the audiences. I was near a panic attack last night, Spencer pulling me into a
backstage toilet to tell me to relax. But I would have been happy with mediocre
success. A record deal, small tours, a firm hold of myself. It’s what I wanted,
what I probably had somewhere between the first and second album, but I
missed it. I didn’t notice. So now I’ve got my face on magazine covers, fans
screaming and passing out at the sight of me, and I want to put this car on
reverse and go right back to that moment I missed, that moment in a club in
Buffalo where I noticed a few guys of the three hundred headed audience
singing along, and my heart stopped at the achievement. But it’s too late for
that, and I’m gone.
“Listen to them,” Brent says when the four of us are in the dressing
room, sitting around and prepping ourselves for our first Chicago show in two
years. I lift my head and nod tiredly. The audience is chanting our name. We’re
not going on for another hour, so we’re killing time drinking and trying to act
professional.
Joe’s not talking to me again. It’s because of the photo shoot where they
made it clear I’m the star. I’m sorry, but this band can’t have two front men. I
need friends right now, not enemies, and if he can’t get over himself, then fuck
him too.
Someone knocks on the door before opening it and a friendly looking
man around my age steps inside. He’s got a kind, readable face, and he looks
like he just woke up with a sleepy grin on his lips, his mouth surrounded by
scruffy stubble that matches the brown hair that frames his face and curls at the
tips. I think he works for the venue. “Hey,” he states simply, and the guys lift
their hands like they know the guy.
“Break a leg, man,” Joe says. In his case, he probably means it literally.
“Thanks. We’re going on in ten.”
“You’re in the support band?” I clarify.
“Yup, have been for the past two nights and will be for the next... five
shows, I think?” he shrugs. “We met yesterday.”
“Oh.” I remember being introduced to the support, but I no longer
remember faces or names. I don’t even remember what they are called, I just
remember not digging them that much. He just smiles like he doesn’t mind that
I have failed to acknowledge his existence. He’s shorter than me but broader
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VOLUME 1
chested and shouldered with actual muscle where I have bones.

“I was looking for Brendon,” he explains. We shake our heads. I’m not
sure where anyone is. The guy’s smile falters. “Well, tell him that Jon came
looking for him, yeah? And that Tom and I are staying in Room 317.”
“You got it,” Spencer promises, and the guy, presumably Jon, leaves.
Brent snorts. “Well, I’d never believe it just looking at him.”
“Believe what?” I ask distractedly, turning up the volume on the TV as I
sip the vodka straight from the bottle. So far, not once have I been able to go on
stage sober. The news is on, Nixon is giving a speech.
“That Jon prefers the back entrance.”
I laugh along with Brent. Spencer gets up and shakes his head, going to
the dressing tables and wrapping a bandanna around his head, blue this time.
“Earlier, I went for a cup of coffee with Jon’s girlfriend because they were
sound-checking, and we were both thirsty and idle. A nice place just two blocks
from here. You don’t have to be a homo to hang out with a homo.”
“Jon is banging the queer roadie while Spencer puts a move on his
girlfriend,” Joe grins. “Smooth.”
“I can’t believe I’m physically the youngest and mentally the oldest
around here,” Spencer mutters as he flops back down on an armchair, taking
drumsticks and twirling them in his fingers. I keep my eyes on him, and Spencer
shifts restlessly, giving me an uncomfortable look. I say nothing, though I could.
The guys begin to argue about who has Jon’s sexuality figured out, and fuck, it
hasn’t even been a week, but somehow, we’ve reached the point of useless
bickering. I hear the support band start playing, the roar of the crowd as
something finally happens on stage.
I get up and go looking for Andy because I want my Gibson restrung
before we go on. I am greeted by people I don’t recognise, strangers patting my
shoulders with, “How’s it going, man?” Fine. I’m always fine.
“Andy, hey,” I say, having finally found our guitar and bass technician.
He and Brendon are backstage, talking loudly over the music and nodding in
agreement. After I’ve made my request, Andy goes hunting for my Gibson
dutifully, and Brendon heads for the side of the stage. I follow and yell, “Jon
says hi!”
“He does? Cool,” Brendon smiles, now taking a spot where we can
watch the band on stage. Jon appears to be the bassist. He’s been on for ten
minutes, maximum, and he’s already drenched in sweat. Perspiration is so
distasteful. Brendon lifts his hand, and Jon manages to catch sight of us, giving
us both a gigantic grin. Before him are four thousand and eight hundred people,
most of who have come to see me.
“He and Ron are –“
40
“Tom? You mean Tom?”

“Shit, yeah.”
Brendon points at the blond guitarist on the other side of the stage.
I try again. “He and Tom are staying in, um. Room 317. He asked to
pass on the message.”
“Far out,” Brendon smiles, and I stand by him awkwardly. The noise of
the music would suffice a normal guy with the perfect excuse not to speak, but I
feel compelled to, then anguished when I cannot come up with anything. I say,
“Yeah,” and leave Brendon to it.
Ten minutes before we go on. It’s time for me to break down inside. I lock the
dressing room toilet, do vocal exercises, relax my jaw and sing, “Do, re, mi, do,
re, mi.” I take another sip of my vodka and sing, “Fuck this shi-ii-ii-it.”
“Let me in, man,” Spencer’s voice says with a gentle knock on the door.
I exhale and consider my chances. The crowd is chanting louder than ever, and I
can hear them. Fo-llow-ers, Fo-llow-ers –
I hide my face in my hands and will my body not to shake. It’s too
much. Every night is too fucking much, but somehow, I end up in the middle of
the stage, Spencer behind me, Joe to my right and Brent to my left, and we
remain where we are for one and a half hours, and I sing, I sing and play, and I
always walk out in one piece, but even closer to caving in than before. This
moment right before we go on, I need Spencer to talk me into it. He knows that.
I let Spencer in, and he closes the door behind himself. I say, “You
didn’t tell me you had coffee with some chick.”
“Jealous?” he smirks, though his face flashes with what I sensed earlier:
guilt.
“Immensely jealous,” I admit and pause. “Did you fuck her?” It’s not an
unreasonable question, and we both know that. My tone is, perhaps, a bit too
hopeful. He shakes his head, and I am not sure if I am relieved or disappointed.
To be honest, I was just curious. “Did you want to?” He shrugs. I try again.
“Well, did you like her?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good,” I try to say cheerfully, but fail as my voice falters under
my own nervous breakdown. Spencer chews on his bottom lip worriedly. “You
can fuck other chicks now. You can. You’re not with that girl anymore, so –”
“She’s got a name! Haley! Don’t ‘that girl’ her all the fucking time,”
Spencer swears angrily.
“I just –”
“Fuck, Ryan!” he interrupts, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in
his brain. “I mean, how am I supposed to move on if everyone tiptoes about it?
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Haley. Just say it. Don’t make it bigger than it is. I’m trying here, you know?”
“Sure,” I agree. Love is not love if Pete can offer your girlfriend enough
money to disappear. It must sting. It mustn’t have been enough for Spencer to
think she made the right choice.
“If something is going to destroy this band, it’s not me or anything to do
with me,” Spencer states firmly, looking over my shoulder at the dirty bathroom
mirror where we are reflected. I turn to study the portrayal: Spencer in his stage
clothes, drumsticks ready, composed, determined, and then there’s me, my tie
badly done, shirt buttoned wrong, vodka bottle in hand, a silly, feathery hat on
my head. This is not the pep talk Spencer usually gives me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask sceptically. I have no skeletons
in my closet – I’ve pulled them out, dressed them up, and put them in songs.
Spencer lets out a breath. “Nothing. It’s just that... It’s an enthusiastic
crowd out there tonight.”
Now we’re in the part where he talks me into going on stage.
I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this tour. It’s too much, it-
”
“No, it’s not. A few thousand, one million. It doesn’t matter how many
people are out there because you will be perfect like you are every damn night.”
I scoff at his flattery, and Spencer places a hand on my shoulder. “Remember
back in ’63 when we spent the summer as paper delivery boys?”
“Yeah,” I admit, chuckling at the memory. I had my red bike. It was a
good bike. “It was pretty bad ass, though nothing will ever get me out of bed
before five in the morning again.” Now five in the morning is when I go to bed.
On tour it’s all reversed: sleep during the day, stay up all night.
“It was the shittiest job ever, right?”
I nod in agreement and think back to the dry Las Vegas mornings, the
dogs that chased me, the time I nearly drove my bike in front of a bus, leaving
for my round before Dad had come back from the bar.
“But you did it anyway. You wanted to buy yourself a guitar, so you
did the job, and you did it well. And I know this isn’t what you had pictured
back then, but this is what you’ve got. Most bands never get a record deal, and
even if they do get one, they never make a living off of it. You did. Now this is
your job, and you are going to go out there and play the best you can. Not
because you have to but because you want to play your music for yourself and
the half a dozen people in the audience that have you figured out. And that’s all
you have to do. Nothing else, nothing more.”
“Yeah?” I ask, the hope so clear in my tone that I almost feel
embarrassed. That sounds doable. I could do that.
A knock on the door. “Ryan!” Pete’s voice. “Ryan, you better come the
42
fuck out of there and get on stage! Don’t keep your admiring fans waiting!”
“His admiring fans?” Joe’s voice asks.
“Come on! Or I’ll have Zack break this door! You’re not a middle
leaguer anymore, so stop acting like it! The label –”
“Shut up about the fucking label!” I nearly scream, and Spencer puts a
hand on my shoulder and gives me a smile. I don’t know who is telling me the
truth, Spencer or Pete, and I don’t know which will give me the strength to go
on stage. The chanting is even louder now. Fo-llow-ers! Fo-llow-ers! They are
stomping their feet. I bury my face in my hands.
“You can do it,” Spencer whispers.
“You have to do it, man!” Pete shouts.
I unlock the door, high-five the crew, don’t look any of them in the eye
because they know that I was hiding, they know, so I hurry past them, and I go
out to a roaring applause of thousands.
It’s time to do my round.
I don’t go to the club we’re invited to, so my bandmates go without me. I know
the party by heart: plenty of alcohol, excessive amounts of drugs, stunning
women. Joe will smash a piece of furniture or another while Brent will fuck
anything that moves, and Spencer will get drunk beyond belief and smile this
silly little smile as he thinks of some other life he is not living. It will be full of
local people of interest, maybe someone I actually know, and everyone thinks I
am so funny, so smart, so exciting.
It’s a little after one in the morning that I come out of the shower and
stretch my aching limbs on the hotel bed. Two more nights in Chicago. I get out
a cigarette and light it, lying naked and letting my body dry as smoke swirls in
the air in front of me. I’m wondering if the phone will ring, if Jac will call. I
know she won’t, but there’s no harm wondering.
Someone knocks on my door. The knock is cautious and hasty. I lift my
head, cigarette between my lips. It’s most likely some girl. They always find me,
bribe someone, try their luck, find out my hotel room number. And they come
in the middle of the night, eyes bright and lips sweet.
There are two kinds of groupies: those who want to fuck me because
I’m famous and those who want to fuck me because of my music. I prefer the
first group. It’s not advisable to fuck girls who love the music – they take it too
personally. You are the music. And it’s true. I am the music. The fame seeking
girls are far more sincere when it comes to pussy and dick.
They knock a second time. I wonder which type of girl is behind the
door, but don’t go find out. Eventually, I hear someone walking away.
After fifteen minutes of sleep not taking over, I start regretting my
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decision. I get dressed and decide to have a look in the hotel bar. Maybe the girl
decided to hang around.
I walk down the hotel corridor, combing my slightly wet hair with my
fingers. My belt hangs unbuckled. I head for the door that will lead me to the
hotel stairs, but I come to a sudden stop outside a noisy room. 317. I stare at the
golden plate that has been nailed to the door. Laughter pours through, someone
is playing guitar, someone is singing. The hotel corridor is deserted.
The crew is getting along with the current support. That’s good, really.
I’m just amazed how easily some people friend others, how I, once again,
missed out on it. I think I’m paying attention, but later I realise it was to the
wrong things. I’m not jealous. I’m not envious. It’s good that they get along.
Really good.
I sigh restlessly and try to look away from the door. I have three
options: sleep, groupie or this. I hear laughter, and I’m convinced it’s Brendon.
I knock on the door.
I instantly regret it and stuff my hands in my jean pockets. Jon opens the
door, and the smell of weed hits me like a wave. “Ryan! Hey! Come on in, dude,
come in!” He grabs my arm and pulls.
“I was just wondering if –” any of my bandmates are there. A lame
excuse, definitely, but it’s all I can come up with on the spot. Jon doesn’t wait for
me to finish.
“Guys, look who’s here!”
I scan the room, recognising Tom and the drummer of their band sitting
on the floor. A light brown-haired girl is sitting on a bed, and Brendon is sitting
in an armchair by the window, a joint between his index and middle finger, his
other hand holding cards.
No one seems surprised by my presence. It’s the pot. Jon guides me to
sit down on the floor and join them, and I notice they are playing poker. The
guitar I heard lies abandoned on the other bed. Tom passes me a joint, and I
take a hit. Jon offers me a glass of whisky, and I accept. I take a second glance at
the girl. She’s beautiful.
“Let me think!” Brendon insists and stares at his cards. “What was
higher, straight or flush?”
“Flush,” Tom says with impatience, his tone bearing repetition.
“We’re teaching the man,” Jon explains with a drunken smile. “Can’t
play cards for shit.”
“That I can’t,” Brendon calls out and shakes with laughter as he finds
this endlessly amusing.
“But he can play guitar,” the girl says in a smooth voice that has me
looking her way again. Our eyes meet, but she looks away. A bit of a chase, is
44
that what she wants? Alright. I’ll chase her.

Brendon gets dealt two cards, and his face lights up with boyish
excitement.
“Brendon, dude!” Jon laughs.
“Shit, right,” Brendon says and tries to look nonchalant.
“Fold,” Tom says instantly, and Brendon starts pouting, his lips jutting
outwards. His expression is so sad that I forget the pretty girl, who also folds.
Huh. I knew when I saw Brendon that he was beautiful, but somehow, I realise
it all over again. A different kind of beautiful.
“Don’t fold! Come on, you guys!” Brendon insists.
Jon hides his face in his hand. “You fucking suck at poker, you know
that?”
Brendon notices me staring, and he lifts an eyebrow at me. I simply lift
my bottle in greeting, feel stupid doing it, and stare at my shoes. The weed and
booze are getting to me, but it’s hardly a surprise when I have been drinking on
and off for at least six hours.
Jon wins the game with a flush, and Brendon curses, throwing his cards
into the air. The girl stands up, her orange dress belted with a big-buckled,
green belt. She leans over the drummer to give Jon a loving kiss, and Jon’s hand
slides on her neck, his fingers touching the undoubtedly smooth skin. So that’s
why she’s not already sitting in my lap. She thinks she’s found love. And if
that’s Jon’s girlfriend, then it’s the girl Spencer talked about. Well, Spencer’s got
taste, and I fold my game for the night, though mine had nothing to do with
cards.
I lean my back against the bed and take another hit, not really
participating in the conversation. Jon tries to get a second game going, but it
comes to nothing when Tom takes the guitar and starts playing California
Dreamin’. Brendon starts singing in the chorus, and I sit up straighter. His voice.
It’s an acquired taste, a wobble that isn’t there because of unprofessionalism. He
is hitting every note he intends to, and the shake in his voice must be the way he
prefers to sing. His voice is full and dark. Mine is raw and thin. We’re both
acquired tastes, but I like the way he sounds. Brendon goes an octave higher,
demonstrating a range I can only dream of. He goes even higher than Jon’s
girlfriend.
“What are you guys called again?” I ask Jon.
“Canadian History.”
“You’re Canadian?”
“No.”
“Ever been over there?”
“A few times.”
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VOLUME 1
“Know anything of its history?”

“No, just a band name. We were sort of drunk when we came up with
it. Then it just stuck.”
Brendon has taken the guitar, softly playing as Tom sings. The
drummer, whose name is Nate, has gathered courage to tell me how awesome
he thinks it is that we’re drinking together. They don’t seem to mind that I have
crashed their party. Why would they? They’ll never get another chance to get
wasted with someone as talented or famous as me.
Brendon changes to a country song, making Tom crack up. “This man!”
he exclaims and motions at Brendon. “I love this man!”
Jon nods in agreement, and since no one seems to be listening, I ask
him, “You don’t mind that Brendon’s... you know.”
“He’s what?” Jon asks, baffled.
“No, no, go to the minors!” Tom enthuses, and Brendon obeys, the two
of them howling in laughter as Nate drums a hotel pillow with two empty beer
bottles.
“That he’s not playing for the same team as you?” I offer.
“Nah!” Jon exclaims. “You’re here too, aren’t you? We’re excited about
touring with you guys, thousands of new people have heard our music now. It’s
great!”
“Ry, you play something,” Brendon says, passing me the guitar. I take it
simply out of surprise that Brendon has decided to call me by my unofficial
nickname. I stare at the instrument stupidly for a minute, too high and drunk to
remember how Foxy Lady goes. As I play and the rest of the guys sing, I wonder
if this is the type of touring I have always heard everyone talking about, but
have never seen myself. Guys hanging out, getting shitfaced, sweat, saliva and
music. Always music.
“We’re out of beer!” Jon’s girlfriend exclaims unhappily, and Nate
stands up, slightly wobbly.
“I’ve got some in my room. Come on, let’s get some. Come on! Cas,
stand up, I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you, for real. Like this and – ” The girl squeals
as Nate picks her up and puts her over his shoulder. She kicks the air and
laughs, and Jon smacks her ass.
“Don’t drop her now!” Jon warns before he flops down to sit next to me,
and Nate carries the girl out of the room. I pass him the guitar, and he starts
playing. It’s nothing I recognise, but it’s damn good. “I’m just improvising,” he
slurs and chuckles.
“Keep going,” I say, suddenly very intrigued.
Jon has amazing taste. We start talking and seem unable to stop, passing
the guitar back and forth and throwing ideas around just for the hell of it. He’s a
46
fucking talented guy. Brendon, Nate, Tom and the girl play more cards as we
proceed to ignore them.
“If this band of yours fails,” I say at one point, and he laughs. “Or you
want to jam. Or hey, a side project. I think we should, yeah, I think it might be
fun. Some time, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Jon grants, a pleased, eager smile on his face. “Yeah, man.
That, uh, that’d be great. We could jam some more tomorrow.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Shit. Awesome.” He sounds disbelieving and flattered. He beams at
me.
Nate passes out before I finally leave. Jon and I talk about dogs. He
knows a lot about them, can list fifty different breeds. Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling
Retrievers make loyal pets. I don’t know what they look like. He says orange
and alert. Brendon stumbles down the hotel corridor with us, going through his
pockets and trying to remember his room number. Brendon’s fingers go down
to brush the slice of skin showing at the top of his jeans. Jon has to steady him
more than once, and I follow the way they move, reminding me of birds
shooting down to a lake to take a sip of water in midflight.
I pay attention when Jon and Brendon hug goodnight. It’s brief, one-
armed, like I’d hug Brent or Spencer. Brendon waves me a goodbye, and Jon is
kind enough to take me to my door. He appears to be annoyingly clear-headed.
“So that was your girlfriend back there,” I say suddenly.
“Yeah, Cas. Cassie. The love of my life.” Jon grins brightly. “Been
together for years.”
I am pretty sure Spencer could have fucked her if he had wanted to.
Spencer is a well-known rock star, and this Jon guy. Who the hell even is he? I
could’ve fucked her. Sure I could’ve.
“Huh.” We’ve reached my room, Jon is opening the door for me. I stop.
“He’s a fag, you know.”
“Sorry?”
“Brendon,” I clarify and motion back to where we came from. I see
Brendon’s face when I close my eyes, beautiful and laughing. “He fucks guys.
Some guys do.”
Jon seems surprised. Gotcha. Gotcha, you motherfucker. I only say it
because it’s true. For honesty. For virtue. Jon seems nice, he deserves to know.
“Yeah, some guys do,” Jon agrees. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” I reply instantly. It really doesn’t bother me. I just can’t stop
thinking about it. “You got any in your band? Your crew?” I ask hopefully.
“We’ve got one black guy?”
I shake my head in disappointment. Most people I know haven’t cared
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about race since Marvin Gaye. My point is, and it’s an important point, that
we’ve got a gay roadie, who seems nice, can sing and play guitar, considers
himself cute and too precious to settle down, and clearly does not want to talk
about his family. We’ve got this thing, this funny, odd thing that I don’t know
what to do with. It didn’t come with a manual.
“Goodnight,” Jon offers, and I stumble back into my room, get
undressed, light a cigarette and stare at the smoke swirling higher and higher to
the ceiling.
48
CHAPTER 4: WILD WITH MISDEMEANOUR
I promise not to tell Canadian History’s management that the band doesn’t need
to stay in the hotel. Jon’s place is just a few streets down from the hotel, but he is
abusing the privilege of being on the road with a band that demands four-star
treatment. “And the breakfast is a lot nicer at the hotel. You crash on my couch,
all you get is a kick in the ass to get out by noon,” Jon grins. “Does your
manager know you’re here?”
“Pete? Yeah, sure.” I keep playing around with the guitar in my lap as
one of Jon’s cats purrs at my feet. He lives with Cassie, who is at work. The
place looks like it has that feminine touch to it, something sweet and homelike
that speaks a lot about their relationship.
Jon comes back from the kitchen with two beer bottles and passes me
one. I lift it as a thank you, and we start working on the song we started at the
hotel yesterday.
Pete doesn’t actually know where I am, but I have three hours until
soundcheck. I can be wherever I want, and Pete can run around in circles
looking for me for all I care.
Canadian History’s music is pretty heavy. It puts a lot of attention on
their singer’s vocals, letting it take attention away from the monotonous sound
of the music. Jon should be in some other band that matches his talent. Jon,
unlike the rest of his bandmates, isn’t mediocre.
“I really like this song,” I admit. It’s not loud. Jon and I both play
acoustics, and the song is melodic and nearly pretty. With the different sections
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VOLUME 1
and messed up time signatures, it’s like a Followers song unplugged, and I’m
surprised that I like it. It doesn’t need to be loud to hit home.
“What do you think of this at the end?” Jon asks, playing a little riff over
and over.
“Go a bit higher. Yeah, like that. Yeah.”
Cassie comes home in the afternoon, and she sits on the couch and
watches us play. She sends Jon bright smiles that Jon returns with adoring
looks. She doesn’t smile all that much at me. Maybe I eye-fucked her a bit too
much. Women always know when you want them, and she is doing nothing to
let me even think I’ve got a shot. It’s a shame for her. I bet I’d fuck her better
than Jon.
“Is anyone else coming?” Cassie asks, and Jon explains that the two of
us are just messing around with music. “Brendon’s not coming?” Cassie asks
disappointedly.
“Nah. Didn’t ask but he would’ve had roadie duties anyway,” Jon
shrugs. Cassie offers to make us something to eat before we head back for the
venue. I haven’t seen Jon around Brendon since I told him the news. I think
Brendon liked Jon in a purely non-sexual way. Should I feel guilty that I’m
ruining the kid’s chances of making friends? Or should I be worried that I can’t
shake off this conscience I have developed?
“Remember a few nights ago when you walked me back to my hotel
room?” I begin to ask, and Jon makes an agreeing sound. “Yeah, well, the thing I
said about Brendon. He’s told us since he’s touring with us, but I don’t think he
wants everyone to know. So, like, I was just thinking if you could keep it to
yourself unless he brings it up.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was gonna do,” Jon shrugs like it was obvious. He
had probably forgotten. It’s not a big thing unless I make it seem like one.
I rub my nose. “Just no reason for everyone to know we’re touring with
one of those.”
“I won’t tell. No need to cause trouble,” Jon promises. “Hey, what do
you wanna do with these songs?”
I shrug in response. The songs are good, though. They ought to be
shared. And within the past day, I’ve realised that writing music with Jon comes
easier than it has with any of my bandmates, excluding Spencer, maybe, were I
to rewind a few years. But Spencer’s changed. He doesn’t enjoy this anymore.
He’s here physically, but I have no idea where his thoughts are, where his heart
is. And I’ve merely gotten sadder.
“We’ll see what happens,” I tell Jon. Maybe I could do a side project of
sorts, sit down with Jon and write more songs. See what happens.
Cassie walks back in with one of the cats purring loudly in her arms.
50
She’s holding a record that turns out to be the first Followers album, which we
conveniently called The Followers. “Since you’re here,” she says a bit
disregardingly, and I sign the self-titled 1971 album. She’s got that faux smile I
see on fans sometimes, when they meet their idols only to be disappointed.
Cassie’s put the casserole in the oven. Jon and I finish our second song
before it’s done.
I don’t go directly to the venue like Jon does. He has soundcheck, and I have a
lack of alcohol in my system. Pete has started giving me long, disappointed
looks when I drink up before going on stage, and it’s bullshit, utter fucking
bullshit because the rest of the guys are just as drunk as me. Almost. Kind of.
I find a café not too far from the venue. I get myself a glass of Coke,
make sure the waitress is out of sight before getting out my flask and mixing
vodka with the drink. The carved initials on the flask’s front feel rough under
my thumb. G.R.R. III. It belonged to my dad, but I carved one more line to
change the II into a III. Nothing changes between generations except Roman
numerals. I took the flask when I moved to LA. I doubt he’s missed it.
I stand out in the café with my overgrown hair and week’s stubble. It’s a
friendly looking place where picket fence America enjoys warm apple pies with
a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And I’m at the back, internally mocking the
unimaginative baby this, baby that pop song that’s on the radio as smartly
dressed adults and their mini-adult offspring prance around and ponder over
inviting the Johnsons over for dinner. That will never be me. I take another sip
of my vodka mix. God, that’ll never be me.
I need to take a leak. I spot the toilet sign and head for it, letting my eyes
wash over the other customers. That old lady over there, well fuck her. And that
business man, fuck him too. And that rock guy using the payphone next to the
toilet doors, fuc – Spencer? I stop in my tracks, frowning. It is Spencer.
At first, I am unsure because Spencer is actually smiling, a blinding
smile full of white teeth. And the drummer of my band never smiles. Not in my
presence. “You know you gotta call me when it goes down, right? Like, uh, you
got all the hotels we’ll be staying – Hey, let me triple check, would you?” he
laughs.
I blink. “Spencer?”
He almost jumps as he looks up and sees me. “I gotta go,” he says
simply and hangs up. We stare at each other for a second before he clears his
throat. “Where you been? Pete is furious.”
“At Jon’s writing music. Who were you talking to?”
“Sorry?”
“Just now. On the phone.”
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“That. Right.” He looks back to the phone, mouth open, then rushes out,
“Crystal. Just checking how everyone is back home.”
“Oh. And how is your sister?”
“Fine. Both of them.”
“Good. You heading back to the venue?” He nods and rubs his nose,
eyes averting. “Sweet. Wait for me, alright? Need to take a leak.”
“Uh huh.”
I try to give Spencer the best smile I can, the one that reminds him that
I’m his best friend and I trust him completely. We don’t need to know
everything about each other’s lives. I trust him, sure, but fuck me if I’m buying
his bullshit.
Spencer is waiting outside the café when I come out. The sunlight is too
bright for me, and I get my oversized sunglasses from my pocket, the brown
lenses helping to bring the world into focus. “So you and Jon, huh?” Spencer
asks, and okay, guess we’re not talking about him or what the hell it is that
Spencer is waiting to go down.
“We’ve written two songs. Damn good.”
“What you gonna do with them?” Spencer asks, just like Jon did. I don’t
know yet. I’m not sure. Spencer says, “We used to write on tour.”
“I know.”
Now, we only write when we have to, when the label tells us to pop out
a new record. It’s taken all the joy out of it. It’s not like that with Jon.
We walk without saying anything, and the silence is not as comfortable
as it used to be back when we were fourteen, seventeen, twenty-one. It’s not as
comfortable, but it’s not awkward either. Not yet.
“Just be careful,” Spencer says eventually. I eye the venue we’re closing
in on, wondering how to get inside without any of the fans outside noticing.
“Listen to me,” Spencer demands, and I grudgingly give him all of my attention.
He always gives me advice, saying we should go talk to that Joe guy because he
was damn good on that small bar stage, or he’s telling me that it’s probably for
the best if I get rid of that blonde groupie Jac before she becomes a permanent
figure in my life. Half of the time I listen to Spencer, half of the time I don’t. “All
I’m saying is that you don’t know this Jon guy at all. You don’t know what he
wants. There’s him, the bassist of some Midwestern wonder only locals have
heard of, and then there’s you, an internationally acknowledged music genius.
So you think about that, okay?”
“I will.”
“Good,” Spencer nods and adds, “We miss you, you know. The rest of
us.” The way Spencer says ‘us’ can only mean the four of us, the core of this
mess. The guys miss me? Joe misses me? “You know you’ve shut us out,”
52
Spencer says without any blame at all, and it makes it that much worse.
“I’ll try harder,” is my automatic response, and Spencer smiles and
doesn’t mention Jon for the rest of the day, but he keeps giving me looks that
make me feel like I have been cheating on the band with Jon Walker.
“Fifteen minutes to bus call!” Pete calls out, and William and Zack lift another
amp box and carry it from the venue’s backdoor to the bus that is being loaded.
I light my cigarette, put the lighter back in my pocket, and check the cigarette
packet. None left. The night clouds have overtaken the sky, the ground still wet
from the rain that must have fallen during our show. St. Louis is pitch black and
glistening, a chilly wind making its way under my jacket.
The support band has packed up already, but they haven’t left yet. I see
Tom and Jon kicking a beer can back on forth, laughing their heads off. I
wonder what they are on and why Jon didn’t offer me some. We’re friends by
now.
Brendon carries two guitars to our bus, the doors of the luggage space
wide open on both sides, slowly getting refilled with expensive equipment.
Brendon and William put down an amplifier case, and Brendon
stretches his arms and groans loudly. “My back is fucking killing me.”
“You’re younger than me, what about my back?” William shoots.
“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”
“Deal,” William beams. Brent sends me a ‘dear fucking god’ look that
says if those two start rubbing each other in our presence, Brent will be the first
one running to the door in order to save his straight life. I chuckle and wonder if
there is any truth in Spencer’s words, if the guys miss me. It’s hard to believe
with the attitude I get from them.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Brent.
“Don’t leave me,” Brent says with complete sincerity matched with big,
pleading eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. I spend my
fifteen minutes walking up and down the nearest street, eventually managing to
bum two cigarettes off a guy outside a bar. He is drunk as hell and asks me if I
went to the Followers show. I tell him I was there.
He asks, “Fucking overrated shit, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“You’re a good man. Here, here, take another!”
I smoke two of my three cigarettes on my way to the bus, but once I
walk around the corner to the back, I hear yelling and see commotion by the
buses. The guys are tiny figures in the distance, but it’s clear that a fight has
broken out. Someone yells, “You fucker!” loud enough for it to break the silence
of the night. I break into a fast jog, partly dreading, partly hoping, that
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something major has happened that will cause the immediate cancellation of
our tour.
I am left disappointed. The troublemakers are Brendon and Nate.
“I’m telling you, man!” the drummer is shouting in slight
disorientation, eyes wild with anger. He is high as a fucking kite. “Don’t come
near me or –”
“Or what?!” Brendon shouts back. The rest of the guys are watching the
show from a safe distance, most of them looking slightly embarrassed to even be
there. “You think I’m gonna rape you? Or are you afraid that you might actually
like it?”
“You sick pervert!” Nate yells.
He knows. How does he know, how did this get out? My eyes find Jon,
who is looking at the ground, at anything except the display in front of us. I feel
myself taking a blow. That fucker. He promised me.
Nate keeps swearing. “You motherfucking –”
“Hey!” I intervene loudly, surprising even myself that I don’t just stand
and watch, passive and indifferent like is the norm with me, and Brendon turns
to look at me, and the clouds shift, the moonlight hits him, and he looks
beautiful in that one moment before the fist flying at him makes contact.
Brendon takes the punch, stumbling backwards before launching on the man,
reminding me of a leopard leaping on its dinner. I run closer while chaos breaks
out, the guys trying to tear them apart. Zack easily picks Brendon up, who kicks
air and swears as his nose bleeds, smearing his mouth and chin. Tom and Andy
have Nate, who is struggling to get to Brendon. Spencer stands in between the
two parties, holding up his hands. “Whoa! Calm the fuck down!”
“You fucking faggot!” Nate yells.
Zack lets go of Brendon, who doesn’t stop to wipe his face as he tries to
attack again. “I’m gonna kill –” Brendon starts yelling, and Zack grabs the back
of the roadie’s shirt and pulls him, picking him up a second time and literally
carrying Brendon away while he shouts angrily. Andy and Tom let go of Nate,
who yells such a long list of vulgarities that I am almost impressed.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Tom says hurriedly. “Nate’s on some acid, he’s not
himself. Really didn’t mean to cause trouble –”
“I’m not sorry!” Nate declares loudly. Zack comes back, and I see
Brendon walking away from us, punching the air and yelling at no one in
particular. Jon is talking to Nate, hands on the drummer’s shoulders.
“One of these nights,” Zack says. It’s really a surprise we managed this
long without a fight. “Let’s finish packing up.”
“Shit,” I mutter and look for a cigarette before remembering I only have
one left. I’ll have to save it.
54
“Is that all?!” William demands angrily.

“William, we need to get on the road. Do your job, then think about
your personal life,” Pete commands. William is nearly seething as he flips his
long hair and storms to put the drum kit on the bus. Spencer walks to me, a
solemn look on his face.
“Someone should go talk to him.”
I follow his gaze and see that Brendon has crossed the street running
next to the venue, pacing back and forth in front of a closed café. Spencer’s right.
Someone probably should. Canadian History won’t be touring with us much
longer, so at least Nate won’t be around. And maybe it’s a good thing someone
called Brendon a fag and punched him for his alternative lifestyle. Now it means
Joe or Brent doesn’t feel like they need to do it. That would have been worse.
“What happened?” I ask, and Spencer shrugs. He looks tired, and we’re
only a week into the tour. Joe walks over to listen to the story.
“Brendon just went over to talk, and Nate told him to stay away. Nate
made a nasty remark, and I gotta admit that Brendon went down fighting. He
said, ‘My kind? You mean fags?’” Spencer chuckles almost fondly.
Joe interrupts with, “No, man, you’re telling it all wrong. Listen,
Brendon went over, right, and Nate was giving him an attitude. So Nate says he
doesn’t want to hang out with Brendon’s kind, so Brendon says, ‘My kind? You
mean Aries?’ That’s what he said. Fucking funny, man. Now Nate is being
vague, so Brendon shouts at him until Nate calls him a cocksucker, and Brendon
asks what business is it of his whose cock he sucks, and Nate insists that it’s not
but it’s goddamn disgusting anyway, and Brendon says he’s only so worried
because he thinks he’d like a guy sucking his cock. That’s when the guns started
blazing.” Joe smiles like it’s a funny story.
“Someone should go talk to him,” Spencer repeats and gives me a long
look with his blue eyes and then nods after Brendon. Why me? What could I
possibly say that Spencer couldn’t?
I hear banging as the luggage compartment doors are shut. The tour bus
is ready to go. All guys are still outside, though, restless, upset. Nate is
muttering curses about his aching jaw, and Spencer is telling me to play the
doctor and feed us all medicine. But I’m not sick.
When I remain still, Spencer says, “We can’t just leave him here.”
“God! Fine, I’ll go,” I hiss and start making my way over to Brendon,
who is across the street from the Kiel Auditorium. I try to come up with
something to say as I make my way over, mainly something about how he
fought like a man, how his boxing coach would be proud of him for not passing
out after a punch like that, provided that he has a coach, which he most likely
doesn’t, so it’s a useless comfort, really. I stop at a safe distance and wait for
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Brendon to acknowledge my presence. He is holding his nose, fingers in blood,

shaking his head and shivering with anger. “Is your nose...?” I ask, and Brendon
shakes his head. It’s not broken or he’d be in excruciating pain. “The bus is
leaving soon,” I offer. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”
Brendon lets go of his nose and rubs it gingerly. He gives me a dirty
look. “You got a fucking cigarette?”
“No. Sorry.”
Brendon wipes his nose to his sleeve and shakes his head in disbelief,
kicking the asphalt beneath his feet. I give in.
“Okay, here. You can have my last one.” I give him the cigarette I
earned by dissing my own band. But at least that guy had an honest opinion
unaffected by the appraisal of the press, though he could have hated us simply
to be original. I light the cigarette for Brendon, and he inhales shakily. His eyes
are watery, and I’m not sure if it’s from the pain or something else. I longingly
look back at our bus, wanting to abandon this sinking ship I so unwisely
boarded. Goddamn Spencer. I hope Joe isn’t hanging around to watch this
spectacle.
“I liked Nate. I thought he was a damn nice guy. Can you believe that?”
Brendon vents.
“I thought he seemed like a suck up, really.”
“Turns out that,” Brendon says, faces the buses and yells, “he’s
a homophobic piece of shit!” The words echo along the empty street.
I can’t believe Jon told his bandmates after I told him not to. He made it
sound like it wasn’t a big deal to him, but clearly, it was. Clearly, Jon thought
the news was even harder to swallow than I did. It’s not my fault Jon is a tell-
tale. I gave Brendon my last cigarette, didn’t I? This isn’t my fault. I have been
purified with a sprinkle of holy water.
“Nate shouldn’t have called you those things,” I say objectively. “And
you should have just walked away.”
Brendon’s head snaps up, his eyes thinning. “Excuse me? You think I
should have done nothing?”
“Sometimes, it’s the braver thing to do.” And the smart thing to do.
Gays should get that they can’t prance around wherever they want.
“It is not brave to be silent! It’s cowardly! I have come out of the closet,
and I’m not going back in for anyone! I fuck guys. I kiss them, I lick them, I suck
them. I go to gay clubs and think my gay thoughts and I march in the GFMs,
and I am not afraid to say it’s who I am.”
“GFMs?” I ask, anything to stop the mental images of Brendon fucking,
kissing, licking and sucking from corrupting my brain.
“Gay Freedom Marches,” he supplies, and well, I’ve never heard of
56
those. Sounds a bit too ambitious. Brendon scoffs and looks at me down his
nose. “I will not accommodate to other people’s ideals, and I won’t suppress a
vital part of myself to help narrow-minded, oppressive heteros feel better! I am
not trying to please Nate or you or any fucker. It’s who I am and I don’t hide it,
but it still doesn’t make it any of your goddamn business, and no one, no one has
the right to physically or verbally assault me for it.”
“I think you’re contradicting yourself there. If you openly promote it, it
is other people’s business,” I point out, and Brendon looks like he’s about to hit
me next, so I let it be and add, “Though I see your point, sure. You gotten
punched for it before?”
“Three times, but who’s counting?” he shoots back before sitting down
and leaning against the café door, my cigarette shaking in his fingers. He has
gotten blood on it. He looks small, lonely and miserable, full of contradictions
and no solutions. Fucking great, now I feel sorry for him.
“I thought San Francisco was pretty accepting of gays. Or certain places
at least.”
“Never gotten punched back home. No, it was before, when I...” His
voice fades away into a heavy sigh. I stare at him expectantly, but he shakes his
head. “Never mind. Nothing.” He takes a drag of the cigarette.
“I was brought up in Las Vegas,” I offer. “It’s very... dry. Lots of flashy
lights. Some of my first times playing in public were when Spencer and I went
busking on Fremont Street. The best place is outside The Mint. This one time a
lady gave us a fifty dollar chip, she must’ve won big time. I bought an amp with
it.” By now I am fully aware that I am babbling, which only happens when I get
nervous. Not the kind of nervous I get before interviews or performances,
because that is always mixed with terror. This is the kind of nervousness that
stems from feeling unsure and hoping I don’t make an ass of myself, which is
clearly what I’m doing.
“I’ve never been, but it sounds nice,” he offers. Las Vegas really isn’t all
that nice. It’s a fake city. Rewind seventy years, and it was a dozen houses in the
middle of nothing.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” I say because it’s probably
what I am expected to say. Brendon looks like my words have hardly any
impact on him, knowing as well as me that they are empty.
“Imagine if it were you. That someone wants you to die because you
want to love women.”
“I don’t love them,” I correct him. “Don’t love anyone.”
“Fuck them?”
“Plenty.”
“Because you fuck them. Just pretend for one second what it’s like, and
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even then, you won’t come close to the shit I’ve put up with. And every time I
think that it’s done, that I won’t have to put up with it anymore, something like
this happens. Why does every straight guy think I want to fuck them or convert
them? Do they want to fuck every woman they see? No. I’m picky just like the
rest, and they already have one quality I don’t want: straight. Nate’s a paranoid
piece of shit.”
“They won’t be playing with us much longer. Rest of the tour will be
Nate free.”
“It’s not him, it’s what he represents. The millions that are like him.”
I sit down next to him, offering him my silence. The ground is wet,
moisture coming through the backs of my jeans. Brendon’s breathing is uneven.
“Think it’s gonna rain,” I observe.
He says nothing for a long time, but I can feel him slowly relaxing.
“Yeah. Yeah, looks like rain. You guys were pretty good tonight.”
“Were we?” I ask, grateful for the change of subject. “Met a guy who
said we were shit.”
“You still look like you’re about to pass out whenever you go on stage,
but yeah. You were better. Maybe you’re getting used to life on the road,” he
says like an expert, and I hate the fact that anyone who tours with us can see
how terrified I am of the audiences. It’s humiliating to say the least, but I won’t
feel sorry for myself. It must be hell to wake up every damn day to the same
round of ridicule because there’s something messed up in your brain that makes
you want to fuck your own sex. Brendon is clearly the one who should and has
the right to wallow in self-pity. Since we’re competing...
Canadian History’s bus starts up, and the sound of the engine
screeching alerts me. “We gotta go,” I say, and Brendon throws the rest of the
cigarette away. I pick it up and take two quick drags since I don’t want to waste
it. Brendon gives me a slightly disgusted look, but the ground was clean. Pretty
sure it was.
The crews have disappeared into their respective buses by the time we
come back. Andy is driving ours. The lounge is nearly empty, the guys having
decided to vanish for the evening. I can already hear Zack’s steady snore.
William is still in the lounge and he rushes over, a furious look on his face.
“How could he?! How could he?! I am enraged! We should call the police! We
should–”
William goes off like a Roman candle, babbling on and on about the
injustice, intolerance, having worked himself up to a nearly nonsensical state. I
wonder what William will do on the day the world actually ends. Because it
will, you know. It definitely will, and then taking a punch in St. Louis will be
nothing more than an amiable memory.
58
“How’s your nose?” William asks after giving Brendon several hugs.
“It’ll be fine.”
“Come on,” I mumble, giving William a look that signals him to leave
us be. He seems surprised and even more upset, but Spencer gave me this task
and I will see it through. I take Brendon to my nest, motioning him to sit on the
edge of my bed while I go get some toilet paper and a glass of water. He cleans
himself up, and I sit next to him, keeping my eyes on the closed door. The blue
sheets smell of the sex I’ve had, an unpleasant, sweaty smell that I hope
Brendon won’t notice because of the clotted blood in his nostrils. I need to tell
Pete to arrange for the sheets to be washed.
“We could sabotage the Canadian History set tomorrow,” I offer half-
heartedly.
“We could throw a bottle at Nate,” Brendon suggests as he rubs the last
bits of blood off of his face.
“Good idea. And then we’ll feign ignorance.”
“That’d be nice,” he smiles, eyes cast downwards. I feel not-numb at the
sight, trying not to frown at my sudden role as the protector of the innocent.
“We’ll do it then.”
I nod. “Definitely.”
He manages to grin. “You’re alright. I thought you were a bit of a
zombie, but you’re alright when you do decide to talk.”
“I didn’t decide anything. I just feel sorry for you for getting punched.”
He shrugs. “I’ll take it. You’re alright.”
“Grazie,” I mumble, and Brendon grins openly before wincing and
going back to gently touching his nose. It’s swollen, but at least now it matches
his naturally puffy lips. The bus takes off, and we slowly sway left, right, left as
Andy takes turns.
“It’s a nice room you’ve got here,” Brendon observes. “We do have
reason to be jealous, I guess.”
“Joe talking shit about it behind my back?”
“Joe and everyone else.”
“Ah.” So much for loyalty. I don’t understand why Spencer has to keep
up appearances. The four of us will never be friends like we once were, and it
will hurt less if we just admit it.
“The way you all speak of each other, I don’t know, man. Sort of
surprised you’re bandmates, not enemies.”
I get up and open the door for Brendon. “What’s the difference?”
“Nothing, I suppose. Nothing,” he concludes, taking the hint and
walking out. There are four bunks on both walls, grouped into two and two.
Brendon goes to his, right after my door on the upper left. “Spasiba for the
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cigarette,” he whispers quietly and climbs in. I close the door and dive into the
sea of dirty sheets.
I don’t know how he talked me into this. I am not this kind of person, but I
suppose he is. I take my rebellion onto paper, but books never started
revolutions. People did. People still do. And Coke bottles apparently do.
I feel a mix of disbelief and giddy, boyish disobedience as I find Pete
and Zack following Canadian History’s set from the side of the stage. I tell Pete
that Joe is having a diva fit and that Zack might have to detain him. The two
hurry off, and I whistle casually though no one can hear me in the noise of the
music. Canadian History’s own roadies are on the other side of the stage. If I
stand in the shadows here, no one will see me.
“Hey.”
My eyes land on Brendon, who looks nervous but is almost jumping out
of his skin with excitement. “You wanna throw it?” he asks and passes me the
empty bottle. When we talked about this last night, I was just talking. I had no
intention of going through with any of it.
I take the bottle, feel it heavy in my grip. Jon is not on our side of the
stage, but Tom is. He is focused on the crowd though. I wouldn’t mind having
another bottle to throw at Jon with. He broke his promise to me and blabbed
about Brendon. But Nate is the criminal, Jon a mere accomplice. I let out a deep
breath and feel butterflies in my stomach. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I let my eyes rest on
Nate’s drumming form.
“You throw it,” I mumble and pass it back to Brendon.
“No, you throw it.”
“You throw it.”
“You sure?” he asks, licks his lips. His nose is not very swollen
anymore, but bruises are developing on the skin surrounding the area of impact.
I nod nervously, check there is no one in sight of us. This is insane. There is no
real chance of killing Nate with a glass bottle to the head, is there?
Brendon tries to take even breaths. “Okay. Okay, here goes. Only one
chance. Okay. Phew.”
“You can do it.”
“I can definitely do it. Yeah. Here goes.” Brendon gives me one look,
and for a second, I am convinced we are insane, the fag and I. But Brendon’s
face still bears the signs of the fight, and I focus on why I am doing this: my
band, my crew, my tour. Just because I feel like it.
Brendon takes a few running steps before throwing the bottle across the
air. I hold my breath as it hits the side of Nate’s head. The drummer slips off the
stool in front of seven thousand people. The band stops playing and their
60
roadies come running, and Tom looks around, shocked and confused, and
spurts of laughter are fighting their way up my throat. This has got to be the
funniest shit I have seen in –
“Shit, come on!” Brendon urges, grabs my hand and pulls me after him,
and we vanish from the side of the stage and enter the maze of the backstage
area. I start laughing hysterically as I try not to hit his feet with mine, and he
tightens his hold of my hand as he laughs with me, glancing over his shoulder
with bright eyes wild with misdemeanour.
We find the doors that lead out of the building, and suddenly we are in
the back of the venue, Brendon’s overjoyed laughter bouncing from the walls
back at us in the darkening evening. My own laughter mixes with his but is
more monotonous and duller. “Holy shit, holy shit!” Brendon exclaims, jumps
up into the air a few times. His eyebrows are high up, nearing his hair line. “Can
you believe we just did that?!” His face and voice show more emotion than mine
have in the past two years put together. I don’t know how he does it, but it
amazes me a little.
I can’t help but feel his endless energy pour into me, making me almost
happy. “I can’t. We just gotta play it cool like we don’t know anything.”
“Yeah, agreed. Okay, here,” Brendon hurries, going through his pockets
to get out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips and passes me
another. “We’ve been out here smoking the entire time. We know nothing.”
“Right,” I agree hurriedly, and we start smoking the cigarettes, inhaling
fast to make it look like we’ve been there longer. And, sure enough, venue
security rushes through the doors a minute later, looking around frantically.
“What’s going on?” I ask casually. Brendon looks down, and I know he
is hiding his face to try and not let them see he is about to crack up.
“Has anyone passed through here just now? Anyone in a hurry?”
“No. Don’t think so. Brendon, have you seen anyone?”
Brendon clears his throat. “No. Just me and Ry, smoking our cigarettes,
talking about... stuff.”
“Yeah, lots of stuff.”
They give us long looks but go back in. But it’s not over yet, and five
minutes later, Nate and Canadian History’s manager Dan walk out. Nate has a
wet, balled up towel pressed to the side of his head. There might be a hint of red
on it, and I realise we probably caused some proper damage. Nate looks as
furious as he was yesterday, and he points at Brendon and says, “I know it was
you!”
Brendon lifts his eyebrows, his face one of perfect innocence.
I frown and look at the manager. “What’s going on?”
Dan clears his throat uncomfortably. “Nate just got hit by, uh... a bottle.
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During the set. It seemed to come from the side of the stage.”
“No shit,” I gasp. “Wow, are you okay?”
“Oh, come on!” Nate barks, eyes flashing dangerously.
“He’s alright!” Dan hurries calmingly. “Spencer was kind enough to fill
in for the last two songs, which the crowd seemed to like. He’s on stage right
now. You know nothing about this?”
“No, man, Brendon and I have been back here for the past twenty
minutes or something. We haven’t seen anyone.”
“You’re lying for him?!” Nate barks at me. And yeah, I guess I am.
“I really had nothing to do with this, though I guess it could’ve been a
sign from God,” Brendon says icily. Nate takes two threatening steps towards
Brendon, but I quickly step into the narrow space between the two men.
“Okay, seriously? You need to back the fuck off,” I snap. I can feel
Brendon’s breath against my neck.
“This is not happening, this –” Nate vents, hands in fists.
His manager takes a hold of his arm, pulling him back, whispering,
“That’s Ryan fucking Ross! The Ryan Ross! You can’t fuck with him, man. Are
you insane?” Nate replies with a muffled murmur consisting of the words ‘fuck’
and ‘faggots’. Dan starts leading him away, calling out, “Okay, you know
nothing. We believe you! Have a good show tonight!”
“Thanks!” I say and wave. The door slams shut after them. I let out a
breath and turn to Brendon, who is grinning wickedly. We totally got away with
it.
“Thanks,” Brendon says quietly with a warm smile that reaches his eyes
and almost makes them sparkle.
“No pro – You just said thanks.”
He smiles. “Okay, yeah. I can say thanks, but I only say it if I really,
really mean it. Save it for special occasions.”
I’m a special occasion. I lick my lips nervously and focus on a trash can
in the distance. “So why the foreign bullshit?”
“Makes me more interesting. I think. I’m not very interesting, so a boy’s
gotta do something, right?”
He’s interesting enough without it.
Pete comes looking for us soon after. Brendon needs to go set up our
gear. Pete looks between us like he knows, but we just shrug. Pete also notes
that Joe wasn’t having a diva fit although I claimed he was. “Technically, he is a
constant diva act,” I argue. Brendon winks at me as he leaves with Pete at his
trail. Luckily, Pete doesn’t notice.
The venue is surrounded by a tall metal fence, behind which is a street,
and I watch people walking on the other side, living their lives, minding their
62
own business. It’s a dog-eat-dog world on this side, and tonight, I got to bite
back. I chuckle as I replay the bottle hitting Nate again and again and again.
“Ryan?”
I snap out of my precious thoughts and see Jon. He is still sweaty from
their set, shirt soaked. I drop my cigarette and step on it. “Jon, hey. Heard what
happened. Sucks, man.”
“Yeah, look, everyone’s really upset, and I just – You really don’t know
anything about it?” His voice sounds slightly desperate. He looks at me like I
would tell him the truth. He’s got nerve. He’s got some fucking nerve.
“I know nothing. But if I hear something, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
Like he promised not to share Brendon’s fucking tendencies with the
rest of the world. He stabs my back, I stab his. If only we had had two bottles
and Jon had been on our side of the stage. I don’t like being made fun of, and he
lied to my face. He –
“Look, I gotta get going,” I say harshly.
“Right, okay. Are we working on our music more tomorrow?”
His voice is perfectly sincere. Our music. The music Jon and I created. It
was beautiful, but it doesn’t mean we are something beautiful. Take Lennon-
McCartney, Simon-Garfunkel. Beautiful music, mutually resenting musicians
behind it.
“We’ll see if I have the time,” I inform him and leave Jon out in the cold.
I don’t need to throw a bottle at Jon to know that I’ve hit him hard. I
bump into a hurrying Brendon backstage, and he gives me the biggest smile. I
instantly smile back, looking over my shoulder to where he disappears with a
roll of duck tape.
You win some, you lose some. Right now, I mostly feel like I’ve won.
63
CHAPTER 5: PETTY THIEVES
Jon apologises to all of our crew on our day off in Cleveland. The rest of
Canadian History’s crew hangs out behind him in the busy hotel lobby, feigning
ignorance of our existence. Spencer focuses on the message that was waiting for
him when we arrived, eyes going over the short note over and over again,
probably from his parents again, telling him not to forget their anniversary this
year. I’m glad that I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck.
Jon is solemn as he addresses us. “I speak for all of us, Nate included,
when I say I’m sorry about what happened in St. Louis. He lost control, though I
am sure that’s no excuse. We’ve still got three shows with you guys, we want to
enjoy them in good spirits, and though no one knows what happened in
Indianapolis last night, I am sure Nate has learned his lesson. So I hope there’ll
be none of that anymore,” Jon concludes and sends a significant look to us all.
It could have been anyone of us, except Joe who would never avenge a
gay roadie. Even Brent might have taken the bottle in his hand because he loves
fucking around with people.
“So we’re sorry. I hope you can accept our apology. Especially you,
Brendon.”
Brendon nods solemnly, but shoots me a look that clearly says he’s not
buying Jon’s bullshit. I send him a look that says Brendon better not, and
Brendon smiles, all appreciative and warm like I’m the only one there who gets
him. Well, I don’t, but we outsiders stick together.
After Jon has left, we hang out in the hotel lounge with the whole crew
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and a few girls, and it has given us some sort of solidarity to have agreed on one
asshole. We bash Nate and make jokes about drummers’ IQs, much to the
annoyance of Spencer, who seems agitated. No wonder, with this insane fucking
tour. Brendon’s bruises are at the point where they won’t get any worse and will
slowly start fading.
We’re not upset because Nate called Brendon a cocksucker. We’re upset
because one of our guys got into a fight.
Despite Jon’s efforts to make peace, we don’t invite Canadian History
out with us. A van is waiting outside the hotel to take us all to a party someone
is throwing for us. It’s not at a club but at someone’s country mansion a twenty
minute ride away. The only reason I am choosing it over brooding in my hotel
room is because Brendon insisted that I go with him. He made it clear that he
would only go if I went too, and well, the kid needs to see the world a little,
doesn’t he?
William has covered Brendon’s bruises with some make up, and I
cannot believe that William is not the gay one, especially when he takes half an
hour figuring out what to wear, causing us to be late.
Spencer decides to come along at the last minute. It’s our night off, and
we don’t get many of these on tour. He rubs his hands together and says it’s a
night unlike any other.
The mansion is enormous. We park the van out front, and they are
expecting us. People – boys, girls, hippies, rockers, music lovers, drunk, high,
young, beautiful, clothed, barely dressed and everything in between – come
rushing towards us, grabbing us by the arms and tugging us along, saying,
“Welcome!” and “Oh my god!” and “Joe, can I touch your hair?” Someone just
screams. Brendon turns to me with an astonished look in his eyes, and I shrug
like it’s no big thing. We are the star attraction at this party.
The house is full of people. Three steps into the foyer, and I have a drink
in my hand and someone offers me coke. Spencer’s hand lands on my shoulder.
“Ryan, you know how coke messes you up.”
“Yeah,” I admit grudgingly, and the guy asks, “You sure?”
I nod and hope Brendon’s not the dancing kind, because I’m not. Nah,
we just need a few beers and –
“I’ll have some!” Brendon volunteers, beaming at the guy with the coke.
“Far out, man,” the guy responds with an easy smile, and the two take
off, and I stare after Brendon in astonishment.
I let him go. Brendon’s a kid; he deserves to have some fun. Okay, so
we’re probably the same age, but he’s still a kid when it comes to rock and our
lifestyle. Coke might suit him.
Pete has two girls draping over him, and he looks amazed. Everyone is
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walking in different directions now, and Pete looks around, alarmed, calling
out, “Guys! Guys, remember we need to leave by –”
I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as Spencer and I head to the doors
that lead outside to the swimming pool. Naked girls are splashing in the water,
and even Spencer has a hard time looking away from them. He smiles like he’s a
part of some big joke where he knows the punch line and no one else does.
Some local musicians are there, and I end up getting drunk with Eric Carmen of
The Raspberries. I keep waiting for Brendon to come back. It doesn’t take half an
hour to get coked up. And he wouldn’t ditch me, would he? He asked me to
come, to keep him company. Where the hell is he?
“The matching outfits create a sense of unity,” Eric explains, trying to
justify his band’s commercialism and sixties’ attitude. There’s a big difference
between a group and a band. He’s a has-been, anyway. I am above him
musically and intellectually. I’m the fucking main songwriter of The Followers.
When was the last time this guy saw a girl faint in the front row, screaming his
name? Never? For me it was yesterday.
“Excuse me,” I say and leave him where he is. Spencer calls after me,
but he’ll manage. Girls are all over him, and maybe tonight he will finally move
the fuck on. Haley wasn’t even that pretty.
Brendon finds me before I find him. I know these types of parties, but I
still figured me and him would grab a few beers, find a quiet corner, sit around
and talk, reminisce our victory with the bottle. He’d laugh at my stupid jokes,
tell me how he thinks I’m alright. It feels like the biggest compliment I’ve gotten
all year. And he’d be there not because of the hype or my fame, but because he
wants to be, even if he knows I’m all talk and nothing else. Even if he’s seen my
hands shaking before going on stage. He wouldn’t mind.
He barely sees me, though, bumping into me and then just walking on.
“Bren, hey,” I stop him, snatching his wrist, and he turns his head to look at me.
I can feel his pulse beneath my fingertips, a rapid speed that echoes through his
hot skin.
He wipes his face and tries to focus. “Ryan! Shit, dude.” He’s tripping
on something big time. “It’s like that, you know, like that.”
“Uh huh,” I agree and let go of him.
“Fucking great party! I’ll see you on the flip side!” he beams and hurries
away.
All the people present want to hang out with me. The one guy I want to
hang out with doesn’t.
The van we came in looks like a black bug on the driveway of the house. The
mansion. Something in between. I look at it from the tall windows of the third
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floor, and a naked girl runs across the lawn and onto the gravel of the driveway.
She laughs and swirls around with a champagne bottle in her hand, long hair
blowing in the wind and her revealed breasts bouncing, and a naked man
chases after her. I look closer, and I am pretty sure the guy is Brent. I try not to
snort. They run around the van, looking like even smaller insects circling a big
one.
I turn back around to face the dark library. I pour a drink and sit on the
windowsill, enjoying the relative quiet. I can still hear the party, though, from a
few floors below. I know I should be there. I know that we’re the attraction.
We’re in the swimming pool, we’re in the pool room, we’re everywhere, they
are everywhere, and this is one of those nights you will think back to and say,
“God! Remember that one insane night when we...?”
But I am in the library with the quiet, the drink, and my best friend.
“Give me a hit,” Spencer says, sitting on the windowsill next to me.
“Billy, Don’t Be A Hero.”
“Not that kind of hit,” he says, but we laugh anyway. He lays my
notebook open in his lap and starts reading, squinting to read the text in the
moonlight. “Is that... olreem?”
I lean over. “Dream.”
“Your handwriting is fucking horrible,” he grins happily, but keeps
reading, extending an absent hand towards me.
“I don’t have any left,” I admit.
“My stash is gone too. God, can’t believe we’re this famous and still
don’t have any grass.”
“Just check the lyrics, alright? I want your opinion while you’re in such
a good mood.”
“I’m in a good mood most of the time!” he argues.
“No, you’re really not.”
He just chuckles, and I pour him a drink in the fancy crystal glass we
found in the next room over. I wanted Spencer to party like he never has before,
but when he got rid of the girls and asked me if I wanted to disappear, I
couldn’t have said yes sooner. Pathetic, really, but he’s not moping around like
me. He keeps grinning like he is having the best of times.
It’s comforting. Spencer still enjoys my company. I was starting to think
he didn’t.
Spencer hums and nods, makes a few ‘eh’ sounds, and I stare out of the
window at our bug van. The house is full of people, but their cars are not out
front. I don’t really know where anything is, the place is too big for me to figure
out when I’m drunk. Maybe their cars are in the back. Or maybe they live here.
Maybe this house is a magical place where everyone stays beautiful,
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everyone is young, the supplies of substances are endless, and the party never,
ever ends. Maybe this is that place. Well, it’s a hell of a heaven.
Spencer says, “This is pretty good. Like... about an innocent criminal or
maybe a slave. Or both. The narrator has got a strong voice. Do you have any
melodies in your head for this?”
“I’ll write music around it. Or we will. Maybe.”
“Brent will only demand a bass solo,” Spencer laughs and takes a sip of
his drink. “And Joe will try to steal the show as always.”
“What about a drum solo?”
“I thought it went without saying,” he grins. “This bit, though. The fire
to survive and defy that flickers in the brownest of eyes. It’s too vague and detailed.
Whose brown eyes? There is no talk of a specific someone until that bit. It just
throws it off a bit, takes the song from purely abstract ideas of freedom and
rights to a song about some chick.”
“I’ll work on it,” I promise, and he passes the notebook back to me. I tap
the cover nervously. Brown eyes, brown eyes. “This party is good for us. We
need a break from each other.”
Spencer nods for emphasis, doesn’t even try claiming we should just
hang out more because somewhere deep down this band is still full of love.
Guess even the most positive of us get tired, and it’s no wonder since the
tension on the bus is getting more and more unbearable, now even following us
on stage. Brent’s dressing room crackers and Joe’s own mic were always
temporary solutions. Pete will fix it. It’s his job, but I’m not sure if I want him to
do it. The band is beginning to feel more and more like an adopted child that I
never learned to consider as my own.
“It’s a beautiful night. The world’s amazing, don’t you think?” Spencer
muses happily.
“I don’t know what you’re on, but I want some.”
“Seriously,” he insists. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah. I love you too.” He smiles at me, giving my shoulder a squeeze. I
stare. “This is awkward.”
He rolls his eyes.
Laughter flows through the double doors of the library, which open
suddenly, and a man and a girl stumble in. The girl throws her arms around the
man’s neck, and I call out, “Hey, if you’re not gonna ask us to join, find
someplace else.” The couple starts giggling and calls out apologies as they leave,
the doors remaining open. The noise of the party reaches us louder than before,
the lights of the corridor creeping into the library and casting long shadows on
us, mocking me for wanting to remain in the dark.
“You can go if you want,” I tell Spencer. “I won’t mind.”
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“Nah. I’m happy right here. I think I’ve kind of moved beyond these
parties, you know? You gotta grow up some time. Turn a new page, take
responsibility. I’m not for these kinds of parties.”
He used to be. I used to be too, when the circles were smaller. I don’t
know anyone anymore.
“I could really do with a joint,” I suddenly conclude. “Brendon owes me
one. I’ll go get one, bring it back.” If I can find him. If he’s not too coked out.
“He could come hang out with us. He could. Would you mind?” I ask, and
Spencer shakes his head. I’ve noticed they get along, Brendon and Spencer.
That’s good. Not that Spencer could get Brendon the way I could if I wanted to.
I don’t think Brendon would tell Spencer the things he’s told me. I look around
the library and tilt my head, feel the sudden swoosh of alcohol in my system. “I
like this library. We could be the Three Musketeers if Brendon came too. Look,
I’ll go get him. If you don’t mind.”
I leave on my quest to find him somewhere in this huge mansion, the
enormous grounds, and it’s a bit like trying to find a needle in the haystack.
Brendon invited me. It’s plain rude if he doesn’t plan on hanging out with me,
for fuck’s sake. The corridor is decorated with paintings and statues of Roman
or Greek gods. I never did know the difference between Venus and Minerva. Or
Aphrodite. Whoever.
I go down flights of stairs and am finally in a spacious living room on
the ground floor. All the couches are occupied, angry guitar riffs pumping
through half a dozen speakers, mixing with the chattering of a hundred, two
hundred people. It’s gotten wilder since our arrival. Girls are dancing shirtless,
sweat rolling between their breasts, down their stomachs, around their belly
buttons. White lines disappear from coffee tables, and alcohol travels from
bottles to veins. I don’t see anyone from our crew in the foyer, so I walk in
further, feeling like I am observing everyone from behind a glass. I spot one
familiar face in the next room.
“Andy! Hey, you seen Brendon?”
Andy is on the couch with a pink-haired girl, telling her a story as she
laughs and says, “No way! No way!”
Andy says, “He was with William!”
“Ryan!” the pink-haired one says. “Ryan, join us!”
“I’m looking for one of our guys.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. Come on, honey, sit down with us! Or if you want to
go someplace more private...”
I take a second look at her and break into a drunken smile. “Audrey!
Hey, your hair!”
“Is pink!” she enthuses. I know her, but I am not sure if I’ve fucked her.
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Maybe. Probably. Surely, I’d remember. Or would I? She’s one of the groupies
everyone knows. She’s famous in her own way.
Audrey’s got Jac’s habit of excessive makeup, but she is a beautiful girl
with big eyes circled with eyeliner, a narrow nose and slightly hollow cheeks,
and her hair is like a lion’s mane with stripes of pink and blonde. Her clothes
barely cover her, and she has positioned herself like a worm and I am the fish.
We’re all fish when she walks into the room. Someone said that all she knows
she learned from the girl who inspired Keith to write Ruby Tuesday. Andy
tightens his hold over her shoulders like he could actually hold onto her, and
Audrey smiles at me, big and happy and pink. Andy’s girlfriend had every right
to be worried about the free-spirited groupies. “Andy said that maybe me and a
few other girls would have room on the bus?”
“Oh, can’t promise that. Maybe. I don’t know. Possibly. For how long?”
“Would like to get to Detroit. I’ve promised David we’d join his crew
there.”
“Yeah, right! Man. Fuck, I forgot he’s touring over here now. How is the
English bastard?”
“Fabulous,” she purrs. I tell her to talk to Pete and that she has my
blessing. We’ll be in Detroit in just a few days, and Joe will be thrilled to have a
few of the girls with us. He might even get off my back when he can orchestrate
orgies in hotel rooms. “Ryan, stay,” Audrey pouts.
Andy has been trying to hit on her for an hour, maybe. I’m not heartless
enough to let him have done it for nothing. It’s more than what Brent or Joe
would do. I refuse, and Andy points me to where he last saw William. I circle
around the room, decline pussy, alcohol, a threesome, a variety of drugs and
endless invitations to sit down and hang out with people I don’t know, but they
all know me.
Everywhere, the windows are wide open, but it’s not enough to get rid
of the sweat and smoke, and after one round, I decide to check out the next
room. The smell of sweat mixes with sex long before my eyes adjusts to the
dark. It’s like an ants’ nest with the way people move over each other, tangling
up together. A girl gets off, her moans ringing out the loudest. Everyone is
naked. All the surfaces are taken – the couches, the table, and they are kissing,
touching, licking and trying a bit of everything. I am most definitely
overdressed for this orgy. I walk in, the naked skin blurring in my eyes. It’s slow
and sensual, fast and hard only with the men and women who are riding for the
climax. The back corner is in a red glow from a shirt that has been thrown over a
lamp. I see Joe there with three girls around his armchair. The redhead is
sucking his cock. He is completely shitfaced. I rub my eyes, push off someone’s
hands going to my fly. The room is unreal, but this isn’t the first one of these
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I’ve seen during my astounding career.

“Joe,” I say loudly, and Joe pulls back from exchanging a slow kiss with
one of his girls. He is still getting a blowjob, and he presses the girl’s head down
with the palm of his hand, shifting his hips slightly.
“Swallow it, baby,” he murmurs before his head drops to the left,
eyelids drooping. “Hmm?”
I try not to look at him. I do not want to see Joe getting head, even if I’ve
walked in on him fucking a handful of times in my life and vice versa, even if
that one time we fucked those girls at the same time in the dressing room on our
first tour. That was fine, we were still friends, we laughed it off later and called
the girls sluts. It was hot seeing that chick get fucked while I was screwing her
friend.
But this is the new world, me a drunken mess and him a coked out king
of guitar solos, and I can feel my insides twist like snakes just being here now to
see what he’s turned into it. What we turn these girls into.
I don’t remember why I came here. It was something important.
Something pink. “Audrey’s here! Yeah, man, she’s here. And she and her girls
want to come along with us to Detroit.”
“Sweeeeet,” he groans. He might not have understood me. I’m pretty
sure Joe and I haven’t even talked to each other in two days.
“You seen William around? Or Brendon?”
He shakes his head. “Find a few girls, Ross. Find a few for Smith too.
Maybe you wouldn’t be so damn uptight if you did.”
I glare at him. “Thanks for the advice.”
When I leave the room, my dick is hard, pressing against my thigh
demandingly. I get myself a drink and hear that some guys are playing music
on the second floor. It seems like a decent bet, so I make my way over, people
swarming over me even more now, and maybe my hard-on is pretty well
outlined through the fabric, but I don’t care. I find William and, to my surprise,
Pete, who is fucked out of his mind. A party like this seems to be enough for
him to stop playing our boss and start drinking, fucking and taking drugs until
he throws up behind a couch somewhere. Pete has a guitar, and girls are singing
along, all out of tune. It’s one of our songs. My words. My feelings. They take
them, mould them, misunderstand them. It’s a room full of petty thieves.
“Where’s Brendon?” I ask William, and he points to the balcony.
“Yes, I am a Gemini! How did you know?” Pete laughs to one of the
girls.
It’s nearly three in the morning and it has started raining outside. The
air is just on the border of warm and chilly, but it’s refreshing. The balcony is
big, and I don’t see Brendon as I walk to the railing, lean against it and stare at
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the full swimming pool below, at the people. I turn back and focus my eyes on
the balcony’s dark corner where Brendon is with some guy.
I close my eyes. Focus. Must focus. I reopen them.
They are kissing heatedly. Brendon’s hands are in this guy’s hair. I hear
the wet smacks of their tongues and lips clashing together. The guy is taller than
him, around my height but muscular with a thick neck and large hands.
Brendon is cornered, trapped. Brendon is pushing his crotch forwards. The guy
murmurs something in a low, hormone-filled voice, and Brendon replies a
breathy, “Yeah.” He sounds turned on. I nearly shiver. The man moves to suck
on Brendon’s neck, cupping his crotch, and I watch as Brendon’s eyes flutter
shut and he moves to the pressure of the man’s hand in small, rocking
movements.
I look away, rub my eyes, wish I was drunker. I swirl around. Brendon’s
not seen me. I’m still hard.
I haven’t been invited to watch this show. I need to leave. I am not
interested in watching Brendon –
He groans, and my chest constricts. I quickly walk back inside to the out
of tune singing and laughter, accepting the joint a girl is quick to offer me. A
joint’s a joint. It doesn’t matter. Brendon’s out there, having found some guy
that beats talking to me a million times over.
I go to the first bathroom I find. I lock the door, light the joint with
shaking hands, lean against the wall and let it hang between my lips. I inhale.
It’s strong. I take in too much too fast, and I end up coughing. I take another hit
and close my eyes. My mind swirls. My hands shoot down, unzip my jeans, and
I pull my hard cock out. The joint shakes against my lips as my groans push
their way from my throat, my fist a blurred movement of up, down, up, down
up down up down updown, slight twist there, and my fingers squeeze my
burning flesh. I come instantly. I shudder from the force, my hips bucking into
my hand, cock twitching.
“Aw, fuck. Fuck,” I sigh in the euphoria that follows my release. The
joint falls from my lips. I try to wipe my hand on a towel, but end up on my
knees instead, puking into the toilet.
Women were not allowed on ships because of superstition, but this is not at all
true for tour buses. Women are very welcome here, or at least girls like Audrey,
Meryl and Louvre. They’ve already chosen their targets. Groupies often do. I
gave them all the brush off because I’m not lonely. I don’t need one of them to
run in circles around me, calling me baby and giving me blowjobs and making
me feel like I’m the most special thing on this side of the universe. Louvre, who
claims to be French Canadian but I am pretty sure I can hear a Texan accent
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under there, has chosen Brent. Audrey, much to Andy’s disappointment, has
chosen Joe. Meryl is slowly realising that Spencer isn’t warming up to her,
which will probably leave her banging one of the roadies for the next two days.
The crew is still packing up the bus after our Cleveland show. We left
them to it and took the girls, who spent the show cheering for us by the stage,
and came back to start a party. Their cheerful and excited female voices feel like
a wave of fresh air, and though I sit on one of the two lounge armchairs and say
nothing, I have a small smile on my face. Their soothing presence is doing
wonders for my hangover. Pete walks over to me and kneels down, giving me a
confidential look.
“Meryl’s groovy,” he says quietly as the rest of our party keep on
talking and laughing.
“She is,” I agree, casting a look at the skinny girl with long, brown curls.
Pete gives me a cocky smile. “And?” I ask in confusion.
“Just saying, man, you’re our star and you deserve the best. I didn’t get
you your own bed for nothing, right?” he winks, and I stare at my beer bottle.
“Meryl, girl, come over here! Keep Ryan company!”
Meryl instantly skips over, clearly overjoyed that she might win the big
grand prize after all. Pete winks again and leaves us to it, like all he needs to
have a happy singer-guitarist is to make sure I orgasm twice a day. “Hi,” Meryl
says and smiles sweetly. “You want another beer?”
“Yeah, sure.” I give in. This is how they do it: they start with the little
things, beer, food, making sure you’re comfortable. Then they are asking you to
trust them with bigger things, to look after your wardrobe, hotel keys, make you
think that you can no longer function without their help. Meryl brings me a beer
and keeps standing by my chair, chatting away happily. Another beer, and I let
her sit on my lap, my arm wrapped around her waist. She weighs next to
nothing. She looks at me like I’m beautiful.
Joe and Audrey come to me, tangled up together. “Ryan, man,” Joe
slurs, “mind if we use your room for ten minutes?”
“Ten?!” Audrey protests.
“It doesn’t take long when you know what you’re doing,” Joe winks at
her.
“Go for it,” I mutter lifelessly.
Audrey and Joe disappear just as the roadies finally get on the bus. Pete
fusses around, making sure everyone and everything is ready. “Who’s driving?”
“I am,” Brendon says, lifting his hand. His voice instantly attracts my
attention. I avoided him today. Not sure why. It’s not like he knows I saw him
on the balcony last night, and secondly, it’s not like it even matters if I avoid
him because since when have we been attached from the hip? Never. I barely
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know the guy. But he looks my way with Meryl draping over me, and he
frowns, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t let her sit on my lap after all. But it’s
nothing to the way I am sure he got laid last night. With that guy, whoever he
was. Muscular. Handsome. The type Brendon is apparently into.
I wrap my twig arm around Meryl tighter.
“You met the girls?” Pete asks the roadies. Us and the girls spent the
day fucking about in one of the hotel rooms, feeling like big stars. The only
roadie that dropped by was Andy. Pete starts pointing. “That’s Louvre, that’s
Meryl, and Audrey is in the back with Joe. Girls, meet Brendon, William, Zack
and you know Andy already.” The girls wave and bat their eyelashes.
“Did you say Audrey? The Audrey?” William asks, clearly impressed.
Even groupies have a hierarchy. She won’t tour with just anyone, and when she
was on the road with us for a week on our last tour, we all knew it meant we
were heading for the stars.
“Audrey?” Brendon asks in confusion, and William instantly offers to
tell him every band he knows she’s toured with. The list is long.
Joe and Audrey take an hour in the backroom, in my bed. I don’t want
to go back there and so I tell Joe to feel free to crash there until the sheets get
washed. Joe is delighted and smiles at me for the first time on this tour. I’m
reminded of the summer in the early days of the band when Joe and I lived
together to save money. We had fun back then, going out together, having a
good and reckless time, perfectly unknown, aspiring musicians, going back to
our tiny place and taking turns of who gets to use the bedroom. This is a messed
up version of the same game, but with different rules. It’s not friendship
anymore, but rivalry. It used to be something sincerer, and I think Joe and I both
remember that for a split-second. I loved the man like a brother.
Joe looks away from me like he’s been burned by fire, and I focus on
Meryl, who squirms in my lap, leans to my ear and whispers, “I can do bunks.
I’m really flexible.”
I tilt my head to the side and peer at her. “How about the dirty toilet of
the next venue? Or better yet, you wanna fuck on stage?”
She blinks. She laughs. I wasn’t kidding.
We stay up into the night with Brent and Louvre now going to the
backroom. Audrey and Joe go to the toilet for five minutes. No one really pays
attention where they go fuck and what they do, and Meryl looks at me with a
silent question in her eyes, which I ignore. I enjoy sex just as much as the next
guy, but it’s never been some sort of primitive animal instinct with me. I can go
without sex for a month. Yup. A whole month before I feel like I really need to
get laid. Joe can go without it for sixteen hours.
It’s a little past four in the morning when I feel the bus slow down and
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come to a stop after Spencer goes up to say he needs to piss and Joe and Audrey
are occupying the toilet. Zack and I get out of the bus that now stands on the
side of the road. Meryl looks like she doesn’t know if she should follow me. In
the end, she doesn’t.
Zack sighs and rolls his shoulders, and I can hear joints crackling.
Brendon is not too far away, smoking a cigarette. “You okay to drive?” Zack
calls out.
“Yeah, man, we’ll be in Detroit in an hour.”
I can see Spencer’s outline not too far away, taking a leak. A bus stops
behind ours, Canadian History clearly following our example. Their bus is from
the late 60’s, a joke compared to ours. It hisses to a stop, and a few guys come
out to stretch their legs. It’s dark, and I can’t tell where we are. Somewhere in
between cities, in the middle of nowhere.
Brendon walks over to me, offering his half-burnt cigarette. I know Zack
is standing right next to us, like it matters somehow that he can see me talking
to one of the other roadies. I don’t feel comfortable as I decline the smoke with a
shake of my head.
“Should you be driving? You got kind of messed up last night,” I tell
him as casually as I can.
“Not that messed up,” he protests. He doesn’t even sound sorry. I went
to that fucking party only to please him, and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge
that at all. Fucking fag. Only runs after drugs and cock. What did I expect,
anyway? That I had made a friend in him? Yeah, hardly.
Jon’s voice says, “Ryan, can I talk to you?”
I turn around and see Jon’s silhouette in the moonlight. Not the guy I
want to talk to right now, but I follow him to the side of the road anyway, hear
the gravel beneath our feet. He stops when we’re out of earshot.
Jon sighs restlessly in the dark. I’m glad I can’t see his face.
“Should we talk? The whole thing with Nate and Brendon, it’s just left a
bad vibe, you know? Call me crazy, but it kind of feels like you’re avoiding me.”
“Are we fucking married?” I ask him pointedly. “We wrote a few
mediocre songs I’m already wishing I hadn’t written. Jesus, Walker, try to put
the thing into perspective.”
“Mediocre?” He sounds disbelieving. “We both love the stuff we
wrote.”
“You thought wrong,” I shoot at him. Spencer was right about Jon.
Spencer was right like he always is. “I was just trying to get some time away
from the band. You were, like, going for a long walk or free therapy. Whatever.
So tell me why would I want to work with you after the stunt you pulled on
me?”
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“Sorry?”
The clouds shift from in front of the moon, and Jon looks so confused
that I have to resist the urge to beat some sense into him.
“I told you about Brendon, and then you blabbed it to Nate after you
said you wouldn’t, and look what happened! Do you think I need the extra stress
of my crew getting attacked? I mean, if I can’t trust you with that, then how
could I with my music? Get a fucking reality check.” He looks astonished. I am
done. I have nothing more to say to the guy.
I walk past him, and he says, “I didn’t tell anyone! I swear I didn’t tell
Nate!”
“Sure you didn’t. Go fuck yourself, Walker,” I mutter with a middle
finger raised over my shoulder. The idiot fucking lies about it too. If he had
manned up, then I might have considered it. Jon Walker is a damn talented guy,
and if he is even half as ruthless as he has proven himself to be, then he will
succeed wonderfully in the music world, and his success will burn far too bright
for me to be anywhere near it. The Followers, the four of us plus Pete, are not
particularly ruthless. We’re just lucky, after which we have become arrogant.
And there is a crucial difference between that and innate ruthlessness. Guys like
Walker need to stay far away from me.
Zack and Brendon have gotten back on the bus, and I take the four steps
up. Brendon is behind the wheel and is tuning the radio. I hear the girls
laughing in the lounge. “Night,” I mutter to Brendon, not looking forward to
my night of refuge in Joe’s bunk. Fuck, I hate bunks. The sheets better smell like
baby angels, and Meryl better not think she is welcome to join me.
“Hey, wait,” Brendon hurries out, and I cross my arms and lift a
disinterested eyebrow at him. “Uh, I kinda overheard you and Jon talking just
now. Just wanna say that... I appreciate it. The thing you did. Loyalty. I know
there’s not much around here, so tack.”
“Tack? Not enough for a proper thank you?” I ask, voice full of sarcasm.
Brendon stands up, smiling like he doesn’t care I’m being a bitch to him.
By now, I’ve noticed he does that. He places a hand on my shoulder and
squeezes. “Tack.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. I didn’t do it for him. I didn’t do
it for loyalty. At most, I did it because I’m pissed off at myself, at him, Jon, Joe,
Pete, whoever. And it was easy to take it all out on Jon because he embodied my
aimless frustration.
“Whatever,” I mutter. Brendon smiles, and something flutters inside
me, and it feels like we’re okay again, if we ever were not-okay, or if there ever
was a state in which we were okay.
I go back to the lounge, reclaiming my seat with a lighter heart. Meryl
has moved on to sit on the couch next to Zack, who seems rather chuffed to
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have an is-she-even-twenty groupie admiring his biceps. “Everybody on

board?” Brendon asks, taking the headcount. He lists names under his breath as
Audrey comes from the bunks with a huge smile on her face.
“I found Pete’s stash!” she giggles excitedly and shows the small bag of
grass, and Joe claps to praise her snatching abilities. Pete is going to be pissed
when he wakes up.
Then, suddenly, Brendon sees Audrey, and Audrey sees him, and both
freeze. Audrey goes as white as a ghost, her mouth hanging open with disbelief
all over her face. Brendon stares across the room and manages to say, “Al –”
“Audrey!” the pink-haired girl rushes out, recovering quickly and
putting a huge smile on her face. Her eyes, though, are void of all merriment. “I
don’t think we have met?”
“Oh. Right. Audrey,” Brendon mutters, as if to memorise it. “Right. One
of the, uh... one of the girls.” Brendon appears to be in shock. “The girls with
the... the girls that... with bands. With all those bands. You are. You’re one of
those.”
I look between the two in confusion.
“Even Brendon’s smitten,” Brent laughs, nudging Joe’s side.
Audrey instantly catches the name, her rigid form loosening slightly.
“Brendon. The roadie, right? It never occurred to me that – that you’d... Not that
I’ve. It’s not like it’s a common name. I mean. Hey, you want some pot?”
Audrey dangles the bag again, the movement too eager to cover up her attempt
to change the subject.
“I gotta drive, so...”
Audrey mouths a silent ‘okay’ and busies herself with the hem of her
shirt. Brendon turns his attention elsewhere. “You guys might want to stay
awake for an hour. We’ll be at the Detroit hotel soon enough.”
“You okay?” I ask Brendon.
“Uh huh,” he hurries out, flashing me a fake smile and exiting the
lounge.
No one really seems to have paid attention to the exchange. Audrey
takes her place by Joe, but she looks shaken up. The bus takes off again, and I
decide to stay awake until we’re at the hotel. Audrey keeps glancing to the front
of the bus.
Spencer has gone to bed so I go sit by Brent, who is the next best thing.
“Did it seem to you like Brendon and Audrey knew each other?”
“No?” he asks like I’m an idiot. “Please. Like some gay kid from San
Fran would know the groupie goddess. Here, take a hit. It’s even sweeter
because it’s Pete’s.” Brent grins at me, and I end up smoking with him.
I can hear Brendon singing along to the radio. He’s all alone, driving
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across America. “I feel sorry for the kid,” I tell Brent, not really sure when I
decided that Brendon must be lonely despite having friends and lovers. Maybe I
decided that when he was curled up and leaning against the café door, voice
trembling and my cigarette shaking between his bloodied fingers.
“I feel sorry for anyone who sucks another guy’s cock,” Brent deadpans,
and I chuckle. This is exactly why I love the man.
“We should be nicer to him,” I conclude nonetheless, and Brent makes a
sound that isn’t a yes or a no, but definitely leans more to the no. It’s ‘what do
you care?’, and the answer is that I don’t know. But Spencer told me to fix him,
and Spencer is usually right about everything, so I’ll try. I’ll give it a shot.
Audrey keeps shooting worried looks to the front of the bus. She and
Brendon might have fooled the others, but not me.
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CHAPTER 6: STARS IN CITIES
I sleep in the next day, having managed to push interview duty onto a willing
Joe and a resentful Spencer. My hotel room has windows to the river, and I
smoke a morning cigarette in the nude and watch Canada on the other side.
We’re heading over there after Detroit.
Tonight’s show is sold out. Tomorrow’s too. Pete said that the longer we
are on this tour, the more our album is getting played, the more the word
spreads, the more sold out shows lie ahead of us. And the biggest venue we’re
hitting now has the capacity of thirteen thousand, but the tour after this? Maybe
even twenty thousand. Pete’s eyes shone as he said it, and I don’t know when
this band’s success stopped being my dream and began being his instead.
Someone knocks on the door, and I pull on some underwear as I go to
open it, expecting breakfast but getting Zack instead. “You’re not breakfast,” I
observe.
“I’m the next best thing,” he deadpans, pushing past me. Zack goes to
the suitcase I have in the corner and begins to throw clothes on the bed. I’ve
never figured out who Zack works for. Is he Pete’s minion when he does stuff
like this - forcing me to eat, to get dressed, to take better care of myself? Or does
that make him my bitch? Zack probably just works for himself.
“What are you doing?” I ask him pointedly.
“We’ve got time to kill before soundcheck, so let’s see what Detroit has
to offer.”
“Not interested.”
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“Yes, you are,” he states as he compares one of my floral-patterned

shirts with the next. “We’re all going. Even Spencer is excited to go. He’s been
really happy lately, have you noticed? The kid’s weird. Weirder than you.”
“Hey!”
Zack ignores me. “Anyway, the girls want to go shopping for Bowie,
and basically, it’ll be really good for the crew to just chill out for a bit. But
what’s the point if Ryan is moping in his hotel room, not talking to anyone as
usual? No point at all. This shirt,” he decides and shoves it at me. “Ten minutes,
meet us in the lobby.”
I scoff. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Zack lifts an eyebrow and shoves me backwards with a push of his
hand. “You think?”
Twelve minutes later, we cram into four taxis and take a ten minute ride
to some hip clothes boutique Audrey demands we visit. We spot a music shop
right next to it, and our team is divided into two as the girls plus William and
Brent, who is obsessed with Louvre, go check out clothes. William squeals more
than the girls do, and seriously, he is so in the closet that, if he were any further
in it, the bastard would be in Narnia.
The rest of us head to the music store to mess around with the gear.
Brendon and Audrey don’t glance at each other. Why would they?
Brendon wouldn’t want to fuck her, anyway. In daylight, I see much clearer,
and the things I thought I saw in the middle of the night after an exhausting
show seem nothing more than just a bit on this side of ridiculous.
They recognise us in the music shop, the owner throwing out other
customers and temporarily closing down the place so we can browse without
being harassed by fans.
“Why don’t I have a double-necked guitar?” Joe asks demandingly
while I fall in love with an ES-335. Spencer’s made himself comfortable behind
the drum kit at the back, just messing around.
“You know any songs about Detroit?” I call out to him, sitting down on
a stool and picking the strings of the Gibson.
Spencer scratches his head thoughtfully. Yeah, why would anyone write
a song about this place?
“Detroit City,” Brendon says, having armed himself with a Gibson
Explorer. “Bobby Bare, sixties song?” We all blink at him, and he rolls his eyes.
“Jesus, don’t you rockers know any country music? Here, you’ll recognise it
when you hear it. Can I get a twelve string?” One of the workers rushes to get
him one. Brendon strums a few chords on it. “So it goes like this. I wanna go
home... I wanna go home...”
I recognise the song, Spencer already having picked up the tempo. He
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drums the simple rhythm, and I start playing along with Brendon. Brendon
grins when he sings, “I dreamed about that boy who’s been waiting for so long,”
and I roll my eyes as he modifies the lyrics and makes the country song gay
friendly. Andy is making up a bass line, and Joe cracks up, starting to add heavy
solos between the choruses. Zack and Pete let us jam as they stay by the main
doors of the shop. I look over my shoulder and realise a crowd of people has
gathered outside.
They’ve found us. Simple, really. A fan walks by, sees us, runs to the
nearest payphone to call his local radio station, the host tells every rock fan in
the city who is tuned in, and they come swarming.
But now, the audience is outside and not in my face. And we used to
play around and jam so much on our previous tours, but we don’t anymore.
Magically, we are doing it, and it feels good. It has the spark of enjoyment we
used to have. Joe shouts a rocky, “Yeah!” and I laugh and shake my head.
We all join Brendon in the last chorus of, “I wanna go home, I wanna go
home, oh I wanna go home, I wanna go home...” Spencer crashes cymbals for
the hell of it.
The shop owner has fetched his camera, asking for a group picture he
could frame on the wall behind the counter. We pose for him as Andy snaps the
picture. The bell rings, and the girls rush in with William and our bassist. We
hear screams of, “Brent! BRENT!”
“Quite a crowd out there,” Brent muses, clearly pleased. The girls and
William have bags upon bags, and Pete looks slightly torn between amusement
and despair. Of course, Brent paid for everything the girls bought, but who pays
for it in the end? Not Brent.
“Might as well stay,” Spencer suggests, and I shrug, and we start a new
song as Brent takes over bass. We haven’t jammed in a long time, but in the cosy
music shop in downtown Detroit, we seem to find the same tune. Louvre sits on
the counter, her feet dangling and three inch platform shoes banging against the
front slightly, and she looks at Brent adoringly. Meryl is showing William her
new headband.
We’re in the middle of a song with Brent providing the rather crude
vocals when I notice Brendon and Audrey in the corner. I can’t hear anything,
but I can read the nervous body language, Brendon’s questioning face and
Audrey’s upset one. There it is again, that tension between them that I picked
up on last night. I’m not insane, at least, which is mildly comforting. They know
each other, so why are they pretending they don’t?
Audrey notices me looking, and she flashes a smile at me, ending the
conversation with a short comment to Brendon, who looks annoyed. Then
Brendon becomes aware of their surroundings and looks as unnerved as
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Audrey does.
What’s the deal with those two? Not former lovers since Brendon
wouldn’t put his dick in her, so what’s going on?
“Okay, the police are here!” Pete informs us as the song finishes. We all
flinch.
“Shit! Hide the drugs!” Brent tells us frantically, and we all start going
through our pockets in a hurry.
“No, they’re here to safely escort us back to the hotel! There’s a few
hundred people out there, blocking the street.”
Joe stares in astonishment. “So now, like... we’re not against the cops
but with the cops? We’re with the man? Fuck, that is so not rock ‘n roll.”
“Call it whatever you will,” Pete shrugs. The roadies and groupies leave
the shop first, and the fans outside scream though they can’t know for sure who
is coming out. The police have pushed fans away from the door of the shop, and
I hurry to buy the ES-335 while I can. Pete gives me a look that clearly says I
don’t need the guitar, but I want it. The owner shakes our hands, eyes shining.
Pete makes sure I am the last one out of the shop. I have to go last; it would feel
anticlimactic otherwise. The policeman that takes me and Pete to one of the
police cars pushes my head down and tells me to walk fast, and they scream,
god, do they scream my name.
I get squeezed in the backseat of the car between Joe and Pete with my
new guitar in a gig bag on our thighs. “The last time I was in the back of one of
these, the situation was quite different,” Joe jokes. The cop driving us doesn’t
look all that amused and takes off, slowly pushing through the crowd that
bangs the windows. Jesus fuck.
Once we are out of the masses, the police car speeds down the road
easily.
“What do you guys know about Audrey?” I casually ask my
companions. Joe probably knows her the best.
“The same I know about every groupie,” Joe shrugs, which means
nothing. We never know anything about them apart from the fact that they love
us. “She once said she has six siblings, but that’s about it.”
“Six siblings?” I clarify, my thoughts running amuck. The car slows
down in front of the hotel as one of the cops at the front kindly asks Pete not to
bother the Detroit Police Department further during our visit. Pete assures them
that he will keep his rock ‘n roll band at bay. His band? Right.
I spot Brendon and Audrey in the hotel lobby, my eyes taking in their
faces as Audrey rushes to Joe and Brendon looks sour. The noses. The eyes. The
bickering.
They couldn’t be brother and sister... could they?
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***
Midnight showing of Chinatown. Brendon goes to buy the tickets with the
money I give him just to be on the safe side, though I figure that all Followers
fans were at the venue and we won’t bump into them here. Still, I really don’t
want to sign any more album covers today.
It’s a new movie, a detective story of sorts. Some guy called Jack
Nicholson stars in it, but neither one of us has ever heard of him. I look at the
poster; he’s not a very attractive man either. A shooting star, clearly.
Brendon noticed the cinema from the taxi this morning, and I have my
reasons to ditch my bandmates and join him. I’m also going because no one else
would go with him. Even William refused after Meryl got bored of Zack and
moved onto him. Well, William needs to keep up his fake straight boy image
somehow.
I brush my hair that’s wet from the post-gig shower. Brendon comes
back with a grin and shows me the two tickets. Once inside, I ask, “You want
popcorn?”
“Sure, yeah.”
I get us popcorn and a Coke for him. I’ve got my flask of vodka in my
pocket. Brendon munches on the popcorn happily as we wait to be let inside. I
don’t really see the family resemblance between him and Audrey, though
maybe they just have the same mother or father? Both are beautiful. Maybe
that’s the similarity.
“So where are you from?” I ask him.
“I live in San Francisco,” he replies, which isn’t a reply at all.
“Huh,” I note, reaching for the popcorn he is holding. Our fingers brush
as he grabs some too, and I notice it. Not in the way that I register it happening
and my brain moves on to new, insightful observations, but in the way that I
stop and acknowledge the brush of his fingers against mine like I’ve been
waiting for it to happen all day. A few days.
I rush out, “When did you move to San Francisco?”
“About a year and a half ago?” he asks in a pondering tone.
“And before that?”
“Around,” he shrugs, and just as I am about to ask him to specify, he
stops me with, “Oh, the doors are open.”
I have no chance of grilling him during the movie, which turns out to be
pretty interesting. I keep glancing at Brendon, comparing his nose with
Audrey’s. I just want to know what’s going on. It’s not that I find Audrey a
puzzle that needs solving; it’s that I’m writing song lyrics around Brendon
because he’s caught my imagination.
I make sure I reach for the popcorn only when Brendon’s own hands
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aren’t in it. It’s hard for me to relax when Brendon is sitting right next to me in
the dark.
After the movie, I go to the toilet to empty my flask. Brendon waits for
me outside, and we start walking back to where we think the hotel is. He tries to
pay me back for the movie, but I refuse. I’m a hell of a lot richer than he
probably is. Brendon looks up to the sky and says, “You can never see stars in
cities.”
“Look a bit to your left, and you can see a star.”
He frowns, gazing at the sky, before looking back at me and bursting
out laughing. “Oh, I see. You’re the star, huh?”
“Yup,” I shrug not-so-modestly. “So do you come from a big family?”
He looks surprised, but shrugs. “Depends on what you consider big.”
“Six siblings?”
“Four.”
“Ah.” A big ass family but still doesn’t match. But what does Joe know?
He’s coked out half of the time, anyway. “You one of the older or younger ones
or..?” I go on. Brendon laughs, a bit embarrassed and averting his eyes. “Well, I
mean. Psychologists say it defines a person later in life. The middle kids are the
bridge builders, for example. And the oldest are the responsible ones and so on.
I didn’t have any siblings growing up so that means I’m selfish and can’t
compromise.”
“I’m the youngest.”
“The wild rascal, then. And how –”
“Jesus,” Brendon laughs as we walk along.
“What?”
“You pay for the movie and popcorn, now you’re asking these getting-
to-know-you questions. Why don’t we just kiss so we can officially call it a
date?”
I laugh along with him, trying fast to say something. “No, man, just
making small talk.” Nothing suspicious about wanting to know what his story
is. Definitely not letting myself think about kissing him. Or this being a date. I
don’t want either one of those things; I’m not a faggot.
“I’m sort of excited about doing the Canadian dates next. I’ve never
been out of the country,” Brendon says, changing the subject so smoothly that I
don’t even realise it for two blocks. Instead, I reminisce about the shows we’ve
done in Montreal and how I was drunk enough to think I could speak French. I
only made an ass of myself, but the crowd loved me being talkative for once.
“I think we’re lost,” I finally conclude when we clearly are not in the
downtown area anymore, and I am sure nothing around our hotel looks this
shabby.
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“I probably should have told you I have the worst sense of direction,”
Brendon admits and looks around in confusion. “But you were leading us, so –”
“You were leading us!” I argue until I realise I was following him and
he was following me. Well, that doesn’t get us anywhere. I stop the first person
we come across, who kindly informs us that we are completely in the wrong
direction. “Tell me if you spot a cab,” I grumble as we now start going to the
right direction. “My dad was a cab driver for a while after he came back from
Vietnam,” I say conversationally. “Did any of your family go?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but – They wouldn’t, no. They don’t
believe in that stuff.”
“War?” I clarify, and he nods.
“Shedding blood. It’s a big sin, you know?”
“No one said killing was nice,” I point out, though I bet some soldiers
do get off on it. My dad never had a problem with the killing. He didn’t mind
that at all. “So you don’t keep in touch?”
“Do you?” he counters before cutting me off with, “Let’s not talk about
the past. It never flatters anyone. All that matters is right now when we’re
pathetically lost in Detroit, and I’m hanging out with the hottest name in rock ‘n
roll. Ah, the prestige I will get for this.”
“Oh, I see, you’re hanging out with me for the fame.” I grin even as his
words echo in my head. The past doesn’t flatter anyone. True. Definitely true.
“Of course for the fame. You didn’t think I actually like you as a
person?” Brendon asks and quirks an eyebrow at me. I shove him slightly and
call him an asshole, his laughter making the night feel that much warmer. He
spots a taxi and successfully hails it over, and I don’t ask any more questions of
the past he refuses to talk about.
I find Brendon outside the dressing room as I come back from fetching my
temporarily misplaced notebook from the bus. The roadie is leaning against the
wall with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, pale and sweating, and I
stop to take the sight in. “Whoa, hey, you okay?” I ask as I hurry over, thinking
he’s been beaten up again, food poisoning, lack of sleep, a drug overdose.
Definitely a drug overdose.
Brendon looks up at me with big eyes, absolutely pale. “Uh...” he begins
and points to the dressing room door.
“What?” My fingers curl around his shoulder, keeping him steady.
Brendon swallows. “David Bowie is in there.”
“He’s here?” I ask, delighted.
“No, listen to me! David Bowie is in there.”
“Yup.” I blink at him. He blinks back.
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“The man is like a fucking god?” he asks very slowly as if to make sure
we are talking about the same person. Well, he’s certainly never been this star-
struck around me. To be or not to be offended?
“I’ll introduce you,” I offer easily.
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Shit. Fuck. Shit.”
I openly laugh at him, and he looks annoyed. He gingerly follows me to
the dressing room, constantly looking like he is about to run the other way. He
takes even breaths, reminiscent of a woman giving birth, and he fiddles with his
sleeves and mutters something, clearly prepping himself for The Introduction. A
party has started in the room in the ten minutes that I was away. David is the
first one to spot me, breaking into a smile as I go give him a hug.
“You alright, mate?” he asks, smiling widely, still as tall and skinny as
the last time, short and messy orangey hair over a mismatched pair of eyes.
Brendon remains by the door, staring, as David and I launch into a discussion
about different venues we both consider as our third or fourth homes. Even
Brent likes David, not having forgotten the fabulous party David threw us in
London on our so far only UK tour. A few more guys from David’s crew are
there, having come to see us play.
“You want to come out and do a song with us?” I ask, and David nods
eagerly. I feel mildly bad for asking him to come on stage on his night off, but
this is what we do. Musicians are all insane and addicted to what they do. Even
I am. Addicted to the hell it puts me through. And I am not the least surprised I
turned out masochistic. “Oh, you gotta meet this guy,” I interrupt.
Brendon is still by the dressing room door, twisting his hands
nervously. “Brendon, this is David.”
“Pleased to meet you,” David says politely, holding out a hand.
Brendon looks like he wants to die because this, right here, is the happiest
moment of his life and nothing will ever top it.
“You too. Definitely. Oh my god, I just – I saw you in San Francisco last
year, and that show changed my life, I – You mean so much to the gay
community there, you know? I swear, on Halloween I went to The Hard On, it’s,
er, it’s a club in The Castro District, and half of the people there were dressed up
as Ziggy. Myself included,” Brendon adds in nervously, babbling away like he
is terrified of the words coming out of his mouth.
“Cheers, that’s nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” Brendon exhales dreamily. David is now looking Brendon up
and down calculatedly, and I know that look. God, David’s a fucking dog.
The crowd starts screaming so loudly that it echoes to our dressing
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room, and I realise that Canadian History is on. After their set, they will pack up
and be gone. I’d like to see Jon on stage one more time. He looks good there. The
heartless bastard belongs to the stage.
It’s hard, somehow, to know that one of the men I’ve had the strongest
musical bond with is leaving, and I will never see him again. Even if he was a
damn douche and even if our affair was so short-lived it hardly happened. But I
keep waking up with those songs stuck in my head. Goddamn Walker.
“Spencer tells me you no longer put on any makeup when you go on
stage,” David says disapprovingly, and I nod to confirm it. “We can’t have
that!” he gasps, and I let him sit me down and make Brendon fetch Joe’s make
up kit.
I close my eyes and keep still as David begins putting makeup on me.
Brendon makes approving sounds, sighing, “That is gorgeous!” every five
seconds. When I open my eyes, a purple stripe decorates my face, stretching
over my eyes and the bridge of my nose. David adds way too much eyeliner,
and when I put on one of my feather hats, the combination is absurd.
David says, “Perfect.”
Brendon says, “You are so talented.”
“Thanks, Brendon,” he says smoothly, casting Brendon a long, long
look. “Hey, you wanna go out for a fag?”
“Sorry?” Brendon frowns.
David laughs. “A cigarette. We call ‘em fags.”
Brendon blushes, and seriously? Brendon makes an “er, um,” sound as
he is clearly flustered that David Bowie wants to fuck him. I’ve been asking
groupies to go out for a cigarette with me for years.
William comes into the dressing room with a broad grin. “Ding, dong,
the witch is gone! Or, you know, will be. Canadian History is on their way out
of this tour; they’re packing up right now. Bren, Zack needs you on stage, and
Pete, we’re out of the L-sized red shirts?”
The crew gets their act together and takes off, Brendon giving David an
apologetic look, and David goes to the couch and puts his feet on the coffee
table, and Joe gets out coke. I hear Tom and Nate’s voices outside our room and
then further away. I claim that I need to warm up my voice to get away from the
coke, which I know is not good for me, and I also need to be somewhere where I
don’t have to acknowledge the departure of our support band.
I find a back corridor and walk up and down it as I hum under my
breath, going high, high, high, low, low, low.
“Ryan.”
I swirl around and silently curse my luck. I didn’t want to see Jon. He’s
sweaty from their set, but there is a harshness to his jaw line and usually warm
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eyes. “Here,” Jon says bluntly and presses a piece of paper to my hand. I look
down and see a number.
“Whose is this?”
“Mine. It’s for my place in Chicago for the day you realise what you let
slip by you. Because those songs we wrote? They were fucking amazing.” Jon
cocks an eyebrow at me and turns around, walking out of my life for good with
a hell of a lot more arrogance than he had walking into it.
I look at the piece of paper and scoff. Like I’ll need this. Jon needs to be
brought down a notch or two. Or twelve. Like I’d go running back to him?
Please.
I let the note drop onto the floor and head back to the dressing room.
Once nearly there, I turn around, rush back to where I was and pick up the note,
pocketing it away.
Just because Jon owes me a beer.
The large hotel room has turned into a club with a mix of David’s crew, our
crew, the girls and a handful of Detroit’s musical finest. Everyone is courting
David or Joe or me, but mostly David, and I don’t mind, but Joe clearly does.
Brendon is sticking to the background with a slightly offended look on his face.
Out of the guys available, I’d go for Brendon. He is clearly the most attractive
choice.
If, well, I was David. And wanted to do a guy.
Audrey is winning by a long shot. She is sitting on David’s lap and
telling stories of the crazy shit the two of them have done on previous tours.
Brendon is nearly fuming. It would suck, watching your sister steal the guy you
want, but they’re not siblings. Maybe distant cousins?
“In Santa Fe, Audrey talked me into going to a church and shagging in
one of the corners.” David laughs loud enough for me to hear, and Audrey grins
wickedly.
“Blasphemy, that,” Brendon comments casually. “Puts the whore of
Babylon to shame.”
The others laugh, but Audrey doesn’t. She looks tired as she stands up,
sends Brendon an offended look, grabs a champagne bottle and goes out to the
balcony. Brendon looks pleased and quickly moves to sit next to David, who
wraps an arm around Brendon and offers him a beer bottle. Brendon looks
comfortable where he is.
I don’t mind one of our roadies being so openly after David, though
now everyone present knows we’ve got a fag in the crew. Well, it doesn’t mean
that the rest of us are. And I know what this courting accumulates to: a twenty-
minute panting session and then they part ways. David is pretty irresistible,
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anyway. Hell, even I might do him if someone gave me the right combination of
recreational drugs. This isn’t like it was in Cleveland with that guy, that sleazy
guy with those muscles and Brendon all cornered and tiny and looking like a
coked up slut desperate for a fuck. David is a decent guy. Willing fan meets
horny musician. Everyone knows how that’ll go. They have my blessing to fuck.
The party is getting louder, but Audrey isn’t back yet. I leave my own
admiring crowd and go out to the balcony. Audrey is sitting on the bottom end
of a wooden deck chair with a champagne bottle dangling between her slender
legs, pink hair blowing slightly in the cool breeze. She is leaning forward, and
she looks so much smaller than she usually does.
I close the door to the hotel room and go take the chair next to hers,
letting my eyes wash over Canada on the other side of the river. Audrey glances
at me, her eyeliner having smeared in the corners. I clear my throat. “Are you
okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” she nods drunkenly and looks out. The city is a sea
of a million little lights, but it feels like we’re in the middle of a glimmering
desert and everyone else is far away. “Just, you know. One of those nights.”
She leans back in the chair and sighs. If I play this right, her admitting
that something is off is a pathway to a whole bunch of more truths. Brendon
won’t talk, and I don’t want to push him. Audrey, though... “Is it about
Brendon?”
She turns her head to me, eyes widening in surprise. “No,” she says
after a long pause. “And yes.” She giggles, and I take the champagne bottle
she’s offering. “It’s not him exactly, just the things he reminds me of, and it just-
It’s weird here. In this place. Makes me kinda uneasy. I know him, you know. I
mean I knew him.” She licks her lips as if to taste the traces of champagne on
them. I wait for her to go on, my insides squeezing together as she dangles the
truth in front of me. “You’re not surprised.”
“No,” I admit. Audrey and Brendon aren’t very good actors. “How do
you know him?” I help myself to a cigarette.
“We grew up on the same street,” she explains, a cloudy look in her
eyes like she can see it right in front of her eyes. My brother and sister theory
suddenly doesn’t seem as ridiculous. “It was a shitty town, not even worth
mentioning. An hour’s drive from Salt Lake City, which we hardly got to visit
since it was the cesspool of depravity,” she says in a booming voice and smiles.
“Dad always said that. And that was Salt Lake City. Los Angeles? New York?
He paled just thinking about them! But not me, no. I always wanted to go
myself, see what the fuss was about... Small town, everyone knew everyone.
Really small place. I suppose it was cosy in its own way. Brendon was a few
years younger than me, but we played together sometimes. All kids played
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together back there.”

I try to see Brendon as a small boy in this tiny place. I can’t really
picture it, especially not him playing together with Audrey. “A small town in
Utah,” I repeat, trying to take it in.
“Mormons.”
I do a double-take. “Mormons?”
“Yup,” she laughs and shakes her head disbelievingly. Audrey, a
Mormon? Brendon a Mormon? She’s a groupie. He’s gay. What kind of Mormons
are they? Audrey smiles lopsidedly, pushing long, pink hair behind her ear. She
sways to the left slightly as she offers her hand. “Alma, pleased to meet you.”
I shake her hand in disbelief.
“It’s one of the Books in the Book of Mormon. Book of Alma,” she
explains. “That town alone had fifty Almas in it. I always hated the name; there
was nothing unique in it. But I thought I was, you know? I thought I... I listened
to the radio at night. I snuck downstairs after everyone had gone to bed and
tuned into the only rock station we got around there. And I’d listen with my ear
pressed to the speaker... The music. It just ran down my spine, and let me tell
you, let me tell you, you listening? Good, here’s some truth: that music was the
only religious experience that I’ve ever felt. And when I was seventeen, I left the
place. The Doors were playing in Salt Lake City. I had to see them, had to. Had
to see Jim Morrison, you know? And it was like... I was reborn. Right there, that
night. I got backstage too. Jim told me I was beautiful. It was the first time
anyone had ever said that to me, and he asked me what my name was and – it
just came out. ‘Audrey,’ I said. Audrey.” She laughs at the memory, and I don’t
have the heart to tell her that, although Jim probably meant what he said, he
didn’t feel it. It was just words. I know how we musicians think, and what we
say is beauty in others we only see as reflections of ourselves.
Audrey takes the bottle back from me and takes two gulps. “So I met
Jim that night. Met these amazing people, and that was that. I had left my family
a note, saying that I had gone, so my parents knew. And then I was Audrey
Kitching. I made up the last name later, it kind of sounds like the sound a cash
register makes? You know, ka-ching? And it rhymes with bitching. I kind of
mixed those two. Audrey Kitching,” she repeats with a pleased smile. “You like
the name? I like the name. I never went back after that.”
I look over my shoulder and into the hotel room, seeing the guys
hanging out. I see Brendon, who is from the same small town where there are
fifty Almas and rock ‘n roll is a sin. How did that boy become that man?
“Is Brendon his real name?” I ask quietly. Something aches inside me at
the thought of him having lied about that.
“Oh, yeah. He hasn’t changed that.” I relax slightly. I don’t know why it
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matters so much. “God, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him on that bus. I
thought he was dead, you know.”
The sip of champagne I was taking gets caught in my throat, and I end
up coughing into my fist.“D-Dead?”
“Uh huh,” she nods and now takes a slug. She finishes the bottle. “I
think they all think he’s dead! Brendon disappeared back in...” Her eyebrows
knit together, her concentrated expression nearly comical. “Back in ’66? ’67? He
must have been around fifteen, I think. Poof! Gone! Didn’t come to school one
day. No one knew anything. The Elders told us not to bother his family with it,
not to ask questions. I remember how heartbroken all the Uries were.”
“Who?” I frown.
“The Uries. Brendon Urie?” she laughs, and it occurs to me that I don’t
know what his last name is. “I forgot about him, I guess,” Audrey muses. “Most
of us just forgot, though Bill Hinckley said that he saw Brendon’s dad digging a
grave in the back of their house. Someone told the teacher, and Bill got into so
much trouble. Most people just forgot about him. And then he was on that bus,
and I recognised him, and not only was he breathing, but he was all grown up
too. I couldn’t believe it! The dead Urie kid. And we lived two houses apart. I
broke free from the place, and here I am now! And here he is too, ended up right
here too. It’s like that, what’s it called? Karma? No, like, uh...”
“Kismet.”
“Yeah, kismet!” she nods eagerly, eventually shrugging. “No idea what
happened to him. I didn’t ask. Up until then, I didn’t know people could
disappear like that... And he seems oddly fascinated with David too.”
“Well, he’s gay. All gays are fascinated by David.”
“Brendon is gay?” Audrey gasps, eyes widening, and broken free or
not, I can tell what the tiny Mormon part of her brain thinks about that. “I-I
mean, I have gay friends, but they are – They are not from where I’m from, I
mean – Maybe it’s good he disappeared. They would have killed him there. Shit.
Are you sure he’s gay?” she asks desperately.
“Yeah,” I confirm. Brendon, disappearing at the age of fifteen, off the
map until showing up in San Francisco less than two years ago. That’s over five
years of where the hell was he and what did he do? Did he run away or was he
thrown out? Or maybe he didn’t leave willingly at all, maybe he was taken?
Audrey laughs and covers her face with her hands. She laughs and
laughs, and no wonder when I think of all the men she and Brendon have
fucked, the drugs they’ve taken, the church gatherings they never attended, all
in the name of rock ‘n roll, both of them.
“His family adored him,” Audrey says, smiling emptily and shrugging
it off as a mystery of life. It leaves me with a haunting feeling I can’t shake off.
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I finally go back inside and spot Brendon, who is now dancing on the
table with Meryl, and they are both laughing their heads off. Of course his
family adored him. That bright smile, those warm eyes? Who wouldn’t adore
the kid?
But he vanished, and he won’t tell anyone what happened. It must have
been bad. Worry swirls in me at the thought, and I hope it wasn’t anything too
bad. He seems intact enough, but maybe it’s just another cover up.
I keep my eyes on Brendon and Meryl dancing, and David comes to me,
following my gaze and saying, “Alright, you can have that one.”
“She’s all yours,” I say half-heartedly, happy that the girls will be
leaving with David. That way our band will stop letting their dicks dictate all of
our actions.
“I was talking about the guy,” David smirks and pats my shoulder. I
freeze up. I wasn’t aware that I wanted him.
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CHAPTER 7: TALES OF SAN FRANCISCO/I HOLD IT ABOVE MY HEAD
The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly but surely, sucking away the energy I
try to preserve for the evenings. It’s like sleep-walking, dozing off in dressing
rooms and the bus lounge, constantly having someone shaking me awake. And
the first small break I get, when I can lie down on a hotel bed, Jac finally decides
to call me. I listen to her stories of parties and mutual friends with a half-
interested ear, eyes drooping and the hotel bed beneath me feeling so inviting. I
was waiting for her to call me. She knows all the hotels we’re staying in and the
name I go under: Angel Eyes. I liked that movie. And I’ve got fairly pretty eyes.
It took Jac weeks to call. I counted the days.
“Seems like he’s made an impression on you,” Jac says after I’ve done
my part of vague, abbreviated sharing. My eyes flicker on the hotel room’s TV
screen, a cartoon on mute as I wait for Pete to come get me for another radio
interview that I will probably fall asleep during.
“Huh?”
“This Brendon.”
“He’s a nice guy,” I amend, and Jac admits that she forgot to go to my
place to water the plants and now they are all dead. The conversation feels like
my now former plants, dry and resentful because she didn’t call me and I didn’t
call her, and when she finally called, her timing was wrong and just ticked me
off.
She says Los Angeles seems to be waking up to The Followers frenzy,
that she keeps getting outed as my girlfriend. That it will be insane when we
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finally play the West Coast. That I better not forget about her.
She has to go before I do, the line clicking dead but the phone still
pressed to my ear, and that’s two weeks of waiting for her to make the first
move for a lot of nothing.
Spencer’s right. Maybe I need a new girlfriend, someone who dotes on
me more than she does. But that’d never work either, because fuck anyone who
thinks I can’t take care of myself.
Pete knocks on the door, and, half-asleep, half-awake, I force myself out
of bed.
Spencer and I are doing an interview plus one song for a campus radio
station, and the amateurism shows in the arrangements as the guy that walks us
through campus just fusses and claims that he is our number one fan. Luckily,
he has to go to his Psychology 101 class after we arrive to the radio
headquarters. Spencer scribbles postcards as we wait in the lounge, the
crackling speakers in the corners carrying the host’s voice on how their team
lost in the final round of the North American Debating Championship and that
Swan University’s team won yet again. Echoes from a life I never had any
interest in living.
Spencer bought two postcards from the hotel lobby, and he offers me
one, so I take it and contemplate on whom to address it to. Dad, definitely not.
Probably doesn’t even know I’m on tour. Jac, maybe, but I don’t want to give
her the pleasure. I could send it to myself, but that’d be sad. I could address it to
‘Brendon Urie’s parents’ and write Your son is alive and well, but it’s not like I
know where they live.
It’s weird now that I know so much about the roadie, and he doesn’t
know that I know. I won’t tell him I know either, since he clearly doesn’t want
to talk about it. I look across the room at Andy and Brendon, who came with us.
Andy is getting one of my guitars out of a gig bag, and Brendon is playing
around with Spencer’s tambourine.
“Here you go,” Pete says, offering me a mug of black coffee. I push hair
out of my eyes and take a long sip, the porcelain hot beneath my fingers. “No
sugar?” I ask unhappily, Pete blinking at me. God, he can’t even do his job.
“We need stamps,” Spencer says and keeps scribbling, and Pete makes
Andy go get us some. My eyes focus on what Spencer is writing on the back of a
card, curiosity getting the best of me as I snatch it from his fingers. “Hey!” he
protests.
“I hope you know that I think about you every day, from sunrise to sunset,” I
read sceptically, eyeing the address line and mouthing ‘Suzie Smith’, who
apparently lives in Cincinnati. Spencer takes the card back, glaring. “Who’s
Suzie?”
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“My cousin.”
“Well, that’s fucking creepy.”
“Fuck off, Ryan.”
Spencer punches my shoulder, and I grin and punch him back. “Hey, if
incest is what it takes for you to get over Haley...”
Spencer groans loudly. “Pete, get this moron away from me, please?”
“Who’s Haley?” Brendon asks. We all freeze. My eyes fly from him to
Pete to Spencer. Spencer’s smile is gone, and Pete is trying hard not to look at
the drummer, instead examining his nails. Brendon’s realised he has said
something wrong. I remember when Pete told Spencer the news, and if I
stopped Spencer from punching Pete a second time, it wasn’t for Pete’s sake.
Brendon mutters a confused, “Sorry, uh...”
“Not at all. It seems she is out, anyway, and this Suzie, Spencer’s hot
cousin, is in,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. I get up and walk to the couch
Brendon is on, sitting down and taking a pen to my still empty postcard. I clear
my throat and start writing. “My dearest beloved. Being on the road is lonely
without thee here. My heart aches to be with thine, my soul only complete when
blessed by thy presence. Thy silky, brown hair –”
“Jac’s blonde, you idiot,” Spencer laughs, and I grin at him, glad that he
is letting it be.
Brendon, apparently not having learned that sometimes silence is
golden, asks, “Who’s Jac?”
“Ryan’s better half. If he has a better half,” Spencer says, giving me a
cruel smile, and I stick my tongue out. If the immature schoolboy part of me
manages to make Spencer smile, then I’ll let it roam free.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Brendon says, sounding genuinely
put off. “You’ve never mentioned her.”
“Not much to mention,” I shrug, finishing the card with an ‘RR
xxxxxxxx’. I look at the ridiculous love letter on the back of the card and throw it
on the coffee table. “Besides, she’s not a girlfriend in the traditional sense. She’s
a girl and she’s a friend, you know? I’m telling you, in the future, there will be
no such words as ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend’. They sound so goddamn archaic
to me.”
Brendon looks at me in amusement, and yeah, he would be surprised to
hear Jac exists. I’m pretty sure Brendon knows I haven’t exactly been living like
a monk on this tour so far. Sex and affection are two completely different things,
though. Jac knows that. Sex is just sex; you can have it with just about anyone.
Affection, well. I’m fond of Jac. It doesn’t mean I’m telling her the shit I’ve done,
and in return, she’s not telling me the shit she’s done.
“You’re a pioneer,” Spencer mumbles and finishes writing the card.
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“No one talked about this free love idea in the sixties.”
“Smart.”
“That I am,” he admits and grins at me.
The radio host walks out, just another kid, and we make the
introductions and head over to the broadcast studio’s side with the guitar and
tambourine while Pete and the roadies stay behind. I’ve finished my cup of
coffee, but I desperately need another one. “If you fall asleep, I’ll poke you
awake,” Spencer promises, and I nod tiredly and rub my eyes, perched on one
of the stools with microphones set around us. I spot Brendon behind the glass
window and I motion at my mug, and he nods and gives a thumbs up.
“Okay, okay, okay! This is Nelson and you’re listening to the best, and
well, only, Toronto University radio station, Radio Varsity!” He presses a
button, and we hear a theme tune. “And we’ve got some special guests here
with me. Remember how I told you there’d be something big happening today?
We only kept it secret so that you crazy kids wouldn’t bombard these rockers as
they made their way to the studio just a minute ago! So in the studio with me
are Brian Ross and Spencer Smith of The –”
I bury my face in my hands and let Spencer correct the clueless fucker as
the interview kicks off. Spencer answers the questions, and I nod and hum.
“What do you think of Toronto?”
Brendon carefully slides into the studio, handing me another mug of
coffee. He mouths ‘two sugars’, and I smile, mouthing ‘Thanks’. He makes a
show of bowing and tipping a hat he doesn’t have as he exits the room.
“Your tour is called Jackie, Me and This Lady, and I read in your recent
Creem interview that these are real people. So, who’s Jackie?”
By now, Jackie has become an on running gag. All interviewers ask it,
and we’ve picked up the joke, going around the bus and venues while yelling
“Hey, you seen Jackie around?” at each other.
Spencer shrugs and gives the kid an easy smile. “Jackie can be whoever
you want her to be.”
“That’s really interesting. Now Ryan, how do you see the future of The
Followers?”
I tear my eyes off of Brendon and look at this college kid instead. “Um, I
don’t, really. Just taking it a day at a time. We’ll be touring well into September,
then we’re probably taking some time off before recording again.”
“No long term plans?”
“Nope.”
You can’t make long term plans for a rock band. Will we still be
recording and touring in thirty years’ time? God, I hope not. Three years into
the future, okay, I can swing that. But who would want to live this life forever?
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Well, apart from Jagger, but he’s a crazy son of a bitch, anyway, and he was on
heroin when he told me he’d still be jumping on stage when he’s sixty.
It’s harder getting out of the building than it was coming in. We end up
delayed by an hour as Spencer and I patiently sign records and magazine covers
for all the students who have turned up outside during our interview. There’s a
guy who tells me he’s been to a number of shows already, and then he says,
“Hey, Brendon and Andy!” really loudly, and the two roadies lift eyebrows and
awkwardly wave back, and the guy looks pleased.
When we finally get back to the van driving us to the venue, Brendon
grins. “I’m famous by association. This is awesome.”
“Uh huh,” I mutter and settle to sleep with my head against the
window, the exhaustion finally taking over, and I have weird dreams of Jac, but
she’s headless and floating; weightless, not anything I could touch, but I don’t
have hands anyway, I don’t even have arms –
“Ryan, wake up!”
I open my eyes and realise we’re at the venue. The van is parked in the
back. Brendon is quirking an eyebrow at me. We’re alone. “Soundcheck.”
“Riiiight,” I mumble tiredly and frown. “What city are we in?”
“Toronto. Still. Come on, I’ll lead the way,” Brendon offers, and I follow
him out of the van and into the venue, rolling my shoulders and trying to shake
the exhaustion off. Brendon glances at me quickly. “So hey, I just, uh, did I say
something wrong back there? About this Haley or whoever?”
We snake in the crowd of venue workers, lights people, sound techs,
cleaners, promoters. They blur together in my tired eyes, and I have to rake my
brain to catch myself up with Brendon. “Spencer’s ex-girlfriend. They split up a
long time ago, but he’s still on the broken heart wagon.”
“That it? Pete just looked kinda...” he trails off.
We stop to give way to the support band’s dancers. The band’s local,
and they think it’s great to have the stage full of crap like half a dozen chicks
dancing to their music. Sure, the girls are hot, but why try to draw attention
away from the music? The girls all bat their eyelashes at me, someone giggles,
and someone says, “Come on, Keltie, let’s go warm up!”
The girls are gone in a flash of blonde and brown, leg warmers on their
perfectly shaped legs. I stare after them absentmindedly and address Brendon.
“Tell you what. I’ll spill all about Haley if you give me a story of your own in
return.”
Brendon frowns as we reach the stage, the rest of my band and crew
already setting things up. “I don’t have any stories.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” I say firmly. Brendon looks surprised but
nods anyway before he begins pushing one of the amp cases on stage.
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***
I say, “So you go first.”
It’s quarter past four in the morning and I’m digging into my early-
breakfast cheeseburger, fries, and strawberry milkshake. I haven’t gone to bed
yet. I’m awake whenever I could be asleep, and I’m sleepy whenever I need to
be awake. The fluorescent lamp hanging above our booth is nearly hurting my
stinging eyes, its light shooting back up at me from the table’s black surface. I
know that I look like a goddamn mess, and I sigh, taking another bite of the
tasteless burger. I’m too tired to care. Brendon looks slightly nauseated as he sits
across from me in the roadside diner. “What?” I ask, still chewing.
“Your mother ever taught you any table manners?”
“I’m hungry.”
“I can see that.”
I suck the straw, and Brendon watches. Yummy strawberry milkshake
is yummy.
Brendon laughs. “Any idea how many calories you’re consuming before
it’s even dawn?”
“Calories? What are those? Look, man, I’ll tell you a tour secret:
whenever you’ve got the opportunity to sleep, you sleep. Every chance you get
to eat, you eat. Fries?”
He shakes his head. His loss.
We’re the only ones awake. Brendon’s driving the rest of the way and
we pulled over to refill the tank. The support band imitated us, and their bus is
parked next to ours outside. It’s a weird type of night this far north, where it
doesn’t get dark properly. The world outside is light blue, like the sun is
wrapped up in a shroud and is hiding just behind the corner somewhere.
On the other side of the diner are the support’s dancers and a few guys
from the band, too excited about being on the road to sleep. It’s easy for them,
doing a handful of shows with us. It’s not long enough for them to learn or to
relate, not that I wish more people could relate to me.
Twelve down, forty-three to go.
I focus on Brendon again, who is sipping his coffee slowly, waiting for it
to cool down. “You should tell me something about you before I tell you about
the Haley business.”
“See, I’ve thought about it, and I honestly have nothing interesting to
share.”
“Nothing’s ever happened to you?” I ask sceptically, and he nods. Well,
that’s a fucking lie. How about his disappearance? Or even his childhood in
Mormon paradise? But he doesn’t know that I know about any of that, and it’s
more than clear that he doesn’t want anyone asking about his past either. I tried
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already. “Well, what kind of things do you know about?”

Brendon laughs. “I know the good bars in The Castro.”
“Okay, tell me about those, then. But you better be honest.”
He hesitates. “Don’t know, man. It might, uh... upset a straight man of
such upstanding morals such as yourself.”
I wave him off with my left hand. “Please, I have no morals. I once had
a thing with a girl who wanted me to choke her until she passed out. And, for
the record, I did.”
Brendon’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. “Well, okay then.”
And he begins telling me tales of San Francisco, a potential promised
land for guys like him. I can’t picture it in my head, though I try. More and
more homosexuals move there all the time; every week there are new faces in
the area. Some are young kids who have run away, some are older, in their
thirties or forties who only now have had the courage to admit who they are.
Brendon says that his last apartment was on Castro Street, right at the spot
where it all comes together. (“Where do you live now, then?” I ask, and he
shrugs, a faint blush on his cheeks as he looks out of the window. “I’m kind of
in between places right now. What with this tour and all, I’m living on that bus
this summer.”) You can walk down the main street and see men kissing.
Sometimes women, they do get some lesbians too. But sometimes you leave
your apartment only to hear that someone got beaten up last night, not two
blocks from where you live. And you get the occasional Christian trying to give
out flyers on the street, screaming that you’re an abomination and sick and
twisted. Brendon’s politically active, but not everyone cares. Most guys there
don’t bother looking at the bigger picture at all.
He describes the street where the young hookers are. New in town, no
money, they’ll sleep with anyone and do anything. And despite what they’re
doing, they are good kids, but too many disappear with a client and never come
back. Married middle-aged men pick them up and fuck them in dirty motels
and feel guilty that God hates them for wanting young boy meat. The boy gets
twenty bucks and a load up his ass, bruises on his waist. But those boys, those
hookers, are for the closet cases that aren’t a part of the community. If you want
sex, you can get it. Anywhere. Anytime.
“We call them glory holes,” he explains, and I stare in disbelief as he
describes a bar that is no bar at all, just a place to go and have sex. And they
don’t even keep it to the backrooms, no. There’s one bar, loud music, dim, dim
lights and plenty of dark corners and couches. And there are these mazes that
you go into with holes in the walls, and you can just put your dick through one
of them, and some guy on the other side sucks you off. You’ve no idea who it is.
Brendon knows a guy who accidentally blew his brother.
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“That is disgusting, you know that, right?” I deadpan, genuinely

disgusted as he laughs hysterically.
“Yeah, I know, man, but it was all anyone talked about for weeks!
Seriously, it was the funniest thing!” He wipes the corners of his eyes. “Ah,
where was I? Yeah, the sex. Right, okay. I mean, I’ve never been down the
heterosexual path, but I’ve seen plenty of that side. And straight people have
these ridiculous courting rituals. If you’re gay, it’s easy. You see a guy you like,
you look them in the eye and nod towards a corner; if they’re game, they come
with you. You don’t even need to speak, man.”
“Fuck.” Why aren’t girls that easy? “Is there, like... a certain thing you
do with your eyes or...? I mean, how do you do it? Give me the look.”
“Uh, okay.” He glances down and clears his throat. He lifts his gaze,
and oh. Oh. His eyes are staring right into my goddamn soul, or maybe deeper
than that, soft and inviting, his plump bottom lip playfully between his white
teeth, lips curved in a suave smile, and that’s seduction. Right there.
No wonder they go with him.
“Huh,” I manage.
Brendon breaks into laughter, seduction evaporating in an instant, and
he’s back to his usual self. He snatches one of my fries. “I don’t go to those
places. Been once or twice, but that was enough, you know? I mean, the focus
tends to be on the sex because that’s the thing that separates us from you. But
that doesn’t mean it’s all to do with sex. There’s love and friendship and
partners too.”
“Except for you, of course. You’re too cute to settle down.”
“You remember,” he grins. The dancers giggle loudly, and we look their
way. They giggle even louder when they notice. Brendon sighs. “I think that
brunette has got a crush on me. Poor girl, no gaydar.”
“Sure,” I chuckle. It’s obvious that it’s me she wants. Just then the girl
stands up and makes her way over to us. Brendon and I exchange glances.
She beams. “Hi. I’m Tracy. I’m one of the dancers?”
“Yeah, I know,” Brendon smiles back. “I saw you on stage back in
Toronto. You’re very flexible.”
“It’s a gift!” she laughs, squeezes to sit next to Brendon without an
invitation, and adds, “Though, honestly, it’s hard work, you’ve no idea.” She’s
drunk. I’m sobering up from the night before. What a perfect balance.
“I’m sure it is,” I grant her and finish my milkshake. I’m pathetically
homeostatic – now that I’m full, my body is telling me to sleep.
“You guys taking off soon? I know we are. But I was just thinking if
maybe you two would want to give me a tour around your bus? It’s so shiny
and new! I bet it, uh, would be just magical. If I would come along... with both of
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you. The three of us. Going back to your bus.”

Brendon pales visibly, but Joe and I get threesome offers all the time. I
would never, nuh-uh, not with Joe. God, that is a million times wrong. And
there was that one girl who wanted me and Spencer, which is even more wrong.
With two girls, sure, and I have been down that road before. I have also had sex
when my band members have been in the room, but we certainly weren’t
having sex together. Tracy is smiling drunkenly. For a guy who has visited
glory holes, Brendon shouldn’t be so shocked.
“Thanks, Tracy, but that’s never gonna happen,” I laugh. “And it’s not
me or Brendon, by the way. It’s you.”
She frowns. “Well, you’re a jerk.”
“And you’re a slut, so what gives?”
Tracy shoots up, clearly angered. “You should hear the shit they say
about you, Ryan Ross! You’re in no position to judge me! I was homecoming
queen!”
One of the other dancers has hurried over and is gently trying to take a
hold of Tracy, beckoning, “Trace, come on! Please? Sorry, you guys, she’s had a
bit too much –”
Tracy huffs and swirls around, snapping, “Don’t touch me! Keltie, don’t
touch me!”
The blonde girl sends another apologetic look our way, her eyes
lingering on me for a while as she and the rest of the dancers leave the diner,
and Brendon hums loudly under his breath. “Awkward.”
“Bitch,” I remark, gathering the last bits of ketchup from the plate with
my thumb and licking it off. Brendon is staring. “I can eat my ketchup if I want
to! Fuck!” I stand up and head for the door, and Brendon follows me.
The things they say about me. Who’s “they” and what do they know,
anyway? No one’s perfect. No one’s goddamn perfect, and, who cares, they can
say what the fuck they want. See if I care. What have they accomplished? Have
they given their life to music like I have? Sacrificed as much as I have? That
stupid, drunken bitch.
“Ryan, you okay?” Brendon asks as we reach the bus, his face
disbelieving. I ignore him. He rolls his eyes. “Look, don’t give me an attitude if–
”
“Technically, you’re working for me, so I can give you an attitude if I
want to. Got it?”
Brendon doesn’t back off. Everyone I know, except for Spencer and Jac,
would back off.
“Dude, who cares what she said? Are you really that sensitive to
criticism? I bet you can’t even read the album reviews –”
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“Oh, I can, that’s no problem. They always praise us, anyway.”

Brendon makes a ‘tut’ with his tongue, and it speaks more than words
would, meaning I’m spoiled, self-centred, arrogant, acting like a bit of an
asshole right now, and who cares what Brendon thinks either? He’s just some
homeless fag.
He opens the door to the bus, and I hurry inside, shrugging off my
jacket and throwing it on the couch of the messy lounge, beer bottles and setlist
sketches lying on the floor. Brendon follows me, lowering his voice so that he
doesn’t disturb the rest of the guys sleeping in their bunks. “You still owe me
your story, but we’ll save it for another time when your ego’s in check.”
I pull my shirt off and throw it on the floor, shaking my head at him.
“You’re this close to losing your job, Brendon. This fucking close.”
I go to my back lounge nest without another word to him, kicking off
my jeans and sliding under the covers. The bus takes off a minute later, and I
wait for sleep to finally take over as I watch the light coming from the windows,
creating changing, eerie shadows on the walls.
But sleep doesn’t come.
The audience roars like a starving dragon, and the stage lights hit my skin,
being the flame that scorches me. My fingers ache as we launch into our last
song, my shirt glued to my back. Brent walks over to me, moving with the
music, his bass pressed to his lower stomach and crotch. I flip my head and try
to get wet bangs off my forehead.
Joe yells, “Yeah!” into his microphone. We don’t have any fucking
“yeah”s in this song.
The lights keep changing, bright yellow and red and blue, and I move to
sing into the microphone and the audience sings back at me. Everyone knows
the lyrics now. I stop playing the guitar after the second verse, and we kick into
a new part. I catch the tambourine Zack throws me from the side of the stage. I
hold it above my head first and then start beating it in front of my chest,
smacking it to my open palm so that the microphone will catch the sound.
Eventually, the drum beats stop, leaving only the bass, tambourine and
guitar. Then the bass stops, and eventually Joe plucks the last string, and it’s just
me and my voice and the tambourine, and the audience sings the final line with
me as the guys stand around me, taking in the moment, and the edge of the
tambourine hits my palm one last time. I close my eyes. A drop of sweat drips
off my nose. One, two –
They start screaming and applauding. I step away from the mic, out of
the spotlight, a wounded animal taking a step away from its predator. Joe is
speaking to the crowd. “Thank you so much, Ottawa, you’re beautiful!”
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We leave the stage, high five the crew, who are waiting around to start
packing everything up. My gaze meets Brendon’s. “Meet me by the bus in
twenty,” I say, and it sounds like an order without me having to try. He looks
surprised but nods, and Pete shrugs as an okay that Brendon will be sliding
from his duties prematurely. The audience is now trying to leave, thousands of
feet moving restlessly.
After I’ve had a quick shower and have put clean clothes on, I throw my
duffel bag over my shoulder and go outside to smoke. The rest of the band
hasn’t even gotten out of their stage clothes as they buzz with adrenalin from
the show. They enjoy playing live, the rest of them.
Brendon shows up as I’m halfway through my first cigarette. The tour
buses are in a fenced area in the back, and I don’t have to worry about getting
targeted here. I lean against the silvery metal side of our bus, my bag at my feet
and hair wet from the shower. Brendon looks at me cautiously, a hint of
resentment in his eyes. I cough and wipe my nose. “Hey.”
“You wanted to see me?”
I nod to confirm it.
“You’re gonna fire me, maybe?” He sounds mocking. I force myself not
to think about the shitty things he said to me, because if I think about them, I’ll
just get pissed again. I’ve spent the entire day trying to forget about it.
“It was a few years ago, before we were famous like this,” I kick off, and
he instantly silences, interested eyes fixing on me. “We’d just released the
second album, and I think Haley came to a show with a friend of hers, who was
a big fan. And it was more relaxed back then, I mean, I never liked talking to
fans, but it happened more back then, kids just sticking around while we packed
up our gear. And Haley and Spencer got talking, sparks flying. She drove to the
next town to see us again. I mean, I figured she was just another groupie, but
then Spencer fell for her.”
“Was she a groupie?”
“No,” I laugh. “Not that girl, not ever. She’s far too respectable for that.
Or so I thought.” I finish my cigarette quietly, scraping the asphalt with the
soles of my shoes. There’s something about Brendon that makes me nervous.
“She never liked me. Thought I was kind of a bad influence on Spencer. She’s
known Spencer for, what, a few months and she concludes that? I’ve known
Spencer since he was a kid. But I still know that she got to see sides of Spencer I
never will, that’s to be expected. I mean, Spencer changed during that time he
was with her. We kept getting more and more famous, and this is where Pete
comes in. The thing you gotta understand is that this band is a product. That’s
the first thing Pete said when we signed to Capitol and he became our manager.
And we gotta make sure that kids want to buy us, and a lot of those kids are
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female with these fantasies of us, so girlfriends? A bad idea, will damage the
band. So we don’t want that. And that’s why Haley had to go.”
Brendon frowns. “Spencer dumped his girlfriend because Pete told him
to?”
“No. Spencer refused to do it. He was in love, remember? Love of his
life, wanted to marry her and grow old with her, all those things. So Pete made
her an offer that she could have refused, but she didn’t. She took the money, and
when Spencer went home after a day of recording, she was gone. Even took
their dogs with her.”
“So it wasn’t love.”
“And she wasn’t that respectable either,” I conclude, lighting a second
cigarette. I smoke like a chimney, but so what? It’s not like smoking damages
my health. Brendon looks upset, but what I told him is the truth. Yes, it was an
asshole move from Pete, but she could have told him to fuck off, couldn’t she?
And Spencer threatened to quit after that, but he made the right decision and
stayed. I need him in this band.
He’s not the same anymore, though. I feel like Spencer shut me out after
that, and I didn’t take sides, not really. I was happy that Haley was out of the
picture. Nothing against her, but she never fit into this world of ours. She was
too uncompromising. But I didn’t exactly tell Pete to go to hell either, just
shrugged and concluded that it was just how things were now. And some six
months down the line, Spencer still keeps his secrets to himself, and he won’t
come to me if something’s wrong. Probably doesn’t trust me.
“That’s horrible,” Brendon whispers eventually. “That you... share so
much with another person, give your heart to them, and they – they accept a
bribe to leave. That you didn’t even matter?”
“And still Spencer won’t say a bad thing about her. Love is not only
blind, it’s stupid as well. And we’ve all made sacrifices to be in this band, you
know? His was just a bit more personal.”
“But what about Jac? Why can you have a girlfriend?”
I shake my head. “Totally different thing. Haley and Spencer were like
the super couple, attached from the hip, finishing each other’s sentences, googly
eyes, future plans. Jac is a girl and a friend. The end.”
“So you said,” Brendon recalls, extending his arm with a questioning
eyebrow, and I pass him my cigarette. He takes a deep drag.
“I’d never let her get in the way of the music. She doesn’t pose a threat
to the band. And I know Spencer’s still angry, but he’s young! He’s a famous
drummer. He should enjoy his freedom, you know?” Except that Spencer’s not
living it up in any way, and Brendon probably knows that too if he has paid any
attention. “Anyway, that’s the story. You’re better off not mentioning Haley.
104
I’ve kind of been trying to help him move on, to get him laid, but it’s been to no
avail.”
Brendon nods and tips the end of the cigarette. “Getting laid on this
tour is damn difficult. Everyone’s too straight.”
I smirk. “What about the party in Cleveland?”
Brendon shrugs it off, doesn’t ask how I know about that. “That was
days and days ago. Who remembers Cleveland anymore? I should’ve known
better. Prog rock, but no one’s that progressive.”
“Aw, the poor gay kid, stuck with chick loving rockers,” I laugh, and he
glares at me before rolling his eyes. “You might have some luck with Tracy the
dancer.”
He winces. “Let’s not go down that road. Ever. I mean, I know that our
generation is the reckless one that’s doing all the insane shit our parents never
even dreamed of doing, and I want to have all kinds of life experiences, too. I
could kiss a girl. I’ve kissed girls; that doesn’t gross me out. But Tracy? No,
that’s where I draw the line.”
“If you’re desperate,” I suggest, but he shakes his head like he will
never be that desperate. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground and steps on it,
and I watch him, feeling suddenly playful. “Come here,” I say, and he lifts an
eyebrow as I step closer.
“What?”
“I was a dick to you last night. Believe it or not, I do know when I’m
being a dick.”
“Count me amazed.”
I take another step and am in his space. Brendon is looking at me with a
puzzled expression. I begin to lean in as I whisper a teasing and smug, “Let me
apologise.”
Brendon freezes slightly, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”
“Pitying you,” I shrug with a smirk, amused by the thought of all the
action he thought he’d be getting on this tour, leaning in the rest of the way
until my lips find his. It doesn’t gross me out either, a kiss one way or another
has never meant anything. Just skin on skin. That’s what I expect, and I have
already visualised his snappy comeback and me laughing at him some more
after this. But then the joke is gone. Our lips touch, and it’s not funny anymore.
The touch is barely there, but I feel his warmth, the smell of cigarettes in
his breath. And maybe, maybe if his lips weren’t slightly parted like they are, I
wouldn’t notice the slight moistness of his lower lip. But I notice it, and I recoil
in surprise, but only an inch, if even that. It shoots straight through me. My eyes
are focused on his cheek as our breaths mix together.
Brendon swallows. My stomach twists.
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And that. That was. That –

I move towards him as he moves towards me, his head tilting slightly,
our lips hovering, trying to find something, searching, then it fits – it must fit,
because our lips press together again. I feel the kiss in all of my body. His hand
curls around my hip, and I fist his hair and pull his head closer, our lips
suddenly bruising together. Jolts of excitement fly up and down my spine, all
from the hungry movements of our mouths, and his lips, god, they are so soft.
His stubble scratches my chin, and his hand comes up to caress my neck, all
calloused fingertips.
His tongue swipes over my lower lip before going in deeper, and I don’t
object. Maybe I should. I don’t. This isn’t pity anymore. No, pity, definitely not.
His hair is short as it swipes beneath my fingers, our bodies pressing
together. A shuddery breath from my throat gets lost as our tongues move
together, so dirty and willing. Brendon moans, a short, aroused sound, and my
crotch is pressed to his, our stomachs together, our chests. His body mirrors
mine in a way that terrifies and fascinates me. I keep kissing him, pulse picking
up, my thumb brushing his jaw line as he opens up for me.
What am I doing? What the fucking fuck do I think I’m doing?
His hand moves to the small of my back, to the top of my jeans where
his nails dig into my skin. A sudden wave of heat washes over me from the
touch.
Then I hear high heels against the ground, a distinctive click-click-click
sound from somewhere close by. I pull back from the kiss, or kisses, kissing, the
battle of our mouths, a strand of saliva stretching from my lower lip to his
before breaking off.
I step back, horrified. Brendon looks as shocked as me.
Click-click-click –
“Brendon?”
Brendon flinches, wipes his mouth, and I focus on the girl who has just
rounded the bus. The blonde dancer who took Tracy away last night. She looks
hesitant. I hurry to get out a cigarette to give my hands something to do, but I
know I just fumble aimlessly.
“Yeah?” Brendon asks. His voice is rough.
“Pete sent me to get you? Brent won’t let the other roadies pack up his
bass, so they need you.” She smiles expectantly. My heart races, trapped in my
ribcage with no hope of escape. What the hell did I just...?
“Oh. Yeah. Course.” Brendon looks at me. I avoid it by lighting the
cigarette and taking a deep drag.
I watch his shoes walking away and vanishing around the front of the
bus.
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A distancing click-click-click and her friendly voice chattering, and

Brendon makes no sound at all as he walks, no, he wouldn’t. He’s the kind that
sneaks up on you, and then he’s on you, you’re on him, before you even had the
tiniest fucking clue that it was going to happen.
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CHAPTER 8: AN ABSURD NOTION
So maybe I am attracted to him. His full lips and beautiful eyes, his slender
body, the round ass... But acknowledging that doesn’t mean that I’m not a
straight man. I admire beauty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Though, if I asked Spencer, he would say that it’s one thing to admire beauty
from afar and another to want to touch it and feel it in your hands.
I’m not going to consult Spencer on this. No, that is a definite, definite
no. I’m never going to tell anyone about anything. Not their business what I do.
I keep watching the light of the street lamps sweep across the lounge
table as our bus treads more and more miles in the quiet summer night. An
orangey glow goes across the table, and then the shadow is back, then the light,
the shadow. I watch the way the lights play on the opened notebook, the pen,
my knuckles and the empty vodka flask.
The page remains empty. I haven’t written anything since Ottawa.
And, besides, the more I think about it, the more I realise that I’m not
attracted to him. It’s an absurd notion that I would be, and the fact that he
kissed me doesn’t prove anything. I’m famous. I’m not exactly ugly. He’s gay,
and he’s lonely. I’m one of the few people around here who bother socialising
with him. So he misread the situation, and I went along with it. Could happen to
anyone, I’m sure.
I’m so not attracted to him.
The door separating the bunk area from the lounge opens. My eyes,
which have adjusted to the dark, instantly spot a sleepy looking Brendon, who
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doesn’t look my way as he simply enters the toilet, pyjama bottoms hanging low
on his skinny hips. The lock clicks to its place. The bus hums silently around me.
My pulse has picked up.
I muffle a frustrated groan and bring the flask to my lips. One drop
drips into my mouth. I stare at the flask disappointedly. “Et tu, Brute?”
The toilet is flushed, the swoosh sound coming through the paper thin
walls. I slide the flask back into my pocket, trying to hide evidence.
Maybe I’m a bit drunk, but I certainly am not attracted to the roadie. I
should sneak to my nest before he comes out, or maybe I should go to the front
to chat with William, but I’ve been trying to figure out if William knows.
Brendon might have told him, them being friends and all. William’s not said
anything. William’s not the kind of guy who could hide a thing like that; he’d
tell half the world and send letters to the rest.
The lounge is dark, the lights switched off. I’m in the shadows, so I stay
where I am, knowing I’m pretty invisible in my corner. Good plan.
The bathroom door reopens. The light inside casts a narrow beam across
the lounge. Straight on me.
Well, shit.
Brendon stops. “Oh. Hi. Didn’t see you there.” He closes the door. I
hum.
Apart from the “Morning,” “Where’s the dressing room?”, “Where am
I?”, “Can you pass me the capo/guitar cable/weed/setlist?” comments, we’ve not
talked, and we’ve not been in private without others around. I don’t know much
about the guy, but I know he’s not stupid, so my avoiding-all-eye-contact
technique was pretty easy to read. It still should be.
He asks, “What are you doing?”
I shrug, lifting my shoulders more than necessary. “Sitting in the dark
bus lounge in the middle of the night.”
Silence. I didn’t look, it’s not like I looked, but I still saw the flat plane of
his stomach, the V of his hips, his bare chest. “Want some company?” he asks.
I tense up. Is that gay code for something?
I take my pen and tap it onto the still empty page, letting my eyes focus
on it. “I’m good, thanks.”
He scoffs. “Whatever.”
I look up in time to watch him turn away, surprised by the scorn
because I haven’t done anything, have I? The flash of the streetlights hits his
turned away form, and I can see two identical indents on his lower back, just
above where his pyjama bottoms end. Back dimples, surrounded by smooth
skin, crowned by the cut of his spine, moving up to pale, strong shoulders and
back down again, shoulder blades, spine, dimples. Skin. Muscle. Bone. Within
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my reach.
The bunk area door closes. My breathing is shallow.
So maybe I am attracted to him.
I have no idea why I bitched about our five New York shows. In fact, I should
really congratulate Pete for being such an amazing manager and tell the guys
not to throw litter around the bus to piss Pete off. The way he acts around the
vehicle is comical to say the least, petting the walls, talking to it, asking if we all
want to get together and give it a good, loving wash before soundcheck. Which,
for the record, we do not want. Getting out of the claustrophobic bus and
staying in a hotel for practically a week? No chance of bumping into a half-
dressed Brendon? Pete’s a goddamn genius.
We’re all staying on the same floor in the hotel, the crew guys sharing
rooms, but the four of us move into a suite with four bedrooms. It’s a bit too
close to Joe Trohman than I’d like to be, but I can always just stay in my room. I
have interviews all day, and Pete is so awesome for arranging those too. No
crew needed in interviews.
As I open the door to our suite, I note from the corner of my eye that
William and Brendon are staying in the room next door. Brendon will be just on
the other side of the wall, but at least it’s further away than two steps from my
bed, behind the door, upper bunk immediately on the left.
The day flies by as the four of us are stuck in interviews where they all
ask the same goddamn questions. But I suck it up and enjoy the Brendonless
environment where I don’t need to try and process having sexual desires
towards a fucking guy. Joe and Spencer do most of the talking. Brent is clearly
suffering as he snaps a few replies, and I can relate to his frustration. It’s too
much work to make an effort in every interview.
We don’t have a show tonight. Instead, our five sold out New York gigs
start tomorrow, but it shouldn’t be too bad. We don’t need to drive to a new
place every night, we don’t need to pack up and unpack again. This almost feels
like a vacation. Spencer counts the days until we’re done with the East Coast
and have a month’s break before the tour’s second leg: seventeen days. If I can
avoid Brendon for seventeen days, I can be free of him for a month, go home,
clear my head, get this thing out of my system where my thoughts inevitably
gravitate towards his lips.
When we finally return to our suite, we try and work on tomorrow’s
setlist, but instead, we just start drinking. We’re heading out to a club. We’ve
been invited. It’s refreshing that we no longer have to try and get invites.
Rewind five years back before we got signed, Joe and I going around and
promoting us, trying to get gigs in shitty LA clubs. Now: New York City, four
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star hotel, top floor suite, complimentary beer.

But Spencer, who is the biggest supporter of unity among us, says we
should go get the roadies too, have fun together. And so fifteen minutes later,
William, Andy, Brendon and Zack come back with Spencer, and Andy asks if
anyone wants to do some LSD with him. Joe and William do. Brendon keeps
talking to Spencer, not even acknowledging me. The suite’s living room isn’t
that big, so Brendon could at least acknowledge me.
A sharp knock sounds on the door, and Brent groans. “That’s gonna be
the hotel telling us to shut up.”
“Or maybe fans. You know those few kids that have been following us
since Montreal?” Joe points out.
Brent nods as he heads over. “I’ll get it.”
I keep talking to Zack, but then I hear her voice. The hair at the back of
my neck sticks up at the sound. Zack is already looking towards the door, and I
follow his gaze. There she is with her arms around Brent, and Brent is happily
hugging her back. And she is all fair skin with short, short hot pants, her
stomach bare, a tiny t-shirt that covers her chest, enough make up on for ten
girls, four inch platform shoes, and she lets go of Brent and looks at the rest of
us, beaming.
I stare at her like she has stepped out of some alternative reality and
suddenly made her way into this hotel room scene full of swear words, sweat,
dirty clothes, exhausted musicians and stressed out roadies. She beams at me.
“Missed me?”
I manage to say, “Jac.”
She laughs. “Did you forget I was coming?”
Yes.
“Of course not!” I say as I go greet her, kissing her on the lips and
wrapping my arm around her shoulders. With the shoes she’s wearing, she is
practically my height. She waves at the others, and there she goes. A natural star
and centre of attention.
“He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he?” she asks, and the guys nod and
assure I’ve been nothing but innocent and loyal and talking about her
constantly. My eyes meet Brendon’s, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt quite as
uncomfortable.
Jac grabs a beer bottle and blends in. She can blend into any crowd.
I forgot she was coming, but she brings with her dry land, something
for me to hold onto, and I let my hand rest on her shoulders, her long, silky hair
sweeping my fingertips, and I drink up, finding it easier to smile as she jokes
with Andy and Joe. Long and silky. Blonde. Not short and brown.
“Bren, you’ve never met Jac, have you?” Andy says, and then Brendon
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is there. He offers his hand cordially.

“Brendon?” Jac clarifies and shakes hands with the roadie. “Ryan’s told
me so much about you!”
Jac’s called me once during this tour. I merely mentioned the guy, so
what the hell? Okay, maybe I did talk about Brendon for ten minutes, but I was
just trying to fill up the silence. He’s the only new crew member, the only one
Jac hasn’t met. Joe is quirking an amused eyebrow at me, a slight tease in it, and
oh come on. I’m the straightest guy in this room, so ha ha, could we please not
even go there?
Jac nudges my side. “You didn’t tell me he’s gorgeous!”
Brendon looks at her, completely unimpressed. “What is it about
women on this tour not having gaydars?” he asks Andy and simply walks
away. The drugs are kicking in with Andy since he doesn’t seem to notice
Brendon’s departure and instead asks Joe if the furniture is moving or if it’s just
him.
No one is ever rude to Jac. Well, maybe Spencer is a bit cold towards
her, but everyone else is like melted butter. Guys, at least. A lot of chicks seem
to think of her as a threat, though, and Brendon technically is one of the chicks.
Maybe he’s jealous. Maybe he’s completely in love with me. Well, I
wouldn’t be surprised. He did kiss me, after all. But as flattering as that is, he
needs to know that I won’t make a habit of pity make out sessions. Not that it
was full on making out, of course, it just got a bit out of hand. It’s in the past.
I’ve fucked girls with less retrospect than this. And what was it that Brendon
said to me about that annoying Tracy chick? That it was a big deal if I made it a
big deal. Good advice, actually.
So we kissed. So I do find him attractive, for some completely fucked up
reason. But it’s not a big deal, and it doesn’t mean anything, either.
Jac is still staring after Brendon with a slightly affronted expression.
“Never mind him, baby,” I tell her.
“Brendon’s on his period,” Joe supplies with a chuckle. “So we going to
this club or what?”
We leave before Pete can follow us and bother everyone by saying when
we should go, what we should drink, who we should fuck, who we shouldn’t
fuck. Pete can ruin any party. It’s a magical skill, really.
I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a gag, but the club is actually a disco. It’s
still a blur of alcohol and drugs, people dancing and laughing. A group of Joe’s
acquaintances are already there, and we mix into a huge group wanting to have
a good time. Jac disappears at some point, and I can’t find her, and I can’t find
Brent either, or Joe, or Spencer, and I don’t recognise anyone around me for at
least an hour, but I end up talking to some guy at the bar and doing tequila
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shots with him. I then find Spencer talking to some chick who is explaining
about her one-year-old son, and Spencer, to my horror, seems genuinely
interested as he asks if the son can talk or walk yet, and she explains eagerly,
asking us if we’ve got kids, which we don’t, thank you, so I swerve in to save
him from his boring fate.
Joe’s been getting shitfaced with some red-haired girl, and then Zack is
telling me he thinks I’ve had a bit too much. Goddamn Pete’s minion, he should
just relax. Jac and Brent return at the same time, and Jac and I go dancing as we
kiss sloppily. She laughs against my mouth, and I’m glad she’s here.
“So he is gay,” she says, and I follow her gaze to the corner table hidden
from most of the club, but visible from where we are. And there Brendon is with
some guy. Again. Lips locked. “I thought maybe he was trying to make himself
seem interesting.”
“He uses foreign versions of ‘Thank you’ for that,” I tell her. The guy
he’s with isn’t even that good-looking. This isn’t a homo bar. He should be
careful someone doesn’t beat him and lover boy unconscious. They’d deserve it
too.
“Hey, eyes on me!” Jac demands. I wasn’t staring. Brendon sure gets
around.
If we can see them, they can see us. I kiss Jac again.
Club, people, bodies. ‘Staff Only’ door, back hallway. She laughs. We
share a joint. I want to get off. We skip goodbyes on the way out. The street is
dark, but New York is hot as hell during summer. Taxi. Her hair, soft, soft.
Indian taxi driver. I’m on the top of the world. Back at the hotel, can’t find my
keys. A few fans in the lobby, waiting for the band. One says, “I’m Sisky! I’m
your biggest fan!” The doorman intervenes and throws them out. I tip him. Jac
laughs and swirls like she can hear music no one else can. The suite and into my
room, finally. Bed. Pull my shirt off. Kiss her stomach, go down on her. My
hard-on aching for release. I suck on her clit, try to focus on it. I practically rub
myself against the mattress. Fucking hell, Brendon.
Jac sighs. “You did miss me.”
I’m brought back to the reality of the situation, and that’s what I need
her for.
I missed knowing who I am.
Her pussy is slightly swollen. She says not to go too fast when I push in.
She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s sore. Who’s fucked her and when, I don’t
know, but she could at least try to cover it up a bit more. She could make an
effort to focus on the person she is with, not the person she secretly wishes it
was.
The way I do.
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***
The bell rings above the door, and I self-consciously hang my head and keep my
sunglasses on as I step into the record store. If I get recognised some place, it
would definitely be here. They’re even playing our new record, for god’s sake,
though I smile at that.
I walk straight to the counter, and the black-haired man behind it asks,
“What can I do for you?” as he keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him.
“I had a look around, but I can’t find any of the best disco music.”
He scoffs. “You so have the wrong pla –” He looks up and breaks into a
grin. “Ryan! You goddamn dog!”
I grin. “Hey, man.”
Eric rounds the counter and comes to give me a big hug, quickly
ushering me into the backroom. “Take over, would you?” he calls to the kid that
is putting new records on display. The girl nods distractedly, singing along to
my song. For once, I don’t mind.
The backroom is separated from the main shop only by a purple beaded
curtain, but it’s enough shelter for me to take my sunglasses off. Eric’s gotten
two beers from the fridge and he motions me to sit down in the clutter of the
backroom. I sit by the table after lifting a pile of Court and Spark LPs off the chair.
The backroom is full of unopened deliveries, broken records, ads for gigs that
have been already. There’s a notice board above the table with instructions like,
‘Wash your hands, you filthy pig’, ‘NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO PLAY SONNY
AND CHER IN THIS SHOP’ and a more official ‘Eric’s Record Store’s Shift
List’.
“How you been? How’s the tour going? I was wondering when you’d
show your ugly face around here,” Eric beams. I know him from when he used
to live in LA, moving to New York two years back when his band fell through.
Not all of us can be famous. He started up his own record shop, made a nice
fortune selling signed copies of our second album, and he’s already casually
putting a dozen copies of Boneless on the table. I take the marker from the clutter
and start signing without him having to ask.
“This tour’s killing me, and I’m hungover,” I recap.
“Yeah, you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I note sourly. Eric reminds me of a hawk with his beak-like
nose that shoots down to his wide mouth. He has big, brown eyes and high
cheekbones, black hair that he keeps short, and a well-formed, muscular body.
He’s older than me, around thirty, and maybe it’s the combination of age and
his personality – sensible and calm – that has always made me feel like he
knows things about life I could never hope to grasp. “So you’re coming to the
show tonight?”
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“Yeah, man. Backstage and all, it’ll be sweet. I was gonna come to the
hotel like we agreed, but I’m happy to see you. Boneless has been selling well, I
ran out of copies two times last week.”
I finish signing the copies, and Eric smiles appreciatively. “So what’s
up?” he asks. Yeah, I didn’t come here for nothing, and he knows it.
“Everything,” I chuckle and finally reach for my beer. “The band’s
barely holding together. Joe and I, we just... His ego is too big for me to be in the
same room with. And something’s up with Spencer, too, but I don’t know what.
The only one I still have faith in is Brent. Well, as much faith as I can have in the
guy, you know? I know he’d sell me out, that he’d put his own needs before the
band’s, so that doesn’t necessarily get me far, but it’s something. And Jac, you
remember her, right?”
“She makes an impression.”
“She’s here now. And it’s like... I don’t miss her when she’s gone. And
that’s good, I never expected myself to miss her, you know? But now it’s like I
wish I missed her. I wish she’d mean more to me than she does, that there’d at
least be this one solid thing in my life, and it’s fucking crazy trying to find it in
her. Just goes to show how desperate I’m getting. That scares me, man. It really
does.”
Eric blinks at me from across the table. “And you’ve been keeping that
inside for how long? Since Montreal?”
“Try since ‘73,” I laugh before finally coming to the big issue at hand. I
just need to tell someone neutral, someone who won’t judge. “Have you ever
slept with a guy?”
Eric’s eyebrows lift to his hairline in surprise. “No. Can’t say I have.” I
try not to feel disappointed. I was hoping he might have. He kinda looks it.
“Though I know people who have. Friends, you know.”
So I’m not the only freak he’s come across. Thank god. Well, here goes.
To get it off my chest, to get feedback. Maybe he will knock some sense into me.
“I’ve been thinking about it lately. I never have either, I mean I’m not...
like that. But there’s this guy.” This is where it gets difficult. Eric nods for me to
go on, but I don’t know how. It’s bothering me how, as I fucked Jac, I wondered
if Brendon was behind the wall listening, or if he never made it back to the hotel
last night. Like maybe I want the disastrous kissing in Ottawa to mean
something to him, that he can’t just brush it off. But I’ve been brushing it off. I’m
not gay, just curious. He fascinates me, where he’s from, what he’s done... I’d
want to know more, and the more he doesn’t tell me, the worse it is. I keep
having this insane desire to be able to say that I know that man better than
anyone.
“Some fan?” he asks, and I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Can’t say it’s
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one of the roadies since Eric will probably meet them all tonight.
“Let’s name him, um...”
“Brian,” Eric suggest, pointing at the cover of a copy of Here Come the
Warm Jets. Damn good album. “Ryan and Brian. Cute.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Okay, Brian. And I think that I’m attracted to
him. He’s attracted to me, I know that.” Not that Brendon’s ever said it, but he
is. The way his fingers dug into my hip when we kissed... He was as into it as I
was. “It’s me that’s stopping it going anywhere. I mean, I think if I... made a
move, it might progress... But it confuses the hell out of me. I’ve never looked at
a guy that way before. I’m not a fag, you know? I mean, you know.”
“Yeah, I totally know,” he assures me. He’s seen me with girls. Anyone
who knows me has, so this whole thing is ridiculous. Eric hums and takes a long
sip of his beer. He needs to talk some sense into me. Someone has to, and Brent,
I don’t trust enough, and Spencer and I have grown apart too much this year.
He doesn’t talk about Haley, and I won’t talk about my sexual identity crisis.
Eric says, “Go for it.”
I choke on my beer. “Excuse me?”
“Why not? You’re clearly trying to suppress these urges, and it’s just
driving you up the wall. Fuck the guy, get it out of your system. I mean,
honestly, who isn’t trying what these days? Doing one guy won’t make you a
fag, man. It’s not like you actually have feelings for the guy, is it?”
“Of course not.”
“So there you go! Just make sure he doesn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t brag
about it either, you know? You don’t want that reputation. But if you’re discrete,
then there is no reason for you not to do it.”
“Maybe,” I grant. I feel relieved and repulsed at the same time.
I finally have permission.
Do it and get it out of my system. Okay, it sounds fine in theory, but what about
in practice? I oversimplified it with Eric, because what if after I’ve fucked
Brendon, I’ll just want to do it again? What if this irrational want is so bad that it
can last multiple reruns? What then? And why is the thought of me sticking my
cock up Brendon’s ass not grossing me out? Lack of a father figure, of course,
that’s why I’m this messed up. I keep picturing the way Brendon’s entire body
jerks when I push in...
But I decide to test out Eric’s theory, anyway. In a roundabout way. It
takes three days before I gather up the nerve to do it during which Brendon
continues his ignoring-my-existence thing as well as ignoring Jac. Well, he
certainly doesn’t forgive and forget... Moody little bitch. It’s like he wanted me
to declare my undying love for him after one kiss. Sorry to disappoint the
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disillusioned fucker.
Jac spends her days shopping and meeting up with her NYC friends
while I do my band duties. She comes to the show every night, though, and the
after-party, and she always ends up in my bed sometime around dawn when
we’ve both had enough to drink. And my patience to get here, gather the
courage, is soothing in itself: if I was desperate to fuck Brendon and get it done,
I could conveniently have squeezed it between lunch and soundcheck by now.
“Hey, Jac?” I say in between kisses, my fingers restlessly flexing on her
inner thigh. We’re still mostly dressed.
“Yeah, baby?”
At least I’ll go down swinging...
“Can I, uh... Would you mind if I... go to the... other. Orifice?”
She freezes and breaks the kiss. She blinks beneath me. “You wanna
fuck my ass?”
Pause.
“That’s what I was going for, yeah.”
I bite on my lower lip. We stare at each other. “You got anything to help
us along?” she asks.
“No. But I could get something?”
Jac considers this. “Well, I’d need to go get ready first, so if I go do that,
you go buy some lotion or whatever, and meet me back here in twenty?”
Well, that was easy. Eric was right. Everyone’s trying everything these
days – no restrictions, no judging.
The sex is not quite what I expect. It’s different. Jac tells me to go slow,
so I do, grabbing her hips as she stays on her hands and knees on the bed. She
says it stings and laughs. The pressure around my cock is new. Pussies can be
tight, and when chicks come, yeah, definitely tight. But this feels tighter without
her even being close yet, provided she can come from this. And it’s hotter,
somehow, and the slide is easier, I can go deep without having to worry I’ll hit
bottom and have her bitch that I’m making her barren. Tighter, warmer, deeper.
My mouth hangs open as I try not to be too overwhelmed. Jac is rubbing her clit
with one hand, telling me to go faster now. God yes, finally.
My eyes roll to the back of my head as my eyelids flutter shut, and I let
my hips snap forward, pushing into her, enjoying it far more than I thought I
would. I figured it’d be weird, uncomfortable, would somehow feel like an
abomination. I didn’t realise it’d feel like heaven. And Jac, well, she doesn’t even
know what to do here, she’s staying still. Someone who knows, though,
someone who knows how to move their body to this, take the thrusts, respond
to it, how would that feel, how would Brendon feel –
“I’m gonna come,” I inform her with a rushed grunt though she’s not
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done. A flash of light takes over my mind as the orgasm washes over me, the
best one I’ve had in a long, long time, and I ride it out, thrusting into her ass.
She comes a bit after from her nimble fingers working on herself. She
says, “Huh,” like that was interesting, but then, “Ow, fuck,” when I pull out.
“Huh,” I agree, getting out of bed and pulling on a hotel robe,
mumbling about getting a glass of water, anything, to not let her see that I’m
goddamn weak at the knees from that. Can’t let her know I enjoyed it too much,
god knows what kind of a wrong impression that’d give. I bump into Brent in
the living room despite it being around five in the morning, and he glares at me,
and I mumble a sorry because I know we were not being quiet. But if the “oh
god, oh god!”s are anything to go by, Joe and his visitor for the night are not
being quiet either. On tour, you know so much more about your friends’ sex
lives than you’d want to.
Brent follows me with his disapproving gaze, and I hope that he
somehow magically doesn’t know what we did, what I talked Jac into, what I
enjoyed far too much.
But even if he heard or suspects what we did, it’s not a big deal. My
own idea worked: I got to experience the sexual act without getting involved
with the roadie. And I enjoyed it, now I know, now my desire towards Brendon
has vanished. There is nothing he could offer that I can’t already get.
Jac is already asleep when I get back. I could fall in love with her, I
think. If I tried hard enough.
I spend all of the following day playing around with scenarios where Jac and I
find it in ourselves to settle down, get married, have kids, move to the country.
It’s funny what a bit of anal sex can do to a relationship. She winces whenever
she sits down, and we both start laughing hysterically when Pete asks her if she
is feeling alright.
Maybe it’s time for us all to grow up, and I could start with my
relationship with her.
“It’s gonna be massive,” Joe says eagerly about the party we’re heading
to after tonight’s show. We are in the dressing room, and I’m copying the
night’s setlist for the rest of the guys out of boredom.
Andy and William are jamming with two of my guitars. I gave
permission. Eric is there too, asking Spencer what he thinks of this whole
Watergate scandal, and I have absolutely no idea what they’re referring to. Then
my head snaps to the door, the cocktail party effect kicking in as my brain tunes
out the rest when Brendon speaks. “Shit.”
Brendon is staring at his stained shirt, and Brent is dangling his beer
bottle loosely. “Oops. Sorry,” Brent sneers. I can see that Brendon is suppressing
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a glare because we both know what kind of drama Brent could start from that.
Brent’s made sure Brendon knows he is his slave on this tour.
“No biggie,” Brendon mutters and begins pulling his beer-drenched
shirt off. I instantly focus on something else.
The room is filled with pre-show nervousness. It’s not quite as bad as on
the first night here. Pete was right about them loving us in New York. He keeps
saying how we should’ve played Madison Square Garden, and that’s what?
Twenty thousand people? There is no way I could possibly do that.
It’s worrying how no one seems to understand that I have already been
pushed to my limits.
Before we go on, Spencer comes over to tell me how we’ll be fine, how
it’s just another show, how amazing I am on stage. And I believe him, and we
go on, the crowd chanting and chanting. Jac remains by the side of the stage,
waving at us happily. Only Brent waves back.
“Good evening, New York!” Joe screams into his microphone. “Again,”
he adds with a grin, and we kick off. I usually don’t look at the crowds much,
but I recognise the group of people in the front row, right ahead of me. They’ve
been there the three previous nights too.
For some reason, every show seems to take longer than the previous
one. Our ninety minutes feel like four hours, a six-minute song stretching to
thirty in my mind. Joe basks in it, launching into a guitar solo, fingers swiping
the frets as his hair flips around his head to the quick movements. I’ve started
stepping backwards whenever I don’t need to sing, but it’s no use because the
lights follow me, anyway.
We get off stage, wait for them to yell us back, go do the encore. The
penultimate song, and Brent says, “We’d like to dedicate this song to a
wonderful young woman who’s with us here tonight, so this is for you, Jac.”
I stare at my bassist in astonishment, but Spencer’s already shouting
“One, two, three!” so I launch into the song which has nothing to do with Jac or
girls or even love for that matter. Brent’s never been this considerate, and I
realise that I am probably the worst boyfriend around when my bandmates
need to step in and do the boyfriend-y things for me.
Once we’re off the stage, I ask, “What was that about?”
Brent shrugs. “Just being polite.”
Jac hurries over, beaming at us. “That was so sweet, thank you!”
I’m still frowning at Brent, but I make the best of the situation.
“Anything for my girl,” I say with faux modesty, and Jac beams twice as much.
Brent vanishes from sight.
The party takes place in the home of a multimillionaire producer, who
hasn’t produced any of our stuff but is digging the new album. Pete tries to
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convince me to use the party as a business meeting, but I’m a bit too drunk for
that, so I kindly tell him to fuck off. The guy’s place takes up the entire floor of
the building, and it takes me five minutes to find a bathroom.
I’m taking a piss when someone walks in, the voices and music pouring
in through the opened door. I look over my shoulder and spot Brendon, who’s
stopped abruptly. “Sorry.”
He backs away, but I say, “I’m almost done, no problem. Not like you
haven’t seen a dick before, right?”
His eyes thin dangerously as he closes the door. “What’s that supposed
to mean?”
I finish up, give my dick a tiny shake and zip myself up again. “I think
I’ve seen you with three different guys this week, that’s what. Pretty soon you’ll
have done every occasional homosexual we know in this city.” Our first proper
conversation since the kiss, and this is the topic I choose.
“Just because you see me with some guy doesn’t mean I fuck them,” he
snaps. “And secondly, it is not any of your business what I do.”
“Oh, it is. The band’s reputation could be at stake.”
“With Joe’s asshole superstar act and your pathetic woe-is-me show, I
don’t think you guys need help from me.”
I take a moment to register his words before realising that the idiot just
insulted me. “Hey!” I object.
“And you’re drunk like always, so what the hell is new?” He pushes
past me and flushes the toilet. “Wash your hands, for god’s sake.” He proceeds
to take a leak, and I mutter under my breath as I place my hands under the
faucet.
I glare at him. “I get it now. This whole attitude you’ve been giving me.
You’re just jealous.”
Brendon laughs loudly. “Of what?”
I wipe my hands to my jeans and lean against the counter. “Of Jac.
You’re a bitch to her, you know.”
“Oh yeah, the girl and the friend, but not the girlfriend, and yet you’ve
been trying to be the super couple this week. Don’t think I’ve not noticed that,”
Brendon states and flushes the toilet. I watch him tuck himself away, trying not
to make any sort of conclusions about the size of his flaccid cock, how big it’d be
erected. “I know when a straight boy’s freaked out. You’ve got all the
symptoms.”
“Don’t make this about me when it’s not!” I scoff. Brendon not-so-
gently nudges me aside with his hip as he moves to wash his own hands. “I’ve
got a loving, mature relationship, and it’s pissing you the hell off. Look, man, it
was just a onetime kiss in another fucking country, and this is the reality. But
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I’m flattered, so thanks. Or merci, really.”

“No,” Brendon corrects me, now taking steps back. He’s beautiful when
he’s angry. Jac never is. “I’m pissed off because you can’t take responsibility for
your actions. That you think you can go around avoiding me. The rest, though?
It’s just pity. You think Jac is the love of your life, but you can’t even see what’s
right in front of your fucking eyes.”
“A nagging faggot?”
Brendon laughs disbelievingly. “I just might punch you right now. It’d
be worth losing this job over it.” I partly hope he’ll punch me, that way he won’t
be around anymore, everywhere I go. Jac and I have something real, but I was
never sure of it until this week. I should thank Brendon, really. “I wasn’t going
to say anything because it’s not my place. It’s obvious, but you all are too busy
examining your own hands to even notice. And you’re messed up as it is, so
maybe I don’t want to see you get even worse.”
I’m having difficulty deciphering his words. One whisky too many.
“What the hell are you on about?”
Brendon has a weird mix of pity and anger in his eyes. “Just saying that
maybe you should go check out the master bedroom.” He exits the bathroom,
and a girl walks in, demanding that I let her pee in peace. I stumble out, not
knowing what the hell Brendon tried to tell me. I ask a guy if he knows where
the master bedroom is, and I end up stumbling down a quieter corridor, the
walls covered in pictures of the producer with famous musicians. We want to
get on that wall.
I find the right door, not at all sure what I am expected to find on the
other side. I turn the knob and push the door open, partly expecting to see
Brendon there, waiting for me to take him, thinking in his small brain that he
can seduce me. But Brendon isn’t there.
Someone else is.
The bed is straight across from me, the large windows letting the lights
of the city in, illuminating the couple fucking on the bed. The girl is riding the
guy, her moans loud.
Jac and Brent are far too into it to acknowledge my presence.
I stare at the way Jac is moving wantonly on Brent’s cock, the way he
pulls her down for a kiss, with familiarity that says this is not the first time, that
they waited all day for this, for me to get drunk enough for them to slip away.
Again.
My girlfriend and my bassist.
I don’t know how long I stand there, too shocked to say anything. Or to
think.
I take hold of the doorknob and pull the door closed, then remain
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staring at its wooden surface, but still vividly seeing the porno taking place on
the other side.
I close my eyes and count to ten before I walk away.
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CHAPTER 9: THE DISAPPEARING ACT
I remember the first time I visited New York back in the summer of 1969. I was
eighteen, Spencer was seventeen. I had already erased high school from my
brain, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d go back for his senior year. He didn’t in
the end. I was going away for the summer, anywhere and everywhere. Spencer
wasn’t sure if he could, though he had saved up money like I had. His mother
did the whole ‘if you’re going to go down that road with that no-good Ross boy,
then don’t you dare come back’ speech. We left the following day and
hitchhiked across the country to stay with a girl Spencer had a thing with back
then.
They had met during spring break. Carla was older than us, had just
turned twenty, and she lived in a nice apartment in Soho that her dad had paid
for. I spent my summer circling the New York music scene, staying in the guest
bedroom, doing local mic nights and busking for pocket change. I just fucked
about, no idea what to do with the sudden freedom. No Dad watching over my
shoulder, no Dad for me to keep an eye on, no school, no expectations, no
responsibilities. No one cared what I did. It was just me and the world and one
beaten down guitar.
I had no idea who the hell I was, so I figured I could be just about
anything.
When Spencer and Carla broke up loudly and irreparably in early
August, we both got kicked out as plates came flying from the kitchen. I was
bored of the city at that point, convinced I had grown past it, so when we heard
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of the music festival upstate, we left. Woodstock. The music clicked in the back
of my brain there. I could see everything that was being played in a mix of
colourful flashes, with shades and swirls, and the music was alive.
I finally got laid in Woodstock, which was a nice change. I got laid
beyond belief, but so did everyone. I had wasted my own summer trying to woo
a friend of Carla’s, this posh Upper East Side girl, who I should have known
from the start would never give it up to a wannabe rocker from Las Vegas with
no life ambitions or short-term plans, not even to cover the next ten minutes. In
Woodstock, we met Brent, and he said that he was moving to Los Angeles, that
it was the place to be right then. Spencer and I got a lift as far as Colorado
Springs, and we hitchhiked back to Vegas from there. We packed our stuff and
bought a ’56 van with our last cash. We had to live in it for a week before Brent
found an apartment for the three of us.
Three months later, Brent, Spencer, Joe and I sat down at Chuck’s and
decided on a band name.
I came to Radio City Music Hall a handful of times over our New York
summer, always stuck on the third mezzanine somewhere, which was the best
ticket I could afford. It’s a hell of a lot different headlining here – it’s a different
world now, a different life, a different me.
Our gear is on stage, facing an empty venue. I gaze down from the first
mezzanine, counting seats to give myself something to do.
“Hey.” I look to my side and spot Brendon smiling at me cautiously.
“Everyone’s looking for you.”
I turn back to face the floor and the empty stage below. Zack crosses the
stage, carrying guitar cables in his arms. He looks small from over here.
“Let them look.”
Brendon sits down next to me without an invite. I go back to counting
seats. One, two, three – “I’m sorry,” he mutters – six, seven, eight... I lean back
in my seat and shrug, lifting my legs on the railing. Brendon’s fingers nervously
flex on his knees. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
But he did, anyway. Maybe because he was angry with me. I still didn’t
deserve it, though.
“So what did they say?” he asks, and I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Jac
and Brent.”
As if this were her cue, I hear Jac’s voice echoing from somewhere far
away, from the stage. I don’t crane my neck to see her, and she probably can’t
spot us among the thousands of seats waiting for tonight’s crowd. Last night in
New York, and I feel the need to get the hell out, just like I did six years ago.
“Nothing,” I shrug, and when Brendon looks scandalised, I add, “They
don’t know I know.”
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“You did nothing?”

“It’s not my place. I know she’s not faithful. I’m not either,” I recap. Jac
is not tied down to me.
I’ve been trying to figure out which surprises me more, Brent’s
recklessness or Jac’s. This thing could end up in a shit storm. Is that how little
Brent cares about the band? That he has to go and screw the one girl I’m
involved with? Maybe that’s the exact reason why he’s done it. More rivalry, my
own bandmates giving me the middle finger behind my back.
As for Jac... I always knew what she was like. But this past week, I so
desperately wanted to love her. And now I know why Brent was trying to kill
me with an icy glare. I hope Brent hasn’t been stupid enough to actually fall for
her. I was never that stupid; I merely hoped I’d be.
“So who knows about them?” I ask Brendon.
Brendon hesitates. “Just you and me, I think. Andy would notice if he
wasn’t high all the damn time, and I think Zack suspects it, but that’s only
because he keeps an eye on Jac. He thinks she’s hot, so... But I figured it out. Call
it an outsider’s intuition, I guess. And they’re not as subtle as they think.”
It was subtle enough for me to be blind to the fact. But it’s comforting to
hear that not everyone’s known this entire time and haven’t all been laughing at
me behind my back.
“So what are you going to do?” he asks, and I give him a blank look.
“With all this hermit-like contemplation you’re doing up here, I figured you
must’ve been thinking about what to do next.”
Call them out on it, make a scene, watch Jac yell and cry, punch Brent,
quit the band, call her a whore, call Brent a backstabber, pretend to care. But the
thing is that I do care.
“What to do now, what to do now...” I mumble in a wondering voice. I
look at Brendon and cock my head to the side. “I was thinking I could let you
blow me.”
Brendon stares at me in disbelief before scoffing loudly. His soft and
concerned tone vanishes as his eyes narrow. “Contrary to what you might
believe, I don’t wake up every day with an overwhelming desire to get on my
knees and suck you off.”
“You sure about that?” I ask playfully, faux confidence he can probably
see through.
What does he want me to say? That it hurts?
Fine, fuck. It hurts.
He shakes his head and stands up, and the dark cloud above me gets
darker. He begins to walk away. I can’t win with anyone, moping around, being
an asshole, trying to be okay, trying to change the subject.
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“Hey,” I call after him, and Brendon stops reluctantly, his arms crossed
over his chest. I take a deep breath and sit up straight, eyeing the stage where I
will bear my soul in a handful of hours. “It’s just that...” I swallow and close my
eyes. “You have this sudden realisation that you have no one you can trust. No
one at all. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
Brendon’s arms drop to his sides. I look at him, needing for him to
understand. “I do.”
Once he is gone, I go back to counting seats.
Jac leaves New York on the same day we do. We are now swirling down south
and waiting for Florida, where we will finish the east leg. I kiss and hug Jac, tell
her I love her and wonder if Brent did the same ten minutes before I did.
Brent clearly wants to be alone as he volunteers to drive us to
Philadelphia. It’s rare for us to be driving during the day, but we waste time in
the lounge, Spencer and William playing cards by the small table. Like the
world is moving on and nothing is different now.
This feels a bit like drowning, watching this charade. Pete is
complaining about beer stains on the couches, reminding us how the bus cost a
fortune, and Joe is smoking a joint languidly, occasionally eyeing me like I’m a
cockroach. Spencer moved to live inside his head approximately six and a half
states ago, so he doesn’t even notice. Brent is most likely in love with my
girlfriend, and Brendon. God, I don’t even know where to start with that guy.
Andy tries to start a conversation with me, but I snap an abrupt reply
and hide behind my notebook, scribbling furiously.
I have no friends left on this bus. No one’s looking out for me; it’s every
man for himself. I’m not stupid. I always knew Brent wasn’t a guy I should trust
too much, but I still thought that, beneath all of his bullshit, he considered me
his brother. Or even a distant fucking cousin. They all secretly despise me, so I
despise them back.
But, of course, they don’t understand this, too wrapped up in their
pathetic, meaningless lives to even suspect that I’m onto them. Joe has the nerve
to ask if I’m feeling alright, and Pete eyes me worriedly, asking if I’ve caught a
cold. And Brent asks me to go out for a beer with him once we get to our hotel.
We’re doing another row of shows in Philly and are leaving the bus until we’re
done with the place. I don’t want to go for a beer with Brent. Does he want to
compare notes, determine which one of us gets Jac off quicker? I’d rather stick
nails into my eyes.
So I find the nearest liquor store, buy four packs of cigarettes and two
bottles of vodka, find my goddamned hotel room, and I successfully avoid all
human contact until the next day. I do the soundcheck on automatic, the show
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on automatic, the after-gig high-fives on automatic, decline the after-party invite

on automatic, and go get drunk in my room on automatic.
On our second day in Philadelphia, Zack is sent to drag my ass to the
venue. I’m late for soundcheck when I walk on stage, the rest of the band and
crew ready. Zack had to knock and yell for a good twenty minutes before I
opened the hotel door. The world is still spinning. Good.
Spencer’s talking to Brent, but he stops at the sight of me. “Fuck, Ryan,
what happened? You look like shit.”
“I’m peachy,” I say, shrugging my jacket off, letting it fall on the stage
floor. I grab a guitar from Andy, plug it in, switch the amp on and go to my mic.
The buzz of the guitar fills the air. The venue is empty except for a few cleaners.
They’ll do as a crowd.
Pete hurries over to me. “Have you slept?”
“No.”
“You want me to get you sleeping pills?”
“I think they’d go well with the vodka,” I muse. “You know, that
sounds good. Yeah, please give me some.”
All the respectable musicians are gone anyway: Alan, Jim, Duane,
Danny, Janis, Jimi, Berry. Dying young is the newest fad. I sure as hell don’t
want to miss the boat.
Pete glances at the microphone, which has carried our voices for
everyone to hear. He covers it with his hand, a metal screech echoing through
the PA. He lowers his voice. “Ryan, look. If you’re going through some shit... Or
is this about Jac leaving? I’ll get her on this tour, man. I’ll call her, fly her over,
you say the word. Whatever it takes for you to pull your shit together.”
As he’s been babbling, I’ve gotten out a cigarette and lit it. He stares at
me expectantly, and I blow the smoke in his face. “Like I said, Petey, I’m peachy.
Now let’s play some fucking music!” I snap, already strumming a few chords
impatiently.
The soundcheck ends when I’m pleased with the result and walk off
stage without any proper warning to the others. Brendon is standing backstage
with a half-finished beer bottle in his hand, and I take it from him, mumbling,
“Thanks.” Brendon stares at me like I’m trouble embodied. Pete calls after me,
but I find my way out of the venue without stopping.
I’m not pushing them – they have pushed me to push them.
I stop outside, blinking at the sun and fumbling my pockets for
sunglasses. God, the sun is way too bright today.
“Ryan, would you slow down?!” Spencer’s voice comes demandingly,
the venue backdoor slamming. I’m still looking for sunglasses as he glares at
me. “Look at me! Jesus, look at me when I’m talking to you!” he complains.
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“What the hell is this, coming for a soundcheck late and drunk?”
“Are you Pete now?”
“I’m your friend! I’m just about the only person who hasn’t given up on
you, but for some reason you want to change that!”
I try to think of something Spencer’s done, but can’t think of anything.
Surely, he’s done something. Well, he’s shut me out, I could be mad for that. But
he chose me, chose this band, so maybe I don’t have the right to tell him that I
miss him. I fucking miss him. I know he doesn’t have his heart in this anymore.
“If you’re my friend, you’ll let me be,” I tell him instead.
“Sometimes, I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he whispers
sadly, and the backdoors open as the rest of my band comes out with Pete on
their heels.
“That’s my cue,” I tell him, sliding the sunglasses on. I disappear in
between tour busses and finish Brendon’s beer as I go.
I don’t show up until fifteen minutes before we go on that night.
They’re furious, but at least I show up and play the songs and sing my words,
and then I take off again, having found a good bar down the road, so sleazy no
one would ever look for me there. I go to the payphones around one in the
morning and call Dad. He’s not home, of course; he’s in a bar of his own. What
the hell would I say to him, anyway? I’d probably just call him an asshole and
hang up. Unproductive, but satisfying.
They throw me and Davey out of the bar when it closes. Davey’s had a
fight with his wife and doesn’t want to go back to his house, and I don’t want to
go to the hotel where they will find me. We find a park and sit on a bench,
sharing stories about our lives. I make mine up as I go along. I always do.
“My wife, I tell you she’ll be the death of me. That- that bitch! Only
married her because she said it was tying the knot or breaking up. You know
what that is? Blackmail! That’s blackmail, right? Right?” Davey demands to
know. “So you’ve been married four times?”
“Five, but I don’t count that Vegas one. Got it annulled,” I tell him.
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.”
Then someone is pointing at me with a bright light, a cop telling us to
move along. It’s a public park. We’re not even drinking anymore, which is a
shame, all things considered. Davey tells the cop to fuck off, so I do too. Then
there’s another cop, and they’re talking big and making threats.
I stand up. A bit wobbly, but I manage it. “You two, officers of the law.
Listen, okay? Just listen. Me and my good, good friend Davey are just... having a
good time. A good time right here in –” I take a look around and start laughing,
“– whatever city this is. But you won’t let us. So... So the thing I want to say is...”
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I hold a dramatic pause until I just snicker. “That you can suck my cock.”
Davey howls in laughter, hand on my shoulder, slurring, “Good one, oh
man, good one!”
I wipe my eyes and laugh uncontrollably. I focus my eyes on the cops
and frown. “Hey, what do you need the handcuffs for?”
Pete hands me my sunglasses, and I put them on, needing something to protect
me from the sunlight. Pete keeps a guiding hand on my shoulder, and a simple
thank you dies in my dry throat. I only feel nauseous and achy from spending
my night on a jail bed. My stomach burns from last night’s alcohol, even more
so than usual.
“You missed soundcheck, but you’ll be alright for the show,” Pete
smiles in a friendly, confident tone. A car is waiting for us outside the police
station, and Pete hands me the cup of coffee he had with him. Black, and I
scrunch my nose. “It’ll sober you up,” he explains. He gives me a few
painkillers.
When we get to the venue, I sulk behind Pete, wanting to go sleep this
off. Venue workers and members of the support band are waving and greeting
me with obvious curiosity. Everyone knows I went MIA. Everyone knows of the
huge search party. I know nothing, I was passed out.
The dressing room quiets down when Pete and I walk in. I slowly
remove my sunglasses, taking them in. Spencer is standing by the mirrors. Brent
and Joe are on one of the couches. Half-eaten food lies on the table, and my
stomach grumbles at the sight. I have no idea when I last ate.
“So, Ryan is back, alive and well. We don’t need to cancel the show.
Everything’s fine,” Pete announces calmingly. “Anything you need, Ry?”
“Fries?” I ask hopefully.
“William?” Pete asks.
“I’m on it,” William says slightly grudgingly and leaves the room. I go
to an unoccupied couch and sit down, finishing the coffee and battling my
hangover from hell. They are all staring at me. Brendon is in the far corner,
silently cleaning Brent’s bass.
“How about you, uh... go for a shower?” Pete suggests, handing me my
toiletries bag.
I spend a good five minutes brushing my teeth, getting off the layer of
shit that is covering my mouth. I shower off the cigarettes, alcohol, Davey – a
good guy, really – last night’s show, the stale smell of piss that lingered in the
jail cell. Pete’s picked out clean clothes from my bag, and I pull on a pair of
black jeans, a brown button down shirt and throw a vest on top. The guys are
talking in argumentative tones when I re-enter from the bathroom, but they
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quiet down instantly.

A full plate of fries is on the table by one of the couches, so I sit down
and start munching. Fuck, I’m starving. “What’s tonight’s setlist?” I ask
distractedly, and Andy passes me a tiny piece of paper with a list of songs in
Spencer’s messy handwriting. I take a quick look through it. “You guys sure you
want Go to the City after Alienation? I think that might create an anticlimactic
moment.” I lift a questioning eyebrow. My bandmates look at me disbelievingly.
The tension breaks when Joe snaps, “That’s it? That’s all you have to
fucking say?!”
Pete intervenes with, “We talked about this, guys! It happens! It’s no big
deal! What matters is that the show goes on!”
“He got fucking arrested! Are we going to sit here and pretend that’s
okay?!” Joe demands and stands up, cold, blue eyes piercing through me.
“Look, I drink and take drugs just as much as the next guy, but I never
disappear or jeopardise a show! This entire tour we’ve been keeping our mouths
shut like we don’t know, but I’m done! We know, man! You can’t fucking
handle the pressure! You’re just not cut out to be a professional musician –”
“Are you saying I’m not professional?” I ask. Joe quiets down, a finger
still pointed at me and hovering in the air. “At least I don’t go around acting like
I’m the greatest gift to music since Elvis Presley. You think that the crowd out
there has come to see you? It’s the music that matters! The fucking music, Joe!
But your ego has inflated so much that you can’t see past it anymore! You love
yourself more than this band or the music, and I have to deal with that! If I go
on stage drunk, then take a look in the mirror and ask yourself why!”
“Oh, it’s my fault?! Someone needs to entertain the crowd, and guess
what? You don’t. Unless this is your entertainment value, the attitude, the
martyrdom, the disappearing act and then coming back here and bitching about
the setlist when you fucking well know we’ve been obsessing over the tracks
like we do every night!”
“Just chill,” Brent says.
“No!” Joe refuses while I stare at Brent in disbelief.
“Chill?” I repeat, astonished. “You’ve got some nerve to tell me what to
do, you backstabbing piece of shit.”
“Okay, time out!” Pete yells as Brent looks at me in surprise.
“I’m not finished!” Joe objects. “You fucking left last night! We’ve been
calling local hospitals, not sure if you bailed on us and took the first bus out of
here! Not sure if this tour is over! Not sure if you’re lying somewhere,
suffocating on your own vomit! You don’t just walk out on us, you arrogant
prick!”
I stand up so fast that the plate of fries gets knocked over when my
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shins bump against the table. “You’d want me to go, huh? Maybe then you
could sing the vocals too and play the frontman of my band!”
“This band is collective! It’s not yours, man! Fuck!”
Spencer sighs audibly. “We don’t really have time for this.”
“Oh, like you even care anymore,” I spit angrily.
“Excuse me? I’m here, aren’t I? Don’t start with me, Ryan. I’ve given up
so fucking much for this band.”
“My god, here we go with the Haley thing again!” I laugh. “Here’s
advice for you: get over it. This sad puppy thing lost its charm months ago! She
used you! She fucking used you, and you still think she was the love of your
life! Wake up and smell your own bullshit!”
“You have no right to talk to me that way! You know nothing about her,
and if you don’t stop now, I swear to god –”
“Oh, please,” I snort.
“I’m fucking tired of you getting special treatment!” Joe barks. “I’ve had
it up to here with your own room on the bus, your holier-than-thou attitude,
letting you get away with all your fuck ups. Spencer might be doing his sad
puppy thing, but it’s a fucking lot better than your tortured artist act! Look
around! We’ve got it all! And yet, you don’t get it. You just don’t.”
“Okay, alright,” Pete rushes out, “let’s get that negative energy out!
Good, good!”
“I try to enjoy being in this band, but you make it practically
impossible,” Joe states.
“Then I quit,” I reply.
“Whoa! Too much negative energy!” Pete says, slightly panicked.
“Then quit! It’s what you’ve wanted to do for the past year!” Joe snarls.
“And I’m finally doing it. Good luck trying to conquer the world
without me,” I spit and walk out, the door slamming into the wall as I go. Pete is
yelling how we all need to calm down and how no one is quitting the band, but
I am.
I am done.
One of the sound engineers walks past me, saying, “Yo, Ryan, forty
minutes before you go on!” He gives me a thumbs-up. I can hear the crowd that
I will never see.
I get to our bus outside the venue, but realise I have no means of getting
inside the vehicle. I swear and kick the bus. Fine, I don’t need my stuff. I will
hitchhike back to Los Angeles if I have to, or I’ll steal a car, or something. I look
down at my tour pass hanging around my neck, and I quickly take it off. I throw
it onto the ground and stomp on it. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers –
“That’s mature.”
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Brendon is leaning against the bus with his arms crossed over his chest.
He’s got an eyebrow cocked, and he looks highly unimpressed.
“What do you want?” I snap.
“I’m making sure you don’t leave. Pete’s orders. He’s doing damage
control at the other end.”
“You got a fucking key for this thing?”
Brendon goes through his pockets before pulling out a bundle of keys,
and I motion for him to open the damn bus. He obeys, and I hurry inside,
through the lounge, the bunks and into the back nest.
I stop and look around. “Shit!” I groan. My stuff is at the hotel. I still
have clothes and books and drugs on the bus, though, but no bag to throw them
in. Plus, I want to take my guitars too, all of my equipment to the last goddamn
bridge pin. It’s my stuff, not theirs. I can carry it all with me somehow. Brendon
has followed me, and I squeeze past him back to the lounge where I find a
plastic bag. He remains by the door when I return and start collecting my
belongings.
“Don’t try talking me out of this! It’s final!” I bark, though he hasn’t said
anything. He closes the door, though, maybe thinking that he can lock me up in
here until Pete comes to try and make me change my mind.
I stuff shirts into the plastic bag. Brendon places a hand on my shoulder,
and I try to pull away from the grip. But he’s strong because suddenly he’s got
me pressed against the wall by the door. I stare at him, confused. His eyes fly
over my face, the brown of his eyes darker than usual. “Get off me,” I snarl and
try to push him, but he slams me right back to the wall. Air escapes my lungs.
Brendon launches forward and kisses me. My stomach flips, a burning
desire to kiss him back taking over. His lips over mine, aggressive and
demanding, coaxing my mouth open. I respond without thinking, attacking his
mouth fervently, still so goddamn angry.
Here I am again. Fuck, I –
Our tongues brush unapologetically, a jolt of electricity running up and
down my spine. I push him off me violently, and he stumbles backwards.
“Don’t,” I command, but he takes a step towards me. “I’m not like that. I’m not
into this stuff.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he says simply, his voice rough and pupils
blown. I lick my lips, trying to regain control.
Fuck it.
I fist his shirt and pull him back for a kiss, our tongues pressing
together. His hands are instantly on my belt, unbuckling. He whispers, “Can
you get hard for me?” That’s a useless question because my dick has been very
intrigued ever since his lips first met mine. He cups my half-hard cock and
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smiles against my mouth wickedly. “Good.”

No, this is fucking bad.
And then he’s pulled my jeans down. I’m not wearing underwear. I stop
to consider this, to take a moment, but he nips at my jaw before he sinks down
onto his knees. He’s not actually – Guys don’t do these things to each other, so
there is no way that he –
“You’re beautiful,” Brendon says, addressing either me or my cock, I’m
not sure. His fingers dance over the length, one hand curling around the base
and squeezing. I bite on my lip so as not to whimper. His other hand is brushing
the inside of my left thigh, incredibly distracting. He wraps his soft lips around
the tip of my erection, tongue flicking over the slit. I grunt, trying to catch up,
my bones instantly melting. He takes more of me into his wet mouth, so clearly
used to doing this. He sucks hard, and my hands move to his short, soft hair.
Okay, yeah. I can live with this. I can – No. Fuck, fuck, what am I doing?
He takes me in deeper. God, his mouth feels amazing. My body relaxes
into it, fire flickering at the pit of my stomach as my entire body feels overly
sensitive. I wanted him on his knees for me, and he is. Fuck, he’s so hot.
Just when I think I’m used to the rhythm and suction he is applying, he
removes the hand he has at the base and swallows me down. “Shit,” I hiss, and
my grip of his hair tightens. Holy fucking hell. His head is moving steadily,
taking me deeper, pulling back, then deeper again. I stare down at him, amazed,
and he’s got his eyes closed, long lashes against flushed cheeks. His lips are
stretched around my cock, shiny with his spit. I try to remember how to breathe.
“Fuck,” I practically whine, the back of my head banging against the
wall. He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I swallow as a flame flickers in
me violently. I grab the back of his head with both hands, and he lets me, my
hips trying to move to his rhythm. My cock just slides into his wet and hot
mouth, and he doesn’t gag at all. His hands settle on my thighs where his blunt
nails dig in. My hips are working, small movements but enough to be fucking
his mouth, and he meets my thrusts with his mouth, my thick cock sliding
between his swollen lips.
My breathing is shaky, and my body is trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck,
that’s good. Brendon’s hands move to my ass, gripping the flesh, kneading, and
I moan helplessly and begin to fuck his mouth with more force.
A dirty feeling keeps flashing in my head, having Brendon on his knees
for me here. I still hear the echoes of the fight in my head, and how they don’t
understand, no one does. But Brendon might. He’s gotten on his knees for me,
mouth full of my cock, and he just might understand.
He pulls back, though, having to push my hand away from his head.
His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and dark. My cock slips out of his mouth, and
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his pink lips are swollen and slick. He grabs the base of my cock, giving me a
few strokes that make my toes curl. “You taste good,” he whispers, lips
brushing over the head with a moist slide. His lips feel fucking soft. His voice is
rough and thick with want, and it hits me how turned on he is from this. Fuck,
he shouldn’t be. I, at least, have the excuse of getting head, and of course I get
off on it, regardless of who is doing it. Even if it’s another man doing it. But
Brendon is getting off on having my cock in his mouth, and I can’t wrap my
head around it, what the appeal is, what turns him on about it.
Brendon places hungry, wet kisses along the shaft. Fuck, it’s like he is
taking care to worship every inch of me. He licks up a trail before slipping his
mouth over the swollen, leaking head. I groan, hips automatically thrusting
forward. He responds with a moan that vibrates around me and flies up and
down my spine, and then he takes me in all the way again, hands on my hips.
It doesn’t take me long to come. It’s not sexual frustration, but
somehow, it is. Finally, he’s where I wanted him a dozen shows ago, and he’s
loving it. I fucking knew he’d love it, but I didn’t realise how much I’d love it.
“Brendon, fucking hell,” I rasp. “I’m gonna come, gonna come...”
He pulls back, hand curling around the base, quick strokes there,
sucking the tip of my cock into his mouth with hollow cheeks, his tongue licking
and brushing over the slit. I come with all of my body, nearly doubling over and
with my hips thrusting, holding his head still as the rush takes over. My cock
twitches, and Brendon moans, tongue still moving, swallowing. And I come and
come and –
“Fuuuuck, fuck,” I pant, finally coming to a stop.
I let go of him, absolutely wrecked. He pulls back, my spent cock
slipping out of his mouth. He moves to place small, wet kisses on my stomach
where the muscles are still quivering, tongue tracing my hipbone. My arms
hang by my sides as I lean against the wall for support, trying to come down.
I’m weak at the knees. His mouth. Fucking hell, his mouth.
Brendon zips me up and buckles my belt before standing up. His cheeks
are flushed, and I grab him, pulling him in for a kiss. His mouth is still so slick,
and he responds, hot and pliant. I taste myself on his tongue and lips, I smell
myself on him, my crotch and come, mixing with his own scent in a perverse
way. His erection presses against my thigh. A slight sense of panic flies in me
from it, but at the same time, my guts twist with the excitement of it. Something
new, something I shouldn’t do.
Brendon breaks the kiss, but our foreheads keep touching, our noses
brushing together. We’re both equally out of breath. “You’re going to go to the
venue and get on stage. Okay?” he whispers. His tone is firm but gentle, and I
find myself nodding.
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“Okay.” If he says so. Okay.

“Good,” he says with a small smile, kissing me again, and I hungrily
pull him closer.
If we keep kissing, I’ll get hard again, and I can’t come again this soon,
not after that. No way after that. I break the kiss and press my face to his neck
and breathe him in, hanging onto him. I have to let go of him. Just a fucking
blowjob, I need to get a grip. Now. Okay, now. Fuck. One, two, three –
We break apart, and Brendon wipes his swollen lips and wet mouth.
“Your clothes,” he says, and I look down, confused, brain not working. Then I
start straightening my dishevelled shirt and vest, realising how obvious that’d
make it for the others. “I need a minute,” he says roughly. My eyes land on his
crotch. I can see the outline of his cock through his jeans.
“Yeah, sure,” I swallow, wondering if he is going to jerk off – he
probably is – if he’d let me watch, would I want to? And I somehow feel stuck to
where I am, but once I’ve walked out, it’s easy.
I get out of the bus and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Fucking hell.
My backstage pass is still lying on the ground. With shaking hands, I
pick it up and put it around my neck.
Brendon plays it off better than I do. I’m not pretending it didn’t happen, but I
don’t plan on letting the others in on it either. Brendon, though, acts exactly like
he did before. I try to go for the same effect, but my thoughts are so muddled
that I can’t.
The guys assume it’s because of the fight. We all mumble bitter and
forced apologies, and Pete goes around patting shoulders, convincing us that we
all need each other.
The only thing I am sorry for is saying the things I said to Spencer. I
can’t be angry with him just because we’ve grown apart. It’s not like he has
done anything like Brent and Joe have. I try to apologise, but he brushes me off.
We get to Pittsburgh in one piece, but with a deafening silence on the
bus. Brent is counting days until our break with his fingers. I haven’t gotten
drunk since the night I got arrested, followed by the day Brendon... I can relive
the incident better when I’m sober. And maybe I do feel bad for the guys. I’m
not completely heartless. I disappeared, and they freaked out. But I had my
reasons. I had my rights.
Spencer is helping the roadies on stage when I walk over to him. “So
we’re leaving for Cincinnati tonight?” he asks Brendon, who nods. “How long
that’ll take us?”
Brendon stretches, a pondering look on his face and arms raised above
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his head. His t-shirt lifts up, exposing a slice of his stomach. “Like, six hours?” I
focus on the exposed V of his hips.
“If we manage to leave around midnight,” Spencer muses thoughtfully.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask him, and he flinches, clearly unaware I was
present. “I think we’ve got a day off after tomorrow. What the hell is there to do
in Cincinnati?”
Spencer shrugs, and Brendon goes back to putting together Spencer’s
drum kit. “Can I talk to you?” I ask Spencer, who takes his time before
reluctantly nodding. We walk to the edge of the stage, and I lower my voice.
“Look, I’m sorry about the things I said. You know I didn’t mean them, right? I
was just pissed off.”
“Sure,” he nods.
“You’re still my best friend, despite everything,” I add with just slight
desperation. “I’d want to... talk to you. When you’ve got time.” We both have
plenty of time right then, but he just nods again.
“What do you want to talk about?”
My eyes land on Brendon behind his shoulder, now talking to William
animatedly and laughing brightly. I tear my eyes off of him. “I just... feel like I’m
being sucked into this thing. And I don’t know if I should because, no matter
what I tell myself, I just know it can’t end well. But despite that, I want to. It’s
kind of terrifying, actually,” I laugh nervously, but Spencer seems unaffected.
“Sure, when we’ve got time,” he shrugs, concluding the conversation. I
have no idea how to make it up to him. I probably just can’t.
I cross the stage again, and Brendon says, “Hi.” I stop in my tracks,
overly aware of the people around us. He is setting up the hi-hat, sitting on
Spencer’s stool behind the kit. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I pause. “You?”
“Just fine,” he smiles. Unlike after the kiss in Ottawa, I haven’t been
avoiding him. We haven’t talked about it, but that’s because we haven’t had the
opportunity to. Brendon is eyeing me up and down slowly now, and I feel
warmth at the back of my neck.
“What?”
“You just...” He bites on his bottom lip and laughs slightly. “You just
look good today.”
Obvious flirting. Walk away now before this gets even worse.
“You too,” I say casually. I’m flirting back. God, my mother must have
accidentally bashed my brain in when I was a baby.
“We get to stay in a hotel in Cincinnati. That’ll be good,” he comments.
“Never nice when we have to stay on the bus for a long time.”
“I completely agree. Hey, uh, when we get there, I could drop by your
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room,” he suggests. “Just like to hang out or whatever.”

Or whatever.
“Um, yeah, I don’t know what our schedule is gonna be, but, uh, I’ll let
you know when I know?”
“Okay,” he says, and I’m trying to determine whether he’s pissed off.
He doesn’t seem to be.
“But I’ll probably have time,” I blurt out. He smiles. I smile back and
walk away, trying not to notice how my fingertips are tingling.
What the hell am I doing?
I finally understand why the boys were upset when we get to Cincinnati.
Spencer vanishes. Most of us were asleep when he left, but Brendon drove us
here, and he says that Spencer left the bus the second we arrived, hailed a taxi
and was gone. Spencer said to tell us that he’d be back later.
“Now I know why you were so pissed,” I tell Joe, who is gritting his
teeth and looking around like he wants a knife so he can cut his wrists open
because he has given up on this band.
“You, I can imagine taking off, even Brent, but Spencer?! He’s already
missed soundcheck! We’ve got a show in two fucking hours!” Joe complains,
walking in circles in the dressing room. “That’s it, I am so quitting this band.”
“Joe, just sit back, have a drink, snort some coke,” Pete offers hurriedly,
sitting him down. Joe groans, and Pete starts rubbing his shoulders with steady
circular motions. “I’ll find him, no worries.”
The radio in the corner is playing CCR, and Brendon is singing along
quietly. “I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk,” he hums in his perfect
voice, creating a surprisingly soothing effect for the rest of us. I feel myself split
in two: worry and nervousness. Spencer’s missing, and it’s hotel night.
Everything is falling apart, falling on me, and I can’t stop any of it. Brendon
looks at me, heat in his gaze. He wants me. I know he does.
I can’t think about it now. I have to focus. And besides, I’m not going to.
I might let him blow me again, but that’s as far as that’ll go.
“I’ll go see if he’s around. You never know,” Andy offers. As he exits
the dressing room, I’m pretty sure he only wants a stress free environment.
“Baby, I love you,” Brendon sings, drumming against his thigh, “Suzie
Q.”
I stop. I blink at him.
Shit.
“Be right back,” I hurry to tell the others and run after Andy. I find him
eventually in the canteen, smoking a joint with the support’s bassist. “Andy!
Dude, fuck, remember when we were in, uh... Toronto! Remember Toronto?”
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“Vaguely,” he agrees.
“Remember we sent postcards?” I go on urgently, and he is quirking an
interested eyebrow at me. “Spencer sent this postcard! To Suzie Smith in
Cincinnati! His cousin? You put the stamps on, remember?”
His expression brightens. “I remember! Give me a minute... Hang on...”
He closes his eyes, and I hold my breath. He’s got a photographic memory. He
must have read the address line. He must have. Andy opens his eyes. “3 Eliza
Street.”
“You sure? You really fucking sure?”
Andy nods in confirmation, and I feel relieved. “Tell them I’ve gone to
get Spencer, alright?” I ask him, my eyes spotting an exit sign.
“What if he’s not there, man?” he asks as I’m already heading out.
“He better fucking be!” I tell him, and Spencer will be. I’ve known that
kid since forever. I’ve got him figured out.
But when the taxi stops outside 3 Eliza Street twenty minutes later, I no
longer feel too sure. It’s a small, cosy looking house in an area of small, cosy
looking, family friendly houses. I get out of the car, feeling as out of place as a
Satanist in Sunday mass.
The mailbox next to the driveway says ‘The Smiths’. It’s the right place.
If Spencer wants to visit family, then fine, but it’s not cool to just disappear on
us.
I firmly walk to the steps of the house and ring the doorbell. Maybe
they’ll invite me in for dinner, too, seeing as I’m technically Spencer’s family. I
haven’t had a homemade meal since Chicago, since Cassie fixed up something
for me and Jon. But mostly, though, I plan to scold Spencer and then drag him
back with me before we all lose our minds.
A young woman opens the door with a bright smile, an apron around
her, shiny, brown hair hanging to her shoulders, and my voice dies in my
throat. She sees me and freezes. Blood leaves her face as her expression goes
from friendly and inquisitive to shocked.
What is she doing here?
“Ryan,” Haley manages, voice alarmed.
“Hi,” I spit out. I push past her into the house without an invite. “You
think this is fucking funny?” I snarl, spinning around to glare at her, and
Spencer’s ex-girlfriend is at a loss for words. I look around the small entrance
hall, seeing pictures framed on the wall – Spencer and Haley, Haley’s parents –
And then. Then there’s one of Spencer and Haley. He’s in a tuxedo. She’s in a
white dress. She’s holding a bouquet of red roses. “What the hell is going on
here?” I ask in astonishment.
“Honey!” Spencer’s voice comes from the next room over, and when
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Haley is too afraid to move or even speak, I follow the sound. I walk into a
kitchen that is decorated in bright yellow and smells of apple pie. Spencer’s got
his back to the door, his messy and dirty on-tour hair sticking out in places,
everything in him not fitting in this picture. “Come look at how natural your
husband is at feeding our little girl!”
“What?” I whisper quietly.
Spencer spins around and sees me. He is holding a newborn baby, a
bottle of milk in his hand. His eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. The
baby lets out a cry.
My best friend is speechless. That makes two of us.
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CHAPTER 10: IF HE CAN FEEL MY HEART
“Ryan! Would you just wait up?!”

I ignore the request and keep heading down the street. Two blocks isn’t
far enough from that house, three blocks isn’t enough.
“Okay, you’re mad! I get that!”
Mad? Spencer thinks I’m mad? I’m leaving in an attempt not to
goddamn kill him, but no, now he is concerned, now he wants to talk.
Spencer finally catches up with me, blocking my way. I round him, but
he only blocks me again, now taking a hold of my shoulders. I snap free and
punch him, my fist flying forward on its own accord, my knuckles hitting his
jaw. It’s a lousy punch, but I wince and protectively pull my hand back. Spencer
is holding his jaw with a pained expression. “Fuck, man! Was that necessary?!”
He looks up at me, meets my gaze, and instantly adds, “That was necessary.” I
try to get past him again, but he stops me. “Let me explain, would you? It’s not
what you think it is!”
“So you haven’t married Haley behind our backs? You don’t have a
fucking kid with her?!” I ask pointedly.
“So maybe it is what you think it is.”
“Fuck you! You know that? Fuck you!” I snap, spotting a taxi coming
down the street and hailing it over. It drives past me. I swear more, going
through my pockets hastily. Spencer offers me a cigarette, and I snatch it,
bringing it to my lips hastily.
I light it as Spencer whispers, “I’m sorry.” He looks sorry. He sounds
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sorry too, but it’s not good enough.

“You’ve had all this time to tell me, but you haven’t. Instead, you’ve
lied. Constantly. To my face,” I recap furiously, not sure what pisses me off the
most. The betrayal. The wife. The kid? Lying to the band, lying to me. I’m his
best friend. I thought I was. “I knew something was up, but I never,” I snarl.
I thought they broke up months ago, last goddamn year. Months of
lying? It sickens me. He’s an actor, nothing more.
“I had no choice,” Spencer hurries to say, and my hand curls into a fist
again, wanting to take another hit. Had no choice? No one forced him. Whatever
decisions he made, he made them willingly.
And a kid is for life. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Spencer’s
not in my world like I thought. All this time he has been living here instead,
down the road in that shitty house with that slice of picket fence America, a wife
and kid and a handful of values that would never survive in my world.
I lost my best friend months ago and didn’t even know.
Another taxi is coming down the street, and it slows down as I hail it
over. “Look, let’s talk about this!” Spencer says hurriedly.
“We’ve got a show in an hour. I don’t have time to talk about it; I only
came to get you.” The car stops in front of me, and I open the back door.
Spencer is looking over his shoulder worriedly. “Oh my god,” I whisper, closing
my eyes and trying to calm down. “You go say goodbye. I’ll wait in the car. Two
minutes.”
“Okay,” Spencer mutters, probably realising that he shouldn’t argue
with me right now.
I try not to look to the door of the house when Spencer comes out, but I
do, anyway. Haley’s there, the picture perfect wife holding a baby. That baby
can’t even be a month old. Spencer kisses them both before he jogs to the taxi,
knowing the schedule we’re on. Haley waves. I don’t wave back.
We take off. I’m too angry to speak, so I focus on grinding my teeth
together and staring into the distance. Spencer sighs once, maybe trying to get
my attention. He sighs again, louder. Finally, he says, “I didn’t want you to find
out like this.”
“No, no – You didn’t want me to find out. Period.”
“Because I knew you’d react like this!”
“Don’t! Don’t turn this around and make it my fucking problem!” I
growl, and the taxi driver starts eyeing us through the rear-view mirror with a
worried expression. I don’t plan to bleed on his backseat. “How old is it?”
Spencer lifts an eyebrow, and I hiss, “The baby.”
“Suzie,” he says with this messed up, proud dad voice. “Three weeks.
We were, uh... We were in Cleveland when Haley...”
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“And the wedding?”

“In January.”
One blow after another. I was with Spencer when his daughter was
born. He didn’t tell me. I try to think back to January, but can’t. We were busy
finishing recording, so I have no idea when he found the time to elope. They
had already split up then. They must have planned it all. Haley bought a
wedding gown with the money Pete supposedly bribed her with. Pete was
happy she was out of the picture. So were we. She was pregnant. Spencer knew.
Spencer pretended to be heartbroken.
It’s too much deceit and betrayal for me to handle. All those months of
faux-moping around, pretending to be upset? And I bought it. All of it. And the
Oscar goes to –
“You son of a bitch,” I snarl just as the taxi slows down in front of the
venue. “He’s paying,” I tell the driver and get out, not even caring that I’m right
in front of the fans queuing to get in. The support’s on; I can hear them all the
way here.
Someone spots me. “It’s Ryan!” They start screaming, even louder as I
head straight for the doors, haphazardly feeling my neck and finding the strap
of my pass. “It’s Spencer!” And they scream louder. The security is confused as I
impatiently show them my backstage pass, shoving them out of the way,
pushing off the few girls who have grabbed onto me, screaming. The security
intervenes, and I manage to untangle myself.
Spencer is right behind me as we flash our passes to get to the
employees-only areas, and I begin heading down a long corridor without
actually knowing where the hell I am.
“We gotta talk about this! Just yell at me and get it over and done with!”
“Like that will make me feel better,” I point out venomously. “Like that
will change anything!”
“Ryan –”
“Don’t talk to me!” I snap just as my eyes finally spot a dressing room
sign. I come to an abrupt stop, and Spencer nearly slams into my back. I make
sure to shove him away. He looks hurt by the gesture. “I don’t want to see you, I
don’t want to talk to you, so you stay the fuck away.”
His guilty expression changes to worry. “Are you going to tell the
others?”
“Wouldn’t you love to know,” I spit, feeling triumphant that I can hold
this sword above his head.
I leave Spencer in the corridor, alone and miserable and so fucking
caught in his web of lies. And if I feel sorry for him, only for one second, I push
the thought out of my head and focus on the numbing hurt in my chest.
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***
Spencer plays the show, apologises to the guys for vanishing like that, and
disappears afterwards. To go to Haley’s, of course. Or maybe he bought the
house, so he is going back to his own place. To watch his daughter sleep. To
sleep by his wife for the first time in however long.
He didn’t bother talking to me again. I didn’t tell the others. It was a
mess as it was with Joe and Brent’s accusations and Spencer’s apologies.
After I’ve showered and changed, I gather my shit and find my way out
of the venue, a sympathetic security guy showing me to a second back entrance
to avoid the waiting fans. We have nothing tomorrow until the evening when
we get back on the road and leave this miserable place. Spencer’s probably
counting the hours, dreading the moment of departure. They’re probably
running around with a camera and taking pictures of the happy family, united
for the first time.
Spencer’s got a kid. I can’t believe it. We’re too young for that.
I don’t want a family. I don’t think I want one, anyway. I’ve never
thought about it. In its own way, it would be interesting to pass on my shit
genes, see what kind of chaos that would create. To have this one thing to call
my own. My son. My daughter.
I can’t keep plants alive, let alone children.
And then I’d walk around with a ring on my finger, arm wrapped
around my wife’s shoulders (not Jac, that has been established clearly enough),
and then I can say, “Oh yes, this is my youngest, named him George. George
Ross IV. No, you’re right. I am just one more cunt who has never had a single
original thought. I’m very proud, thank you. Yes, he is in the chess club, how
did you know?” and then we will all chuckle and invite each other over for
Sunday roast dinner, and exclaim, “Well, maybe this once I’ll have a second
glass of red wine!” And my wife and children smile at me adoringly.
But where’s the sweat? The blood? Life isn’t about smiles and forced
politeness. Life is raw, it’s meant to leave marks on you. If you can’t remember
anything from the last two years, it’s because you’ve done nothing memorable
during them. Fuck that. Fuck my imaginary wife and my bastard children. I
want loud music, so loud it hurts my ears, and I want sincerity and vomit and
honesty.
If only Spencer hadn’t lied. It somehow feels worse because he lied. He
could have told me, and then we could have kept the lie together. If he had let
me in just a little bit, but he shut me out, threw me out, closed the door and
wiped his hands.
If only he hadn’t lied.
There’s a knock on the door of my hotel room. I look at the vodka bottle
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on the table. I haven’t opened it yet. I’m about to, and then I will drink myself
into oblivion, but now someone wants to take that away from me, too. Joe
detests me, Brent is fucking my girlfriend, Spencer is worse than the two
combined. Friends, best friends, childhood friends, all vanishing, so what the
hell is left?
I open the door.
New friends.
Brendon is standing in the hotel corridor, clearly nervous, and my
stomach twists almost painfully. He said he’d visit. Hotel night. He said he’d
come around for whatever.
To have me fuck him. Potentially.
“Hey,” he smiles, and I stare at him stupidly. I forgot. I was somewhat
preoccupied. Brendon lowers his gaze quickly and rubs his nose. “So you
alright? You were acting... weirder than usual tonight.” His hair is wet from a
shower. It’s pretty amazing how much roadies can sweat during the shows even
though they’re not on stage.
“Yeah, just – I just. Things on my mind.”
Brendon looks over his shoulder and down the corridor. I can hear the
sounds of a party not too many rooms away. Joe and Brent for sure. They didn’t
even bother inviting me.
“I could help you take your mind off of those things,” Brendon says
calculatedly, and when he looks at me again, my brain stops working.
The Look. He is giving me The Look: long lashes, soulful eyes, plump
bottom lip snugly between his teeth, and right then rationality evaporates, and I
want to fuck him. Pull him into my room and fuck him, and I wouldn’t even
care what it’d say about me, as a person, psychologically, sexually,
permanently, temporarily.
Brendon probably knows I’m under his spell as he takes a step closer,
the tips of his shoes pressing against my bare toes. “You should invite me in,”
he whispers, and I feel his breath against my lips. It’d be so easy to reach out,
curl my hand around the Jack Daniel’s t-shirt he’s wearing, and pull him in.
It’d be so easy. Too easy.
“No, yeah. I mean yes. No, I mean – Fuck, I don’t know what I mean,” I
laugh slightly hysterically.
He blinks and steps back, clearly confused. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t.” I’m being honest with him. I hope he can figure out how rare
that is, how it means something.
But he doesn’t get it. His smile turns into a stony expression of barely
hidden anger. His jaw line tightens. “Right.”
I try to keep it simple: I’m just not inviting him in. That’s all I’m doing.
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Though we both know it’s me turning down whatever we had going on. I just
can’t. I’ve got too much on my hands without him, his mouth and lips and smile
confusing the hell out of me. I’ve never been attracted to a man before. What
does it mean? Sure, Eric claimed that it doesn’t mean shit, but I just don’t find it
in myself to believe him. I’ve got no one to talk about it with, either. God, I can’t
believe I wanted to confide in Spencer of all people.
I’m too messed up to start screwing around with Brendon.
“Goodnight,” I mumble and close the door to his face. I exhale shakily
once I have something between us, my forehead pressing against the smooth
wooden surface. I wait until I hear him walk away. And he will go back to
scolding me instead of undressing me with his gaze, but it’s what we’ve been
doing the entire tour so far, circling each other in some fucked up way.
A few more shows, and then we’ll finish the East leg in Florida. If I can
remain sane for that long, avoid Brendon, Spencer too, then I don’t have to see
any of them for four sweet weeks.
I sulk back into the room, my steps taking me to the vodka bottle. I
could have chosen Brendon’s body. I could’ve chosen his companionship. I
could’ve chosen forgiving Spencer, or Brent, or Joe, or myself. But I choose the
bottle instead.
Like father, like son.
I don’t have anything to mix the alcohol with, so I drink it straight from
a small plastic cup I find in the bathroom, meant for water or to hold a
toothbrush or something slightly less depraved.
I drown the second shot and feel the alcohol welling at the pit of my
stomach. Tonight was the first time on this tour that I went on stage completely
sober. It was just as scary as I thought, but I could only focus on Spencer behind
me, the way he drummed, effortlessly, brilliantly, like nothing was wrong, and I
hated him.
I’ve never hated him before.
A knock on the door again. I put my plastic cup on the nightstand next
to the bottle. It aches somewhere inside, but Brendon can make me forget about
that. I can let him in, sit on the edge of the bed, push his head down, and focus
on his talented tongue and moist mouth. Neither of us would have to talk.
I go to the door, still unsure whether to tell him to come in or not. I had
the strength to turn him down once. Twice, though? I feel a jolt of lust settling in
my gut. No one can expect me to do the right thing twice.
The door reveals Spencer, and I freeze, not having expected him. “Hey,”
he says tiredly.
“What are you doing here?” I ask sharply because he should be curled
up with his wife right about now. He left the venue straight after to do just that.
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“I couldn’t sleep,” he informs me and pushes past me into the room

where I don’t want him. He looks at the vodka bottle on the nightstand, then at
me, and he has that goddamned look in his eyes like he can read me perfectly.
He can’t. No one can. I’m keeping secrets too, and it feels oddly satisfying.
“I’m gonna say what I have to say, regardless of what you want,”
Spencer says and sits on the edge of my bed. I slowly close the door. He can talk,
sure, but I don’t necessarily have to listen. Defiantly, I fetch my vodka bottle
first, dangling it in my grip easily as I go to the big armchair by the window,
kicking my feet up on the small coffee table next to it. Spencer doesn’t wait for
me to signal him to go on as he launches into it himself. “I didn’t choose Haley.”
Thank god.
“She blackmailed you into it, didn’t she? Because of the baby,” I say,
because this has been the only even half-sensible scenario I’ve come up with.
“No!” Spencer says, horrified. “No, nothing like that. I mean, we didn’t
mean to have Suzie. She was purely accidental. I don’t regret it, though.” He has
that proud parent smile on his face again. “I knew Pete wanted her gone, but I
refused. You know that, you were there. And then she found out she was
pregnant, and we were trying to figure out what to do. I mean, when she gave
me the news, I proposed to her on the spot.”
I try not to snort. How valiant of him. How stupid.
“Then Pete went to her with the money. She refused, of course, and she
told me what had happened, and it was... an eye opener for me. That Pete had
the fucking arrogance to try and do something like that. The music world is so
ruthless. It’s not an environment for a family. For a little baby.”
“So you and Haley came up with this master plan,” I supply for him,
my tone bitter.
“I came up with it and talked her into it. The shittiest thing I’ve ever had
to do,” he mumbles, and I would strongly like to disagree. “She called Pete and
said she’d agree, and then you know the rest.”
“Yeah, I do. The way you pretended that you were heartbroken. You
even punched Pete,” I recall.
Spencer sits up straighter. “I had every damn reason to punch him!
After what he did? Believe me, I had the right! And I’ve been heartbroken. My
pregnant wife moving to Cincinnati where I have to pretend she doesn’t exist?
Missing her, wondering how she’s doing? I’ve been fucking miserable. When
our break starts, I’m coming right back here. But you gotta understand that I
didn’t choose her. I chose both.”
“Well, maybe you can’t have both. You ever thought about that?” I
snap.
Spencer looks older than he is as he whispers, “I’ve been slowly coming
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to terms with that, yeah. But...” His voice fades away, and his hands twist in his
lap restlessly as his eyes nail to the floor. “I don’t know if I’d make a very good
husband. Or if I’d make a decent dad.” He has that tone of intimacy he uses
when he is voicing a thought he’s had for the very first time. He swallows hard
and tries to smile. “But I know I’m a brilliant drummer. That’s something I
know I can do. She wants me to quit the band, but I feel like I’ll only disappoint
her more if I do. That I won’t be able to be the guy she wants me to be, the guy
she needs. This part, being on the road, nightly shows, the fans, this part I know
I’m good at. But I don’t know if I’m good at anything else. What if she only
loves me because I’m gone?”
Spencer looks at me with big, sorrowful eyes, like he wants my advice
or a brotherly hug or just even a bit of sympathy. I only focus on Haley wanting
him to quit the band. Bitch.
“So that’s why you’re still here? Because you feel sorry for yourself?”
Spencer laughs, shaking his head. “God, I keep forgetting how you’ve
become so goddamn cruel.”
“I was always cruel.”
“No,” he smiles sadly. “You just wished you were.” He stands up and
runs fingers through his hair. I hold my vodka closer to my chest and refuse to
look at him. Spencer’s just there, but he’s never felt further away. I love him,
despite everything. He has been the only constant thing in my life since the age
of seven, but now, he is slipping through my fingers.
The only things I’ve ever loved have been things that are bad for me.
Not necessarily at the time, but in the end. The idea of Jac, then Spencer, Jackie,
me and this lady.
Spencer stops pacing. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I was in a situation where
I didn’t know what the right thing was, and I made some bad decisions. You
have the right to be angry with me. But just twenty hours ago, I finally got to
hold my daughter for the first time, and I... I did right by her. You know that the
fans and the press would harass Haley if she was public knowledge, and I gotta
protect my girls. They deserve their privacy. My little girl isn’t for sale, not to
Pete, not as a publicity stunt or for anything. So I made the right decision. And I
think that, that after you get to think about it, you’ll understand where I’m
coming from, and, and maybe after that... you won’t be so angry with me
anymore.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. It must make it easier for you to sleep at
night telling yourself all those useless justifications.” I sit up straight and let my
eyes focus on the view out of the window, facing the inner court where the pool
is, and people are by it even at this time of night. I feel Spencer’s eyes on me,
and he’s sorry. I know he is, and I want to forgive him and get him back on my
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team. I want to. “If you’re done, feel free to show yourself out.”
My voice manages to break on the last syllable. But it’s not that easy as
just forgiving him. What does it change, anyway? Spencer loves his family,
more than he loves this band, and I can’t blame him. I don’t blame him for not
liking me much anymore.
For the first time, I realise that The Followers will be over sooner than I
ever realised. After this tour, Spencer will quit. He didn’t even hint he might,
but I know him. He hasn’t changed quite enough for me not to know him.
Give it time.
The door closes behind Spencer.
The East leg finishes in Tampa, hot and humid in the July weather. It feels like a
miracle that we have made it this far, and everyone’s packing up and getting
ready for our break. The bus looks clean for the first time since St. Paul, and Pete
beams from the achievement as we try to figure out which bit of clothing
belongs to whom.
We have two shows in Tampa, but as I gather my bags and walk into
the hotel from the bus, briefly signing a few albums for fans waiting outside, I
know I won’t be getting back on that bus until weeks from now, and it feels
freeing. My nest was not that comforting in the end, just more room for me to
label as absence of people. My hotel room is one of the best ones yet with an
enormous bed and a small welcome gift bag on the table next to the mirror,
inside of which I find two mini whisky bottles. Excellent.
Soon, I will be going back to Los Angeles, to my own place. Jac is in
Paris, I think, but she should be in LA in a week or two. I don’t remember why
she went to Paris. Someone asked her to. Spencer is off to Cincinnati, and I
already know I won’t see either Joe or Brent during the break. The roadies will
go to their respective homes, Zack to San Diego, Andy to Milwaukee, William
and Brendon to San Francisco. And Pete will probably go back to his place of
origin: hell.
It’s the penultimate show, and even I have the energy for it. It’s so close
to the end. I don’t usually pay attention, but I’m pretty sure it’s the best gig
we’ve done on this tour, or maybe they just really, really love us here. After
we’re done, even I say, “Thanks,” into the microphone.
It’s also surprising that I’m sober. I can’t drink with Spencer in the
room, the way he silently signals that I am turning into my father. Well, what
else is new? What more did anyone ever expect of me?
Joe’s hotel room turns into party central with girls and roadies, and
we’re all there, celebrating that tomorrow is the last show of the leg. Twenty-
nine down, twenty-six to go.
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I sit on the couch and talk to Andy, who is high as a kite but still
pleasant to talk to. But I find myself scanning the room for Brendon. He’s with
William, always with William. Brendon doesn’t handle rejection well, I’ve
learned that since Cincinnati. His pissed off bitch act is in no way endearing, not
with how he ignores me, addresses me with short, blunt sentences, and
occasionally glares.
Brendon clearly has some growing up to do.
“So,” Spencer’s voice comes from behind me when Andy goes to the
bathroom, and I turn to see Spencer leaning over the backrest of the couch. “You
ever going to talk to me again?”
“Not if I can help it,” I shoot back instantly.
Spencer’s small smile falters. “Look, man, I’m so –”
I get up before he gets the chance to finish. I don’t care what he has to
say. Spencer lets me walk away, doesn’t even have the decency to try and stop
me. I find myself a girl, who is immediately taken by me. Of course she is. We
start talking, and Brendon keeps shooting us death glares from across the room.
Like I let him down too.
“Spence, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Zack calls out, and
Spencer is already at the door.
“Need some sleep,” he replies, wary eyes landing on me. “Got a phone
call to make.”
He’s going to call Haley, of course. He waves us goodbye, leaving me.
The girl comes back with new drinks, but my eyes keep returning to Brendon,
who now leaves the crowded room, heading towards the bathroom. For no
particular reason, I decide to follow him like us followers do. To give him a
piece of my mind.
Brendon is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, arms
crossed and a bored expression on his face. He gives me a side glance as I
approach him, his lips forming a thin line. I don’t say anything, just keep my
eyes on him.
I lean casually against the wall opposite him, our shoes almost touching
in the narrow space. He persistently keeps looking away. “I’m not flattered, just
so you know,” I tell him flatly, and he casts me a look like he supposes he must
acknowledge my presence. “That you’re upset I’d rather fuck that girl than
you.”
Brendon scoffs. “I’m not upset. It’s your loss.” He stands up straighter.
“I’m a better fuck than any boy – or girl – you’ll ever meet. You had your
chance, and you missed it. So I’m not upset.”
His ranting suggests the opposite. He also has got balls for saying
something like that. What if I made him prove he is as good as he claims?
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The chattering from the party around the corner seems to fade away.
Brendon has this way of making the rest of the world disappear for me.
He bangs the bathroom door impatiently, but gets no response. Maybe
someone’s passed out in there. “So did you and Spencer break up, or what?” he
now shoots at me, and I feel like he has just plunged his hand into my guts and
ripped them out. “I pay attention,” he says obnoxiously.
“You know nothing about that.”
“Funny thing is that you’re so blatantly heartbroken over it, yet Spencer
seems to be doing just fine.”
Without thinking about it, I curl my hand into a fist and punch the wall
right next to his head. His eyes widen in surprise, but he stands his ground in
defiance. That’s his problem. He doesn’t know when to back off. He stares me
down, and I have never met anyone who has been able to read me as easily as
he does.
The space between us is minimal, and my blood boils. “Fuck you.”
“Fuck you,” he counters just as venomously.
I close the gap between us and kiss him hard. He responds with a
desperate sounding grunt, and my hands fly to his hair, fisting forcefully. I
don’t care who might come around the corner, who might emerge from the
bathroom. Let them see, I don’t care anymore. No one has the moral upper hand
around here, and no one certainly has the right to tell me what to do. And screw
all the decisions I’ve ever made so far. They’ve only made me miserable. And
fuck Brendon and the way he makes me feel, restless and unsettled, on the brink
of something I should leave undiscovered. Fuck him. Just fuck him.
I will.
My other hand finds the hem of his shirt, and I pull up the fabric,
fingers sliding on smooth, warm skin. He arches into it. God, he’s so desperate
for me.
But then Brendon pushes me off him, and I stumble backwards, my
back hitting the wall. He is wiping his mouth, his neck flushed. He shakes his
head quickly, breathing fast. “Oh no, you had your chance.”
I scoff. “You wanted me, remember?”
“I’ve since seen the light.”
“You don’t say no to me,” I laugh disbelievingly, stepping right back
into his space. My hand curls around his left hip, thumb brushing the skin.
Brendon’s lips are a gorgeous red, and I admire them. Our breaths mix together.
“If I want to fuck you, I’ll fuck you.”
Brendon’s breathing hitches, and I press my crotch right against his. He
looks so angry, nearly livid, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark
and swirling with emotions I don’t want to read. Is he going to punch me or
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not?
He launches forward and kisses me, desperate and rough. I bang him
back against the wall, our hands everywhere, bruising and needing to touch. I
suck on his bottom lip too hard, then push my tongue between his parted lips
and fuck his mouth. It feels so heavy and hot all of a sudden. He’s all I can think
about, all I can feel.
God, I’m going to fuck him until he passes out from exhaustion.
The bathroom door opens right then, and we pull apart instantly, a wet
smack sounding from our starving mouths. Brendon is trying to pull his shirt
down a bit, and I just focus on breathing. Joe pokes his head out, too drunk to
have noticed anything. It takes him a while to focus on us. “Oh. Hey, guys.”
“Hi,” Brendon replies breathlessly. His voice is low, and I feel my skin
crawling with want. I don’t look at Joe at all. Instead, I keep my eyes on
Brendon.
“I’m, uh, probably gonna be in here for a while,” Joe explains, and I
hear giggling coming from behind him. A girl. Possibly two girls. “Sorry,” he
says sheepishly, though he is blatantly enjoying himself.
“That’s okay,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Brendon. “I think we
were just leaving anyway.”
“Far out. Have a good night now,” Joe grins, and the door slams shut.
Without a word to Brendon, I begin to walk away. I know he will
follow.
We snake through the party, and I don’t even care if they see us leaving
together. Let them draw their own conclusions if they dare. No one would even
suspect that I’d fuck a guy, anyway. It wouldn’t occur to them.
Once we’re out of the hotel room and in the deserted corridor, we walk
two steps side by side, and then I have him against the wall again. I push him
back from one shoulder, snatching one wrist and feeling his rapid pulse
between my fingertips. He fists my hair and groans against my mouth. So hot.
Everything feels urgent and rushed. He grinds up against me. Want him naked
on a bed, want him begging for it –
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” I mumble against his swollen lips.
Brendon groans and tilts his head back in surrender, and I attack his neck, biting
on the skin. He smells of sweat and cigarettes and him, that underlining scent
that is just him. Something about it is helping my cock get hard really damn fast.
“Your room.”
He swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple bob and I give into the urge of
sucking on it. “Just a few doors down, but it’s with William. Wouldn’t yours –”
“No,” I interrupt him. “Can’t have people hear me fuck you.”
Two men moaning in Brendon’s room? Nothing out of the ordinary. My
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room? No.
Brendon’s jaw tightens slightly, but I simply let my nose trace his jaw
line. He is breathing heavily, and I smile against his cheek cruelly. “God, it
pisses you off, doesn’t it?” I ask quietly, shamelessly moving to cup his cock. He
gasps and pushes against my hand. He’s a good size. All of that, every inch – “It
pisses you off that I make you this hard.”
He grits his teeth. “Just shut up.”
I attack his mouth again, a wet slide of tongues. I tighten my grip of his
wrist and guide his hand between us, onto my erection. I want to feel his hand
there, want him more than I’ve wanted anyone. He rubs me through my clothes,
a small whine escaping his throat. I could push him onto his knees right here,
and he’d do it. “Room,” I order.
We manage to make it to his room, and he digs out the key. He
suddenly takes off his shoe, though, pulling a sock off. I stare in confusion as he
puts the sock over the doorknob. “So William knows not to come in,” he
explains.
They have a system. I scoff.
Then I instantly forget all about it.
The hotel door slams shut behind us, and I’m on him, all over him.
Brendon groans against my mouth, undoing my tie and pulling it off. We crash
against something, a side table. I pull him closer from the belt loops of his jeans,
wrapping my arms around his narrow waist. It’s not close enough.
Our noses press together, the stubble on his chin scratching against
mine. I let myself have this without any analysis. I can process it all later, what
this means, if anything. Now, though, now I know what I want, and I don’t give
a fuck about anything else except getting it.
I pull his shirt off, hearing the tearing of fabric, but not caring what got
damaged. He doesn’t seem to care either as he goes for my shirt, the top button
coming loose. Our mouths smack together loudly, wantonly, and he unbuttons
from the top as I unbutton from the bottom, and our rushed hands meet in the
middle. His palms press against my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel my
heart.
We fight the shirt off me, stumbling towards the bed closer to us. We go
for each other’s zippers at the same time. The kiss breaks, our foreheads still
pressed together. Brendon’s hands are shaking. So are mine.
“Fuck,” Brendon manages, sounding wrecked already. “Fuck, fuck.”
I get him unzipped, shove his jeans to mid-thigh and wrap my fingers
around his cock. A barrier of some kind dissolves in me: another guy’s cock. The
air feels too hot to breathe. Brendon rocks into my hand, pressing his face into
the crook of my neck, panting. He’s as thick as me, but maybe an inch shorter.
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He’s rock hard.

“Jesus,” I manage, feeling him hot in my hand. I move to cup his balls,
the skin tight, run my hand over his length again. Brendon latches onto my
neck, muffling a groan. He’s pushed my jeans down, and my cock brushes
against his.
I want to try and jerk us off together, I want to watch him jerk off, I
want to watch him finger himself, want to see him come, his hips snap, his cock
twitch. Want every little dirty thing my vivid imagination has been able to come
up with on the occasions I have not been thinking about this.
“I’ll have you know I like foreplay,” Brendon pants heavily, a hint of
desperate amusement in his tone, “but we’re just skipping it this time.”
“You fucking bet we are,” I agree, finding his lips again. “Off.”
We part only to undress all the way, and I’m far too focused on him to
be self-conscious. I’ve stood in front of the mirror naked, I know what I look
like. The hungry look on Brendon’s face suggests that I don’t know, but I merely
focus on him.
I snatch his wrist, pull him to me, his naked skin against mine, and then
I shove him backwards onto the bed. The mattress bounces; it’s not meant for
two people. I straddle him, and his hands are on my hips, warm and firm. Our
cocks brush, and the rush in my veins just gets worse. I feel dizzy as the world
seems out of focus and surreal.
Then the nervousness hits. Fuck, I don’t want to feel nervous. I had a
plan: fuck him long, fuck him hard, but the anger that supported the notion is
fading away. My chest feels constricted as we keep kissing, him laid out beneath
me, hungrily reaching up to touch me. I keep cupping his cock, trying to
familiarise myself with it.
I’ve got all night to familiarise myself with his body if I want to. Now I
need to focus on the actual point.
Brendon clearly agrees as he says, “The lube’s in the bag.” I take bites at
his mouth and keep him where he is. I make the rules here. He does what I say.
He would do anything I say.
It takes me a while to find the lube from the mess of clothes in his bag,
but then it’s in my hand. It’s half-empty, and Brendon automatically spreads his
legs as I get back on the bed. “How much?” I ask, already pouring some onto
my palm. I throw the lube on the floor, dipping two fingers in the cool
substance.
“Not too much. I prefer less, so I can really feel the burn.”
Fuck, my cock throbs at his words, just picturing him.
I move over him, leaning down to suck on a nipple. No idea what kind
of a reaction that will get me, if any, he’s not a chick, and his body is still driving
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me insane in all the ways it mirrors mine. But it’s more the fact that it’s him, it’s
Brendon, and all the things that he keeps to himself, all the fight in him, all the
things I can’t figure out, and yet, his body is at my disposal. I need to find at
least one way to break his spine and make him sweat.
My fingers clumsily reach between his legs, pushing between his ass
cheeks. I don’t look, my coordination is definitely lacking, but I find his hole, a
tight ring of muscle. I press two fingers against it, and his body tenses in
anticipation. He’s fucking wanton.
There’s no going back from this.
I push my fingers inside. He jerks and pushes into it, a choked, “Fuck,”
sounding in the room. God, he’s tight.
I focus on the rhythm, slick fingers tentatively moving in and out of
him. Brendon’s fingernails dig into my back, and I keep studying his face: the
closed eyes, knitted eyebrows, open mouth, tongue licking his lips. I’ve never
seen such concentration on his face, and when I push my fingers in deeper, his
features flash with pleasure.
“Just a- Ngh, a steady rhythm will- Fuck, your fingers,” he pants. I push
them deeper, and he groans helplessly. I keep the rhythm as steady as I can, in
and out, a slight twist to make him tremble, in and out...
“Tell me when,” I manage, my throat feeling dry. “Say when you’re
ready to be fucked.”
He groans, head twisting backwards into the pillow. I watch the way his
body arches, chest flushed, the muscles of his stomach quivering, legs parted
wide, all this from my two fingers in him. His other arm is flung over his eyes
now, and he is biting on his bottom lip. His hips are thrusting against my hand.
This is nothing like I thought, nothing like I –
He cries out suddenly, body freezing up, the muscles around my fingers
squeezing. “God, right there. That’s the spot, that’s –” he babbles incoherently.
The spot? There’s a spot?
He sounds more aroused than I’ve ever heard him, and I decide he’s
ready because I need to do something about my own aching hard-on. I pull my
fingers out and find the lube again. I take care not to put too much on. If he says
he wants to feel it, then I’ll let him feel it.
I place a hand on his hip, let my nails dig in, and I attempt to guide him
a little. Brendon looks at me, clearly not getting it. “Don’t you want to get on
your hands and knees?” I ask impatiently.
“No,” he replies simply, eyes dark. He spreads his legs further. My
stomach drops. My scenarios never included us face to face, no space between
us, me deep inside him, him watching me, tangling together.
I take a hold of his hips and pull him closer, and he wraps his legs
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around my waist automatically. My lube covered cock slides against his ass
cheek as I settle, balancing myself with an elbow next to his head. He instantly
turns to kiss my arm, tongue tracing my skin wantonly. His entire body is in
constant motion, turned on, sex in itself.
“You gotta tell me if I’m not doing something right,” I say, hating
having to admit it, but he just nods. I already know that I’ll get off, no problem
there, but him?
Brendon fists my hair and brings me down to kiss him. His other hand
flies down my spine, over the vertebrae, and settles on my lower back. He
whines against my mouth and applies pressure just above my ass. I get the hint,
grab my cock, and guide it to his hastily stretched entrance.
The fit in itself is already off. The flushed and red head of my cock is too
large for the hole it’s pressing against, and I try to keep my head. “Don’t be a
jerk,” Brendon pleas urgently, tone desperate. Is he sure? Do men
actually do this with each other? “God, just– just do it, fucking need you, I –”
I push into him, forcing my way inside. Air escapes my lungs.
Brendon’s mouth drops open, and he moans. He just – He moans loudly, back
arching, looking straight into my eyes. His nails are clawing my back as his
body trembles.
I fucked Jac up the ass that one time, but that has got nothing on this.
Nothing. Fucking nothing.
Brendon is hot and tight, squeezing every inch of me. I look down to
where we’re joined, trying to regain control. Holy fucking hell, I didn’t think it’d
feel like this.
Brendon keeps staring at me, pupils blown, and that’s the worst part,
how I can’t look away once we lock eyes. I thrust experimentally, and he moans,
breathing laboured.
“God, you’re so tight,” I groan helplessly, dropping my head against his
shoulder.
“You’re fucking huge,” he counters, voice raspy. “Filling me up, you–
And fuck, you’re so hard,” he moans, tone helpless and wretched. We both catch
our breaths, but I guess I miss my cue because he asks, “You gonna fuck me or
what?”
“Until you can’t fucking walk,” I snarl, but I need another minute to feel
like I can move without instantly coming. I keep my thrusts steady but hard to
start off with, seeing how he’ll react. I snatch his wrists and pin them above his
head, using my weight to keep him trapped. He clearly gets off on being held
down, his moans even more guttural. He sounds so fucking dirty when he’s
getting fucked, his uneven breathing, the hitches in breath, and then he moans
and groans and hisses and gasps –
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“Try-” He stops to groan. “Try aiming up when you – Fucking hell,

fucking fuck –”
“Try what? Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” I order, and he likes
that too. His body shudders, and his cock twitches, brushing against my
stomach on each thrust. “Tell me.”
“The angle,” he tries again, licking his swollen and red lips. I have to
interrupt him then, just to kiss him. I fuck him hard as our tongues battle
fervently. My nails dig into his wrists, and he thrusts up against me. I suck off
the sweat that has gathered on his upper lip before pulling back with a wet
smack. “Aim up when you push in, just a- God, just a little.”
He’s the expert, so I do. Nothing changes, though, so I keep trying,
unsure of what he wants. Then it happens, and his body jolts so violently I have
to use force to keep him pinned down like I want him. His muscles quiver and
squeeze around my cock, pure fucking bliss, and he nods hurriedly.
“Yeah, like that, like – Ry, you just- Please, don’t stop. Don’t fucking –”
“Not gonna,” I interrupt him, making sure to keep my hips working at
the right angle. Brendon is leaking between us now, and I let his wrists go. I curl
my fingers in his damp hair, our foreheads pressed together. We pant against
each other’s mouths, lips touching every now and then. He meets my thrusts,
and I slide in so fucking deep into him. He just takes it. He fucking loves it. I
don’t know if I’ve ever felt this far gone.
He fists the sheets as the headboard bangs loudly against the wall.
I find his hand, our fingers lacing together. This is nothing like I had
planned, but I had no idea how intense this would feel, being with him, being in
him. I guide his hand between us, and he instantly starts to stroke himself.
“Can I come inside you?” I groan hurriedly. We’re both drawing close
now. I’ve been close since New York.
“Please,” he says, choking on the word, and I kiss him. God, he wants
me to. My imminent orgasm is pounding in my veins, heavy in my brain, my
chest, my stomach, heat curling up, and it’s all him now, all him and this
burning –
Brendon comes with a sudden groan, body seizing up, jerking. His
muscles all contract at the same time, squeezing me, even tighter than before.
My entire body feels it, and I have never felt anything like it. I keep fucking him,
pounding into him, and he rides out his orgasm, his body radiating heat against
mine. My eyes take in the mess, the white substance now rolling down his
flushed cock, over his fist. I pinned him down, pushed inside him, fucked him,
made him come and lose control.
I climax instantly with such a force it takes me by surprise. My mind
blacks out, but then it’s taken over by a bright light, and my hips snap and snap,
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and I keep coming, keep coming. My toes curl, and I tremble. Oh god. Brendon
murmurs something into my ear. I can’t understand what he says.
I’m surrounded by a haze when I’m finally done.
I’m completely out of breath and worn out, muscles aching, covered in
sweat, my body tingling from the orgasm. Brendon is staring up at me, also
trying to catch his breath. I try to say something, but my brain won’t work.
Instead, I pull out. He winces, his legs loosening their deadlock around me. I
will have bruised hips tomorrow. So will he.
He is still close to me. We’re now pressed together, crotch to crotch,
stomach to stomach, chest to chest. It feels comfortable, and I want to tangle
onto him, fall asleep, wake up and do this again. Our legs begin to entwine. I
want to kiss him, slow and soft. I –
I snap into reality. I roll off of him onto the limited space between him
and the wall. The pillow and the duvet are now on the floor. Brendon exhales
loudly, wiping his stomach with his hand, but only ends up smearing his semen
on a wider surface. He makes a face and retrieves a pair of boxers from the floor,
cleaning himself up.
“Those are mine,” I manage to say. My boxers now covered in his come.
I notice that I’ve got some on me too.
“Sorry,” he mutters, clearly not bothered. His hand is trembling slightly,
still from the aftershocks. I stare at him, feeling fucking shaken up. I don’t – I
was just gonna fuck him. That is all I had planned, I swear. He smiles to himself.
“You just broke the law, you know that?”
“What?”
“This is illegal. Two guys fucking.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. How could that be illegal?
He drops the boxers back onto the floor, lying back down, gorgeous,
naked and glowing. I wish I could smirk, make a sleazy comment, brush this off,
but it feels so heavy.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow at me. I reach over
him, snatching the corner of the duvet on the floor. I pull it over us and pull him
to me, thinking for a second that maybe he will push me off. He doesn’t.
He smells like me.
My heart swells up.
He doesn’t speak, but neither do I. But our hands keep moving, tracing
patterns until I’ve fallen asleep, curled up in him.
I’m sleepily moving my hand on the sheets that are still warm, cracking open
one eye. Light has flooded the room. I’m alone in bed. God, I feel so well rested.
I roll onto my back, sighing quietly and feeling content. The shower is
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running. My cock is half-hard, and I absently reach down to grab it, letting my
fingers move on it. This is going to be a good day, I can already tell. Jac can blow
me once she comes out of the shower.
My head rolls to the side, and I breathe in the sheets. They smell good.
But they don’t smell like her. It’s better, it’s...
Brendon.
I jerk to sit up on the bed, bewildered. The shower keeps running.
Brendon’s in there. My back feels sensitive. His fingernails. My hips feel sore.
His hands. My fucking mouth feels raw. His lips.
Our clothes are scattered across the floor. The sheets are a mess.
He’s in the shower. Naked. I’m here. Naked.
We fucked.
I’m fucked.
Last night plays itself in my head in flashes of hands and lips, our
bodies tangling, moving, but most of all I remember him. I feel short of breath.
I need to get dressed so I can get the hell out of here.
My boxers are covered with dried come – I remember him wiping
himself off, his lower stomach, white streaks decorating, his cock softening, how
he looked, how it made me feel. I pull them on, ignore the dried come on me.
Clothes. Need more clothes. Can’t come out of his room half-dressed.
My shirt is next to a knocked over side table. I manage to get it on, and
it’s hanging off me when the bathroom door opens. Brendon is towelling his wet
hair. His eyes land on the bed first before spotting me. “Hey.”
He’s absolutely naked and clearly not even the tiniest bit self-conscious
about it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything as attractive.
“Morning,” I manage.
His eyes take me in silently. I can’t read his thoughts. I really wish I
could.
“Your tie’s over there,” he says in this annoyingly neutral tone, and I
spot my tie next to his suitcase. I quietly retrieve it, twisting it in my hands.
Brendon sits on the edge of the bed and keeps towelling his hair. “So are you
leaving already?”
“I was just...”
Running away.
“You got interviews today?”
“No,” I rush to say, glad to have something tangible. “No interviews.
Last show tonight. Insane, huh? Can’t wait for the break, a whole month
without shows. Sounds like heaven right about now.” Pause. “God, I’m
starving. Breakfast’s included, right? I could really do with some bacon and egg
scramble.”
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Brendon smiles to himself, a hint of a smirk in it. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” I ask, now buttoning my shirt hurriedly. A few are
missing. They must have come off when we...
“You’re freaking out.” He stands up, wrapping the towel around his
waist where I just manage to catch a few bruises. He has bite marks here and
there on his chest and neck. I really fucking went for it, didn’t I?
“I’m not freaking out,” I scoff. He rolls his eyes. “Hey, we fucked. I’m
completely fine with that. I’m not freaked out.”
“No?” he asks disbelievingly.
“No.”
“Well, then we should do it again. You’ve got nothing to do, I’m always
horny in the mornings...” he trails off, and I am relatively sure I gulp loud
enough for him to hear. He shakes his head, scorn in his eyes. “Such a typical
conflicted faux heterosexual.”
“Don’t try and analyse me,” I snap. Something keeps beating wildly in
my chest, a yearning, a burning sensation. I want to touch him. I want to take
him up on his offer. And fuck him, I’m totally not gay. “I gotta go,” I mutter
before we start fighting again.
Brendon shrugs like it’s all the same to him. The thought pierces
through me painfully. Last night wasn’t just –
It should matter. That’s all.
I find my jeans and pull them back on, and he turns the TV on, not
paying attention to me. I see the tension in his shoulders. I could make it vanish
with one kiss to the nape of his neck. The sunlight hits his pale skin, making him
glow.
He’s not looking my way as I tie my shoelaces, finally good to go. “I’ll
catch you later,” I mumble more to myself and finally head to the door.
“Ryan?”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is racing.
“Just that,” he begins and pauses. “If you change your mind or
whatever, I’ve got nothing to do until soundcheck. Even if you want to just hang
out.” He finally looks at me.
I made him sweat, broke his spine. I got under his skin.
I nod in response and leave. I do a paranoid check to make sure no one I
know sees me coming out of his room, but there’s only a hotel cleaner down the
hallway. I don’t remember my room number and initially get the direction
wrong.
My bed hasn’t been slept in. It feels empty. Hotel rooms always feel
clinical somehow with the tailored sheets, the mint on the pillow placed just in
the very middle. Like anyone would actually live here.
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Brendon’s room felt different. It felt lived in.

I should be over it now. Eric said it’d be out of my system.
I go for a shower to get his smell and come off me. My cock’s been hard
since Brendon said we should do it again. He probably noticed, but was kind
enough not to say anything. I jerk off in the shower, biting my own arm to keep
quiet as I fist myself with the other. I can’t believe how hard I come, the fresh
memories still playing in my head.
The TV entertains itself as I get dressed. It’s the same channel Brendon
had on, some local one. They promise hot, humid weather, a lovely summer day
in Florida. I sit on the edge of my large, cold bed and stare at the screen.
If I go back, what then?
Maybe it’d be like this: I go back, knock on his door. He is waiting for
me. I fuck him again, but now the room is full of light, now I can see him better.
I see him for the second time. The first time was last night. I saw him.
And then we lie there, basking in the afterglow, and it’s insane how I’m
instantly ready for more. His body is amazing, is hot and willing. Then we have
to head for the venue, and I play the show, and he smiles at me from the side of
the stage. Afterwards, in the midst of the party signifying the end of the first leg,
I lean into his ear and say, “You want to come to LA with me?” He is currently
homeless, after all, sleeping on people’s couches. And he comes with me. I show
him all the places I go to, take him out to my favourite bars. We’re just hanging
out like he offered. Spencer tries calling me, but I’m so busy with Brendon that I
don’t have time for him. Spencer ceases to exist. Then Jac flies in from Paris, but
I don’t want to see her because all I can think of is Brent fucking her, so we leave
for San Francisco. Jac and Brent cease to exist. I get us a room in an expensive
hotel, and then it’s his turn to show me all the places that make up his life. This
new one he has made up. I want to see it in detail.
And he sees all the fucked up baggage I carry around, but he doesn’t
mind. He doesn’t try changing me, because he gets it. He’s the only one who
gets it. It’s worth more than gold. And knowing that, I hold it somewhere safe
where no one else can see it. We’d be the only ones who’d know.
I burst out laughing at my own scenario. What the hell has gotten into
me? I barely know him. He’s just some arrogant, lying faggot of an ex-Mormon,
who has to use fancy foreign words to give himself a personality. And there’s
me: a fucking star.
And yet...
And yet.
I look to the door of my room. My feet are already anticipating my
decision, tips aimed towards my way to him.
What should I do? What do I do now that I’ve gotten myself into this?
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My eyes land on the TV screen. The anchorwoman is talking about a

restaurant shooting. Brendon is watching the same thing, probably waiting to
hear a knock on the door. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
“You are going to see another first,” the news anchor says. “Attempted
suicide.”
On screen, a young anchorwoman takes out a gun. She shoots herself in
the head. It happens fast. She falls forward onto the table, and the camera films
her twitching body.
She just blew her brains out on live television.
I can’t breathe.
The program switches to a public service announcement.
I’m shaking violently.
The worst thing that could happen.
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II
CHAPTER 1: HIM
I love Pete. He is honestly the nicest, kindest and most unexploitive fucker
around. His unhealthy obsession with the tour bus just goes to show what
makes him such an amazing friend, that he cares that much about our
environment and comfort. It is not at all a slightly sick and twisted fling with a
vehicle. No, it’s heart-warming how he always pats the side of the bus, like
maybe he wishes he could fuck it. Even more than Pete, though, I love Joe. God,
Joe with his amazing blue eyes and funny jokes. Joe, who always has my back.
He is the most altruistic and sympathetic guy ever, never clouded by his ego or
self-seeking. So down to earth. It’s amazing.
Pete and Joe. My best friends. I love those guys.
Joe holds my chin. “Ry?”
I smile at him. The club is full of people. I feel nothing. Finally, finally, I
am numb.
“This is not groovy,” Pete says, snapping his fingers in front of me.
I mean to tell him not to do that, but the world slips into darkness.
I wake up with a hangover from hell, shielding my eyes and blinking at the
room I’m in. I don’t recognise it. Light is coming in from enormous windows,
and I’m lying on a couch in someone’s living room. Humming sounds from
somewhere far away, a peaceful melody I don’t think I’ve heard before. Most of
the time these days, I wake up in unexpected places, so I’m not particularly
worried. I groan and roll onto my side, the world spinning a little. Then
everything just tips over, and I clutch the couch but end up on the floor anyway
with a painful thud.
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“Ow,” I manage and remain where I am, blinking at the ceiling. I feel
nauseous. Maybe I’m going to throw up. Would the owner of this place mind if
I made a mess?
I hear someone approaching, and then Joe comes into view, but he’s
upside down with frizzy locks framing his face. My insides are on fire, throat
sore from singing and shouting and alcohol and weed and cigarettes and a long
list of other things I no longer remember. It’s like someone has taken a fork and
scraped my throat raw with it.
Joe stares down at me. “Breakfast is ready. We need to leave for the
airport in half an hour.”
Then Joe is gone, and I am left blinking. Airport?
Standing up is surprisingly difficult. Gravity, damn gravity. Once up, I
realise I’m in Joe’s living room. He’s got a nice house that he bought last year
with band money. I haven’t been here in a long while so I initially head the
wrong way, stumbling into a music room with a dozen guitars on the walls.
This could be my house, but I’ve stuck to the small apartment and the chaos. I’m
not sure why I’m so reluctant to accept the changes brought on by the band’s
success. Having money is a welcomed change, and yet...
I stop by the kitchen doorway, seeing Pete and Joe sitting by the table,
talking to each other in hushed voices. I catch ‘on a bender’ before they spot me.
“Ryan,” our manager says, motioning me to sit down. “You want some
scrambled eggs?”
I gag involuntarily at the thought of gooey eggs on my plate, hand
flying over my mouth. I close my eyes and wait for the nausea to pass, furiously
shaking my head.
“No, then,” Pete says, trying to laugh it off though he sounds far from
amused.
Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. Joe gives me a glass of orange juice
mixed with vodka, and it’s exactly what I need. I’m glad he remembers that
from the life before. It takes me forever to understand what Joe meant about us
leaving for the airport, but then it hits me. Back on tour. We’re flying to
Tennessee.
I tighten my grip of the glass. Already? But I just- I just got back to LA
yesterday. It feels like yesterday. Unpacking my things, finding a shirt in my
bag that wasn’t mine at all, but belonged to –
Already? No. I don’t want to.
“What happened last night?” I ask eventually, my voice rough. I’m
supposed to be singing to thousands tonight. My voice is shattered. The alcohol
wells in my stomach, a constant churn reminding me that I’ve been doing things
I can’t actually recall.
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“You can thank Pete for that,” Joe says calmly. “He spent two days
tracking you down.”
“Huh.”
So I’ve definitely been on a bit of a bender. I didn’t mean to, not exactly.
There was always just another party to go to when the last one ended, someone
wanting to give me a free ride. I never really understood how handy being
famous was until now, how convenient it is to be at the top of the charts.
Fame is never overrated.
Jac comes to Joe’s house right before we have to leave, bringing two
suitcases. She packed for me. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed,
insulted or flattered, so I end up going with thinking that at least she’s saved me
the trouble. They clearly expect me to go through the bags to make sure it’s all
there, but I’m not bothered. What I don’t have, I’ll get on the road.
Jac and I bid our longing goodbyes while the taxi waits outside and Pete
impatiently keeps looking at his wristwatch. Jac and I haven’t spent much time
together, drifting apart for no obvious reason. We’ve still gotten together,
laughed and fucked and fought, which surely is proof of our coupledom. But
I’ve been busy partying with new friends, and she’s been busy designing clothes
and doing things I don’t want to know about.
I’m pretty sure she’s still fucking Brent on the side too.
“Rock them for me,” she says as a goodbye.
I wink at her. “You got it, babe.”
I wonder if I come across as smooth as I think. Probably not. I most
likely look like an underweight, withdrawal-suffering, twenty-something rocker
with a hint of self-destruction to perfect my image.
Brent is waiting for us at the airport. He eyes the parting gift Jac gave
me: a red and black bead necklace she herself has made. He probably recognises
it, but he doesn’t say anything. She gave it to me. I hope that stings.
“Okay, you guys, let’s talk,” Pete says when we’ve made it through
security. We’re all present except for Spencer who is making his own way to
Memphis, undoubtedly from Cincinnati where his wife and newborn baby are,
but Brent, Joe and Pete don’t know that. No one knows except for me, and I
have to carry that around with me, pretending nothing is wrong. I have to act
like I don’t know what Jac and Brent are up to, I have to fake ignorance to the
background of one of our roadies who vanished off the face of the earth, from
his loving Mormon family. I know it all, too much, and I don’t think anyone
actually appreciates how much I do for this band.
They have no idea, and I accept my fate silently, bitterly, resenting it,
the carrier of unwanted secrets.
“Who’s excited about the second leg of the tour?” Pete asks as we sit by
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Gate 14, waiting for our flight to be called. We stand out in the crowd: me with
my long locks curling around my face, Joe with his big, frizzy curls, Brent with
his dark brown hair going way past his shoulders. “We’ll have so much fun!”
Pete enthuses, checking his papers as I contemplate if it’d work for my benefit to
go to the toilet and stick my fingers down my throat, forcing myself to throw up
before we board. “We’ve got a day off in Denver! Groovy, right? Oh, in Dallas
we’ve got a photo shoot. Time for some fresh pictures! And I don’t know about
you, but I’m looking forward to Salt Lake City!”
“What exactly is there in Salt Lake City?” I ask sharply.
Pete’s brows knit together. “Well, uh... I always thought there’d be a
lake? With salty water?”
Joe and Pete start discussing if there actually is such a thing, and Brent
says, “There are just Mormons, man, banging away at their seven wives.”
Is that supposed to be funny? It’s not. Joe laughs, but of course he
would with his horrible sense of humour. I’m sick of Brent and Joe. I’ve known
them for too long. We’ve heard all the jokes and stories. There’s nothing new to
share, absolutely no innovation. We need new blood. New ideas. I need to
regenerate myself somehow, and this is the wrong crowd for it. Going on tour
will solve nothing.
And he will be there.
Fuck, I don’t want to sober up.
“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” I inform my companions and
follow the restroom signs. My entire body feels weak, like I haven’t gotten any
rest since the last show. I’m not mentally or physically prepared to go on tour.
I’m still on my way to the restroom when I spot a familiar face in the
crowd, among all the people coming and going, holidays, business trips,
honeymoons. I stare, my brain trying to grasp the sudden appearance of
someone I wasn’t expecting to see.
The man doesn’t notice me, but I hurry after him, hand landing on his
shoulder, and he swirls around with a surprised expression. “Ryan.”
“Jon.”
We stare at each other.
“What you doing in LA?” I ask, knowing that the last time I saw him I
told him to go fuck himself, but it’s a small world. We can’t bump into each
other like this and not talk, can we? We were buds. For a few days. We clicked.
Why did we stop clicking again?
Jon Walker remains an outsider in many ways, but I’d rather talk to a
hateful stranger than a resentful friend.
“We were here. The band?” he clarifies, and I spot Tom in the distance,
looking our way and then pretending he wasn’t. Doesn’t want to talk to me,
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obviously. “We’re flying home now.”

Summertime is always hectic for bands. Kids just want to get out, drink,
fuck and listen to music, and we’re flying and driving across the States to
entertain them. It’s not like Canadian History is incredibly famous, but they’re
somewhere in the ‘oh yeah, I think I’ve heard of them’ category, struggling to
make it. Ten bucks says they won’t.
“That’s far out. We’re heading to Tennessee, going back on tour after a
break.”
“Okay,” Jon shrugs, and it kills the conversation. He looks at me like he
is waiting for the punch line. I’m just being polite: we did tour together, after all.
I wish I could pretend that I no longer remember why we fell out, but I do. I
know he does too. Their drummer started shit with us, and then said drummer
got bottled by us, and Jon lied to me and I hated him for letting me see light
where there was none, and I don’t know what to say to him now.
I’m not really angry anymore. Surely we can now take a step back and
have a good chuckle about it all.
“So Canadian History is doing okay?” I ask when it’s all I can come up
with.
Jon opens his mouth, but then Cassie appears by his side, as beautiful as
ever, giving me a cold look. “Ryan. What a coincidence,” she says coolly, and
Jon wraps an arm around her shoulders. They form a wall, making damn sure
I’m not getting through.
“Yeah, small world. We’re going on tour and stuff,” I repeat.
“Oh!” she says and suddenly smiles genuinely. “Is Brendon here?”
I take a step back. There it is.
“No. He’s not,” I manage, and I dare a look at Jon, whose mouth is now
a thin line. “Look, about that –”
“If you’re gonna have another go at me for supposedly outing Brendon
for being gay, then don’t bother,” Jon grunts. “Your band had more issues with
it than we ever did, even if Nate lost control that night. I never told a soul,
alright?” Jon says firmly and with slight anger. He looks up when a female voice
crackles through the speakers. “And that’s our flight being called. Have a good
life, Ryan.”
I stare after Jon and Cassie silently, who walk to Tom, and then Tom
shoots a dirty glance my way. I remember Brendon grabbing my hand and
pulling me along after we bottled Nate, how Brendon laughed and how that
made me feel, how it was soothing. That’s before anything had even happened.
I scoff and look away. I didn’t want to be Jon’s friend, anyway. I’m the
star here. He should be flattered I gave him the time of day in the first place.
I hear a soft melody echoing in my head, and I recognise it as one of the
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songs Jon and I wrote. It was a good song. We could have been something, me
and him. The spark was there to make music. Amazing music. And Jon is stuck
with mediocre musicians, and I’m stuck with three ungrateful assholes plus
Pete.
It’s not right somehow.
Pete comes to find me, clearly convinced I had taken off. We board the
plane, and I try to sleep during the flight.
I’d call Jon and work things out if it weren’t for the fact that he’s a liar
like the rest of them. I really wish he wasn’t.
The bus doesn’t have a name, though we keep debating about it. Pete wants to
call it Betty the Bus, which has got to be the gayest name of all time. Joe and
Brent demand it be called The Love Wagon, and I personally just don’t care. It’s
parked behind the venue, and I swear Pete hurries his steps to get to it and pat
its side lovingly. That month spent apart must have been really hard on our
manager.
“Now she’s been cleaned inside and out during the break, so
please, please, don’t make a mess,” Pete implores as the door opens, and the
three of us ascend the steps, suitcases with us. The bus is exactly like I
remember it, except it looks nearly as shiny as it did on the first day, the first
time I got on it and met –
“A month on this thing,” I say disdainfully, and the bunk door opens,
revealing Andy and Zack.
“Hey, you’re here!” the guitar tech smiles, and we do one-armed hugs
before my band settles down discussing the show tonight. I keep looking
around for him, but he doesn’t appear to be on the bus yet. Good. I don’t want
to see him, anyway.
Spencer appears from the bunks. I flinch without meaning to, and he
holds my gaze, trying to smile. “Hey, guys,” he offers, but not very cheerfully.
He doesn’t want to be here. I don’t look at him as I take my bags and head for
the back lounge, which is also my nest. It’s where I go hide, and it’s the only
decent thing Pete Wentz has ever done for me.
I haven’t seen my former best friend since Tampa. I’ve gone a month
without talking to Spencer. I haven’t done that since I met him as a kid. Well,
I’m fine. Surely everyone can see that I’m fine and don’t miss him one bit.
I take my time in the nest, puffing pillows and sitting down, feeling the
mattress under my ass, giving me some kind of ground. My hands shake
slightly as I come down from whatever I’ve been taking. Right now, I want to
sleep forever. I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling, hearing the guys
talking. I try to pick out one voice, but either it’s not there or I can’t tell it apart.
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Then I hear Pete’s loud, “Okay, guys, let’s start setting up the gear!”
I try to get some sleep before I get dragged to soundcheck, but my body
is too wired, my skin anticipating something my mind refuses to think about. A
touch. Hands. Hands that have haunted me for weeks now.
I’ve had time to think about Brendon. Too much time, maybe. But
really, I don’t want to be stuck on this bus with a lovesick fag for weeks on end.
I shouldn’t have fucked him. It just gave him the wrong impression and who
knows what he thinks is going on with us. Nothing is. God, it’s going to be such
a bore having him swoon whenever I walk into the room.
A firm knock sounds on the door, followed by Joe’s voice. “Ry, let’s go!
Soundcheck!”
The venue fits ten thousand people. It’s sold out. Pete says that all the
shows for the rest of the tour are sold out now, and I try not to think about the
implications of it, how this is only the start, how we’re still on our way. I know
kids have been queuing outside the venue since morning to be front row.
“Here you go,” Pete says as I walk on stage, and he hands me the tour
pass. I reluctantly put it around my neck. Back to the chains I go, willingly too,
and that makes me the fool.
The roadies are on stage, our gear ready. My palms are sweating, and I
wipe them against my jeans. There’s William, curly locks down to his shoulders,
wearing light blue bell jeans that are too tight for him and a floral shirt that
looks pretty fashionable. And if William is there, then Brendon must be – not
here.
“Where’s Brendon?” I ask spontaneously. He’s nowhere to be seen. He
wasn’t on the bus, and he’s not in the venue. Something hard settles in my
stomach.
“He’s not here,” Pete informs me. “But don’t you worry about that. You
just focus your energies on the show.”
“What do you mean he’s not here?” I persist. Is he out getting Brent
some grass? Is he back on the tour bus after having seduced a venue worker?
Where the hell is the fucker?
“We, um. Don’t know where he is. He was supposed to fly in yesterday,
but he didn’t, and William called the motel he was staying at in San Francisco,
but he’s not there anymore, so we don’t know. But I’ve got it covered, don’t you
worry. We can get someone to take his place if need be. I know you two were a
bit friendly –”
“No. We weren’t,” I correct him, quite possibly snapping at our
manager, and go get myself a guitar.
He’s not here. He is nowhere to be found. Wouldn’t be the first time he
disappears, so really, this is not alarming. Whatever. Maybe he’s gone again,
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moving onto a new city, doing something different, like a chameleon, and I will
never see him again. Vanished. Just a random figure I knew for a handful of
weeks.
Or maybe he got caught with his pants down in the wrong place. Maybe
his body is in a dumpster somewhere, after being beaten up and raped –
“Did you hear about Brendon?” Spencer asks me, swirling drumsticks
in his hands.
“Sure. Whatever.”
Spencer doesn’t have the right to talk to me.
“Well, who the hell is going to look after my gear now?” Brent demands
loudly, eyeing the roadies angrily.
William pipes in with, “Look, I’m sure Brendon will show up! He
wouldn’t walk out on us, you know?”
“Like fags have morals,” Joe points out.
“Brendon’s love life has nothing to do with his morals!” William argues
fiercely, and Joe snorts, probably at the mention of love. Yeah. Since when did a
deviant lifestyle of sodomy equal love? Brent mouths ‘closet case’ to me,
nodding at William, and I chuckle because he is so right. Then I realise Brent
really doesn’t have the right to talk to me either.
Pete tells everyone to relax and smile, and his voice is more desperate
than I’ve ever heard it. He clearly wasn’t expecting this on the first day back. In
a few weeks’ time, maybe, but not yet.
“I will take care of it. You guys focus on the shows,” Pete says with
surprising conviction. We all give Pete a hard time, me more than anyone, but I
know the rest of the guys trust him one hundred percent.
Against my better judgement, I decide to trust him too. Maybe he can
revive Brendon, who is not mutilated in an alley somewhere because this is not
the time or the place to be openly gay. Brendon just missed his flight. That’s all.
Pete will take care of it.
The soundcheck is a lifeless affair where we try to remember how it all
works after our break. We manage to keep it professional, deciding to introduce
a few old songs to the setlist and discard a few others. Just so that we don’t die
of boredom.
Not all venues offer proper food, and mostly, we live off snacks like
mini-sandwiches or candy and cookies. Mid-South Coliseum has a proper
catering facility in the backstage area, reminiscent of my high school’s cafeteria
except with only a handful of small tables. I sit by myself and stuff mashed
potatoes into my mouth, absently reading the Hemingway I found on the bus.
The first page has got a wide scrawl of ‘B.B.U. 1974’ in the top corner. I keep
wondering what the other B stands for. Bill. Bob. Benjamin. Barry.
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I can’t relax. I’m bracing myself for a, “So sorry I didn’t get here until
now!” from the direction of the door but it’s not happening, and I get more
restless.
I didn’t want to see him, anyway. But point is that he’s not here, and
that annoys me more. Who does he think he is?
Spencer, Joe, Brent and Andy occupy one table while Pete, William and
Zack sit around another. The most worrying thing is that we probably didn’t
even think about where we’d go sit. We did it subconsciously, and I chose the
table far away from the others. My three bandmates chose to join forces and
leave me be.
I sigh and put the book down. Brendon will show up. I refuse to accept
that all I have left of him is this stupid fucking book.
But then it’s late in the day, and we walk on stage to the lights and
screams, and Brendon isn’t there. I haven’t had a drop to drink since the orange
juice and vodka mix in the morning, and it’s horrifying to be this aware of the
crowd. Joe is already screaming, “Good eeeeeeevening, Memphis!” into the
microphone, making them cheer louder.
I strum a few chords, checking the sound, before walking to my own
microphone, dead centre, lights on me, them all watching me. It’s like they are
holding their breaths for me to address them: my followers.
I say, “The last time we played a show, Nixon was still president. We’ll
dedicate this one to Ford.”
And just like that, I’ve spoken more on this leg than I did on the last one
all put together. It’s my conviction that, if I pretend everything’s alright,
everything really will be alright, and we’re not a doomed army marching onto a
battlefield inadequately equipped.
It’s a hot day in Nashville, and we can’t stay on the bus-turned-sauna even if
we’d want to. I sit on a bench at the back of the venue, which is thankfully an
enclosed area. The guys are messing around with a frisbee, and behind the
fence, fans are watching them play. Spencer, Brent and Joe already went over to
sign the records the kids passed through the gaps, but they are still lingering
around, cheering and chanting my name. They can see me, and I can see them.
A face off.
Brent jumps up to catch the frisbee, and he instantly throws it in
Spencer’s direction before turning to me. “Ry, you don’t want to play?” he asks
me, slightly out of breath. Sex with my girlfriend not keeping him in shape? A
shame, that. When I don’t respond, he adds, “You should go sign records for
those kids. Don’t be an asshole, you know?”
“Thanks for the pointer,” I note, standing up and stuffing my hands into
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my pockets. The kids cheer loudly, maybe thinking I’m finally going over. Sure
thing I will.
I tell Pete I’ll be back in twenty, that I just need to stretch my legs. When
I get to the guarded gate surrounding the venue, I flash my pass to the security
guy and am faced with the kids who ran to the gate when they saw me on the
move. There are seven of them, and they gush and stutter. I feel vile.
“Could you sign this?” one of the boys asks, handing me Boneless. We
did decent music before this album, thanks.
“I’m not in the mood today. Just leave me be, alright?” I ask tiredly,
turning my back on them.
“I just want you to sign it!” he calls after me desperately. “Ryan! Please?
I love your music, man!”
I pretend not to hear.
They don’t follow me.
Brendon didn’t show up last night. We waited around after the show,
but he never arrived. William is making excuses, and Pete is stressing out, and
I’m slowly realising that he isn’t coming back. I didn’t want to see him, anyway,
so that’s good. But the question is why. Did he get bored of being this version of
him? Is he going to try and be something else this time, a plumber in Santa Fe,
perhaps? Maybe he does this every five years, reinventing himself, and he
didn’t even bother to give the friends he had made a warning.
Was it me?
Maybe he fell in love with me. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe he is
trying to punish me, but did he honestly think I’d get on my knees and declare
my undying love? He’s a man I fucked out of curiosity and boredom. I could
never love a man. Maybe he thinks that this will make me repent, this will mess
me up further. He can keep on wishing. I won’t let the idle tantrums of some
random one-night-stand get to me.
I realised something the past month, which is this: I don’t need to give a
shit about anyone anymore. I am beyond that. Fame gives me status I didn’t
realise I could exploit. They will let me do whatever I want: scold them, fuck
them, laugh at them, and if at some point they disapprove, they roll their eyes
and say, “He’s Ryan Ross.” It’s become an excuse.
All fucked up kids just need a bit of fame and a dash of good looks to
make their shortcomings come across as accomplishments.
They think I’m charming. And now I can do just about anything, like
screw a guy and never call. I won’t feel guilty for him.
My eyes land on a street sign that tells me I’m on Gay Street. It feels like
it’s mocking me somehow. Thanks, Nashville.
I stop to light a cigarette, eyeing the street and wondering if there’s a
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chance to get high before my return to the venue, and then I spot him.
Right on the other side of the street in brown corduroy pants and a
cream button up neatly tucked inside, a matching brown jacket unbuttoned and
huge sunglasses over his eyes. He’s got a suitcase in his grip, and he’s looking
up and down the street. I stare with my hand cupped to protect the flame from
the wind, and I don’t flinch until the blaze starts prickling my skin.
Him.
I check the street for traffic, and deciding that they will most likely
brake, I make a dash for it, crossing the street and earning angry honking from
both directions. Brendon’s already walked further, but I catch up with him
easily.
“Hey!” I demand loudly, but he doesn’t react. I follow two more steps
in his wake before grabbing his shoulder and quickly forcing him to turn
around. “I’m talking to you!” I snap, giving him a small shove backwards as I
let go of him.
Brendon seems startled as he removes his oversized sunglasses. “Ryan!”
He sounds relieved. He’s relieved? “God, I’ve spent twenty minutes trying to
find the venue! The locals keep pulling my leg. I know I’m close by now, but –”
“It’s around the fucking corner.”
“Oh.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to tell me where he’s been. He just looks
confused, and his eyes – there’s something wrong with his eyes. They’re red. He
hasn’t slept in a while, that’s for sure. His chin is covered with at least a week’s
worth of stubble, not quite long enough to be a beard yet. He’s not smiling. He’s
blank.
“Where the hell were you last night?” I snarl when he doesn’t open his
mouth. My heart is beating wildly in disbelief that he’s here. And how dare he
miss the start of the tour and have us all worrying? Have us going out of our
minds? Didn’t he realise I’d drive myself up the wall?
“I got held up. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You think that’s gonna be good enough?” I snap. What if
something had happened to him? God, did he even not stop to think?
Turns out that ‘sorry’ is good enough. William instantly jumps on
Brendon when we get back to the venue, asking the questions we all must be
wondering: what happened, where he was, if he’s okay. William notes Brendon
doesn’t look good. (He doesn’t, he looks tired and pale. His sunglasses now
cover his red eyes.) Brendon says the same thing: he got held up. I know my
band is pissed off because it’s unprofessional, but Pete just says that at least now
we don’t need to train a new guy and that there’s someone to look after Brent’s
instruments.
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“We’ve got enough band members vanishing without having to worry

about you,” Joe snaps, and for once I agree with him, even if he took an indirect
stab at me.
“We need you on stage in ten,” Pete informs the roadie, who nods in
defeat. He looks like he could do with a nap, and I know I could easily tell Pete
to cut him some slack, let the kid rest, but I don’t. He was late and is still
employed. That’s all the special treatment he is going to get.
Brendon gets on the bus, and I resume my seat on the bench, the kids on
the other side of the fence now even more numerous. I start chain-smoking, eyes
focused on the bus. Brendon comes back out shortly, now in fresh clothes. He’s
got his tour pass around his neck and a roll of duck tape in his grip, and he
heads for the back door unseeingly, eyes nailed to the ground.
Look at me. Turn your head and look at me.
He doesn’t.
White arrows have been painted onto the backstage floor, leading the way from
the dressing room to the stage so that we don’t get lost. Andy has started adding
a taped note onto the monitor on my left with the name of the city we’re in. I
watch Brendon tear it off, crumbling ‘Nashville’ and throwing it offstage for the
cleaners to deal with. The venue smells of sweat, the space where the crowd was
half an hour ago now littered with cups.
All the band needs to do these days is get off the bus, hang out in the
dressing room, do soundcheck, wait around, play the show, get back on the bus.
We don’t need to bother with how the gear gets on stage, how the guitars stay
stringed and tuned. I don’t need to watch the roadies clean up the mess when I
could be getting high or banging a groupie somewhere.
I have no reason to be here, but I am.
I was right about the guilt-tripping thing. That’s what Brendon is trying
to do with his lifeless zombie act, make me feel like shit because I promptly put
us fucking into a safe that I then threw overboard.
“Coming through,” Zack says, rolling an amp case off stage, the tiny
wheels squeaking as he pushes it along. I step aside to give him space and keep
the cigarette to my lips.
William is packing away the drum kit, but he keeps watching Brendon
with concern. I was worried for a while, but only out of instinct. Someone
around you is upset, of course you feel upset too. Now, though, I just think it’s
funny. It’s like he’s walking around with his heart hung around his neck for
everyone to see, big puppy eyes with a naïve ‘how could you do this to me?’ on
top. And he thinks that by ignoring me, I will feel so bad that I’ll elope with
him.
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Jesus Christ, could he just get over it?

Maybe I just rocked his world so hard that he can’t forget the most
amazing orgasm of his life.
Andy hauls guitar case after guitar case off stage. We’re travelling with,
what? Ten, twelve guitars? “Bren, I need the basses,” Andy calls out, and
Brendon nods hurriedly, slightly dirty hair flopping in front of his tired eyes as
he kneels down next to a bass case, placing Brent’s Fender in it carefully,
stuffing the strap to the side. He pulls the lid down and clicks the several locks.
I stand up straighter when he heads over to me, a bass case in both
hands. The muscles of his arms are tense, jutting veins visible under the pale,
smooth skin. He glances at me as he passes, but he doesn’t say anything.
I inhale deep, ignoring the dropping sensation in my guts. Pete appears
on stage from the other side, and he hurries over to me. “Ry, you go have a
drink and rest. We’ve got this.”
“I’m making the kids wait,” I respond. A whole crowd of them is
outside the venue gates, waiting for the band to emerge and sign something. I’m
not a star if I go over without making them squirm, am I?
“We should talk about Europe soon,” he says.
“Hmm, yeah. Well, you see it’s a continent. Eurasia geographically, I
think. The cradle of civilisation. We owe it all to the Romans, if you ask me.”
“I meant the European tour,” he chuckles, but I freeze. What European
tour?
Pete doesn’t clarify, he just walks on with a stupid, happy smile on his
face.
No. Seriously.
What European tour?
William walks by, carrying the D-shaped case of Spencer’s bass drum.
“You know anything about a European tour?” I ask him urgently, but he shakes
his head.
I curse and stomp my cigarette to the stage floor, now heading to the
dressing room to clear this up. The arrows point the way, and the note on the
door still says ‘THE FOLLOWERS’. My bandmates are no longer there, though,
having migrated to the bus. I mutter curses as I pick up my brown leather jacket
and pull it on, carding my hair and feeling every muscle in my body tense up.
What fucking European tour?
I have managed to wrap my head around the dates we have left –
twenty-three now – after which I plan to take a long, long break. We played the
UK, Germany and France in ’72, a very humble tour filled with ‘what the fuck is
up with this country?’ wonder as none of us had been abroad before. I have
heard nothing about us going back now that we’re beyond famous. Another
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fifty shows? In varying countries with different languages and cultures and
crowds?
No. Absolutely not.
The door to the dressing room opens, and Brendon walks in,
acknowledging me silently as he goes to a couch with clothes on it and begins
stuffing Brent’s leftover stage clothes into a bag. For a second, I imagine my life
as Brent’s bitch, and I don’t like what I see.
“You know something about a European tour?” I shoot at him angrily.
Brendon stops what he’s doing and looks over at me. “No.”
“Liar.”
His brows furrow. “I really don’t. I got back, like, four hours ago. Trust
me, I don’t know,” he sighs, a hint of sadness in it, and looks away.
“For fuck’s sake, stop moping around!” I bark. “You realise what a tour
like that might mean? Two, maybe three months of more shows? I’ve got more
shit to deal with than your martyrdom, so stop –”
“What?” he asks so, so quietly that I forget what I was going to say.
I don’t like it when he’s sad. When he is quiet and reserved like this, I
feel anguished. He needs to stop and go back to the smiling and laughing roadie
he was before.
“I said stop and get over it,” I repeat. “It was one night.”
His eyes flare up, and there’s the Brendon I know. Not this subdued
hermit who has completely closed in on himself.
He stuffs more clothes into the bag hurriedly. “You know, not
everything is about you. Does that ever occur to you?”
Not really, no.
He flings the bag over his shoulder. “Someone close to me died, so I’m
sorry if I don’t give a crap about your petty tour worries, especially when you’re
just acting like a spoiled brat.”
I flinch. “What?”
Brendon’s jaw clenches tight. He shakes his head and leaves the room. I
stare after him, feeling as if my insides have suddenly frozen.
I know people die. I know.
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CHAPTER 2: IN THEM AND NOT IN ME
I overhear that Brendon spent some of his break with Audrey and Bowie. I
haven’t really given consideration to what he did during that time, but I
certainly didn’t imagine him in similar parties I went to. Of course David would
migrate towards San Francisco. He came out as bi in an interview last year,
didn’t he? I remember the uproar that caused, how it’s still not over and how
righteous American parents are telling their children not to listen to his music.
David’s got balls. It could have destroyed his career if he wasn’t so talented.
It’d ruin The Followers if any one of us was gay and the word got out.
Suddenly, all the lyrics would no longer be just lyrics, but the listeners would
look at them to find all the gay undertones, parents would forbid their kids from
coming to our shows, Christians would be outside boycotting us with hate-filled
slogans for corrupting America’s youth. Everything we do would be connected
to that one band member liking cock.
Luckily, none of us are gay.
Considering Brendon’s sudden mingling with international rock stars,
you’d think he’d be back flaunting it in my face. But he’s not. I don’t know what
to do with his snappy but sad “Someone close to me died”. How do I say I’m
sorry when I don’t even know who it is? And he certainly wouldn’t tell me if I
asked.
I can’t sleep, so I end up listening to the hum of the bus and staring at
the ceiling. I can hear voices, so not everyone’s in bed. Zack is driving us to New
Orleans, and Brendon disappeared to his bunk before we took off, so I know he
is just on the other side of the door. Someone died. That’s why he was late.
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That’s why he was upset. Not me. Not what happened between us.
Maybe it’s an ex-boyfriend. He’s never talked about any relationships
he’s had, but he must have had a few, unless it’s all casual sex. I wonder if
David fucked him. I hope not. David’s wife flew over last that I heard, so he’s
probably trying to play the whole husband thing right now, anyway. Maybe it
was Brendon’s grandmother, but everyone expects old people to die. Brendon
looked anything but at peace with it.
Just then, I hear the sound of a bunk curtain opening, followed by the
soft thud of feet landing on the floor. The steps lead the other way, but I am
pretty sure that was Brendon’s bunk. I haphazardly reach for the wristwatch I
left on top of my pile of clothes; the bus is so damn hot that sleeping in the nude
is the only way to go. I can’t see what time it is in the dark, but it must be the
middle of the night. Brendon can’t sleep either.
I pull the covers off, locating jeans on the floor and pulling them on.
Murmured voices and laughter are floating through my door, sounds like
Spencer and Brent catching up. I hear an excited voice. Joe. My three bandmates
hanging out without me. I have no desire to join them.
Instead, I card my hair and wait for the telltale increase of volume when
the bunk area door is reopened and their voices are louder, followed by quiet
steps all the way to my door where they stop.
I stare at the door, palms sweating.
Brendon’s not climbing into his bunk. He is standing just on the other
side.
I picture him with his knuckles raised, tentatively hovering over the
wooden surface of the door. My eyes dart to the side, to the innocent patch of
wall that he slammed me against before getting down on his knees.
I forgot the way he makes the room feel hotter than it is. He isn’t even in
the room.
This is why I didn’t want to come back on tour.
My fingers curl around the doorknob, ready to open it when he knocks.
I am listening so intently that I could hear a pin drop. No one would notice him
coming back here. We could be discreet.
A sound, and I flinch, my breath hitching.
I hear a curtain drawing closed. Brendon has climbed back into his
bunk.
My fingers loosen around the doorknob reluctantly.
Brendon’s not any better the next day. He looks tired and confused and sad,
playing solitaire crossed-legged on the backstage floor, the cards laid out in
front of him as he hunches over the game. I keep sketching him into my
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notebook, crude lines, crossing out different versions because he keeps moving.
I’m not much of an artist, anyway.
Tours always involve a lot of waiting around. Pete does his best to keep
us entertained, making sure there’s a TV somewhere for us to watch or a guitar
we can play or a party we can attend (though we are not allowed to party too
hard). But despite our manager’s best efforts, we still end up hanging around,
waiting for soundcheck, waiting for the show. Usually, Brendon finds a guitar
and plays his favourite songs. He is talented as fuck. He can listen to the radio,
hear a song once, and then be able to figure it out on the guitar or the piano. I
can’t do that. If Brendon’s not playing, he’s cracking jokes or drinking up with
William. I’ve never seen him playing solitaire before.
I give up trying to sketch him, closing the notebook and sliding it into
my back pocket. The backstage area is busy, our band socialising with Joe’s
admirers who have gathered outside the dressing room. That man always
manages to find a crowd. No, it’s not him finding one, it’s him actively
searching for one. He needs others to feel good about himself. If he got locked in
a room by himself for one hour, he’d probably go insane. Brendon isn’t taking
part and neither am I.
I walk over to our roadie and flop down, sitting opposite him and
crossing my legs. The concrete feels cold beneath my ass. Brendon looks up
from his cards, arching an eyebrow at me.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned any poker yet,” I tell him, fucking up his
game as I gather the cards and start shuffling them.
“I was winning that.”
“Sure you were,” I say with a roll of my eyes. He only sighs. Where’s
the bitchy reply? The snide remark? “Stud poker?” I offer, and he shrugs
indifferently. “We’ll play for cigarettes.” I’m always running low on them,
anyway, and he just shrugs again. I deal the cards, and we start playing silently.
I know I should be worrying about the rumoured European tour. I think
Pete’s been avoiding me all day, knowing I’m going to break his neck if I find
out there is some truth in it. But right now, all I can think about is the man
sitting in front of me.
I hear someone say my name, and I look over to the guys sitting on amp
cases and other equipment, liquor bottles in their hands, whistling at the cute
cleaner whenever she walks by. I don’t really feel like drinking.
A young woman is looking our way, her long hair hanging to her waist,
and Joe places a hand on her arm and says, “Ryan’s not one for company.” He
says it loud enough for me to hear. Asshole.
“I’ve heard,” the groupie says sadly, eyes lingering on me, and I look
away and focus back on the game. I’ve got that reputation now: the mysterious
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hermit. Somehow, it makes the fans even crazier and the groupies pushier. Like
they could somehow walk in and charm me, take one look at me and have me
figured out. I’d like to think I have more layers than that.
Brendon still isn’t any good at poker. He owes me three packs of
cigarettes when I finally say, “So who was it?” He only stares at the cards
between us. “Who died?”
He scratches his forehead, eyes going between his dealt hand and the
cards on the floor. “My brother. Hey, is a full house better than four of a kind?”
I stare at him silently. “No.”
He says nothing. I chew on my lower lip, and we’re still holding our
cards, but I doubt he’s paying attention. He’s not even looking at his cards now,
instead he’s staring into nothing. I didn’t know what to say when I had no idea
who it was, and I don’t know what to say now that I do. I can’t relate. I was
hoping that it had been a grandparent, for instance, or his mother, since mine up
and left me. But I’ve met my half-siblings two times, and I didn’t grow up with
them, so I don’t know what losing a brother feels like.
Actually, I do. But Spencer’s alive, so I don’t think Brendon could see
how it relates.
“You wanna talk about it?”
He smiles crookedly. “Not really.”
“Thought you didn’t keep in touch with your family.”
Brendon wipes his nose. “I don’t. I should really stop playing before I
owe you ten packs.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I tell him, getting up quickly as he stands up. He’s not
looking me in the eye. “Was he sick?”
“Matt? No. I don’t – He was fixing the roof and fell. That’s what I heard.
Shit luck, right?” he asks, voice too neutral to cover up the fact that he is trying
hard to sound like he doesn’t care. He sounds scared shitless.
“Come on,” I offer quietly, maybe even beckoning, though I’d never
admit to that.
We go to the dressing room, and I snatch the beer bottle that Andy
offers me on the way. I hope it’s not too suspicious, me hanging out with
Brendon like this. But it’s not me hanging out with the faggot as such. It’s more
me not hanging out with them.
The dressing room is empty, though it sounds like Brent is fucking
someone in the bathroom. I wonder what Jac would say to that, if she thinks
Brent is faithful. Poor Jac. She’s the kind of girl all the guys will fuck, but not a
single one of them refrains from screwing someone on the side. It’s like we just
somehow know she has plans of leaving, and when she goes, packing her shit
and heading for the door, she’s not taking a single one of us with her. I’m fine
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with that. I doubt Brent is.

Brendon and I sit in the dressing room quietly, on different couches. We
lean over the coffee table when we pass a joint back and forth. I’m not telling
him to talk about his brother’s death, but neither am I leaving him alone out
here. Whatever. He can soak up some of my energy, but it’s probably not
calming as we’re nearing the time of going on stage again and I feel more and
more anxious.
Brendon keeps staring somewhere far away, not even reacting when
Brent comes out of the bathroom with a brunette who can barely walk. A virgin.
Well, not any more. Her pupils look blown. How old is she? Sixteen? And how
old is Brent? Twenty-three?
“Let’s go talk to Pete,” Brent says, and she follows, trying to walk
without wavering but failing, either from an intense orgasm, which is unlikely,
or from having a thick cock ramming into her repeatedly. She manages a
somewhat straight line for the door, and that’s the last we’ll see of her. ‘Talking
to Pete’ is universal code for ‘Pete, I’m done with this one, get her out of here’.
Pete always does. He’s not that bad at what he does, really.
The rest of the band joins us in the dressing room once the support band
gets on stage. The freeloaders pour in too, and Brent has already moved onto the
next girl. I used to do the same thing, but the novelty wore off three years ago.
Pete is giving us a pep talk on how we’ll be fine and how much we’ll
rock. Brendon has closed in on himself, knees raised in front of him on the
couch. He looks so damn tiny.
“This touring isn’t too bad, is it?” Pete asks tentatively. “You’re meant
for this. I think we could even tour some more this year.” Maybe he thinks he’s
being smooth, but he’s not. At all.
Joe and Brent are nodding thoughtfully, Spencer looks pondering, and I
sit up straighter. “Is this about the European tour?”
Joe’s eyes widen. “We’re going to Europe? Far out! When we leaving?”
“Rock on!” Brent says enthusiastically, lifting his beer bottle. The
groupies, fans and roadies cheer, clapping enthusiastically. The instant buzz is
there, in them and not in me. A girl, who is wearing flower-embroidered bell
jeans with a pink bikini top, hugs Joe, her long blond hair sweeping her bare
back. I think she’s Joe’s regular fuck in this town.
“I’ve missed London!” Joe says with a bright grin, and that’s it. That’s
enough.
I stand up and bark, “We’re not going to fucking Europe!”
Everyone quiets down instantly, wide eyes landing on me. The excited
buzz fades. We had a plan: spend the summer on the road, take the rest of the
year off.
180
Pete clears his throat. “Everyone out except for the band!” He claps his
hands. “Go on!”
I watch Brendon get up from the couch, his soulful, brown eyes locking
with mine for a second before he looks away, shoulders slumped as he heads for
the door.
Once everyone but the five of us are gone, the door closing behind Zack,
Pete motions us to sit down. Brent sits next to me, Joe and Spencer on the couch
opposite. Pete keeps his hands on his hips. He is wearing enormous sunglasses
with brown lenses, and we’re indoors, for god’s sake. I know he is trying to put
a wall between himself and my anger.
“Europe. Thoughts? Concerns? Let’s talk,” Pete says with a confidence
inducing smile. He believes that everything can be solved with words.
“I dunno, man...” Spencer begins uncertainly after a long silence. He’s
got his newborn daughter, of course, but he is not objecting as fiercely as I
expected him to. Joe’s shoulders are tense and he is glaring at me angrily.
“Listen,” Pete says, holding his hands in front of his chest in a calming
gesture. What follows is a long speech he undoubtedly had prepared, one in
which he tells us just how much money we could make there. The money. Since
when has it been about that? Pete promises us luxury treatment, screaming fans,
French groupies, prestige, glory, and it’s Europe. Goodbye, U-fucking-S, we’re
going across the pond.
We’ve been there before, and I didn’t get what the fuss was about.
“I’ve been talking with the label, and we’ve been thinking about this. A
two-month tour, kicking off in October right up to December. You’d be back for
Christmas. Fifty shows or so, the schedule a bit tighter than this one. Think of
the experience. And, also, we’ve been thinking about recording some of the
shows and putting out a live record. Huh? Sounds good, right? The Followers in
Concert! The kids would eat it right up!”
There it is: my fears materialised. The label wants us to conquer Europe.
“No,” I hiss, shaking my head.
“Ry, listen to me! It’d –”
“NO!” I bark loudly, glaring at my bandmates and manager. “This is
not in the contract!”
Pete’s smile falters slightly. “No. It’s not.”
“Then I’m not fucking doing it,” I state simply, shrugging. Brent shoots
me a glare. Oh, he wants to go to Europe, does he? Does he think that’ll impress
Jac? She was in Paris this summer. She has seen the world herself. Brent has to
do a lot more than tour Europe to impress her. He would have to be me, for one
thing.
“This band is not a dictatorship,” Joe snaps, “and I want to go to
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Europe.”
“Me too,” Brent declares.
I stare at them in astonishment. I’m the frontman, I’m the lyricist, I’m the
vocalist. The article last month talked about ‘Ryan Ross and The Followers’,
causing Joe to throw a bitchfest, but they had a point. If I’m not going to Europe,
then no one is going to Europe.
Spencer looks thoughtful, eyes cast downwards. “The experience might
do us good,” he mutters.
“What?” I spit. Spencer wants to go to Europe too? What about Haley
and Suzie?
For the first time since Memphis, I realise that Spencer looks a bit off.
It’s not as obvious as it is with Brendon, who looks like he has been dragged
through hell with his dead eyes and pale appearance. Spencer looks like he did
before: his beard slightly longer, but his hair a bit shorter. Haley always used to
cut his hair and clearly still does. But when I walked in on the Smiths in
Cincinnati, Spencer was so goddamn proud. He looked happy in a way I had
never seen him, when he finally had something I or this band could never offer.
I’ve known Spencer long enough to catch the way his fingers now curl
around the drumsticks in his left hand: uncertainly and too firmly, not with the
easy confidence he has. But if he wants to go to Europe, it’s not the band he’s
unsure about. I know when I’ve seen the same nervous grip.
He’s fought with Haley.
“You can’t tour without me,” I point out, hoping the fight was bad, that
Haley is filing for divorce, that maybe Suzie isn’t Spencer’s but the mailman’s.
She had Spencer’s nose, though, and I wonder what losing that little girl would
do to Spencer. I don’t want that either.
“Are you suggesting the rest of us are replaceable?” Brent asks, the
displeasure clear in his tone. I stop looking at Spencer and find my bassist’s
angry eyes pouring into me.
“Of course he isn’t!” Pete intervenes. “You’re all just as valuable, the
four of you. The Followers needs you all.”
“If someone here is replaceable, it’s Ryan,” Joe now says, and my
eyebrows quite easily lift to my hairline. “We all know he’s the least popular
member.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
Joe shrugs easily, but he looks pleased. “When it comes to the fans, you
are definitely the least popular.”
That is so not true. They adore me. They scream my name in the front
row, wait outside hotels for me, knock on my hotel door in the middle of the
night, offer me beers and joints and sex. Anything for five minutes or a lock of
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my hair. I scoff loudly to make sure everyone present knows that Joe’s claims
are ridiculous.
“They love me,” I state matter-of-factly. During our break in LA, I
noticed just how much they love me. Then I start thinking of the show last
night. The kids kept screaming Joe, didn’t they? I noticed that because it caught
me by surprise.
“Ever since we started this tour, your reputation has been on a
downward spiral,” Joe notes. “They talk, you know. The fans. Call radio stations
to discuss the Followers shows, not to mention now that we’ve got a handful of
kids following us from town to town, our actions have consequences. And they
used to say you were reserved, but now they all flat out know you’re rude and
arrogant. Fans don’t like that, no matter how much of a genius Rolling Stone
says you are. Kids want someone to idolise, someone who embraces them. Not
someone who disowns them.”
“And I guess you embrace them, huh?” I ask irately, and Joe nods. It’s
not a competition for popularity and money. “Music isn’t about those things,” I
argue, but their faces are priceless, like I’ve said that I believe in world peace or
that the communist threat has been exaggerated.
Joe states, “They might let you do what you want because you’re
suddenly as famous as some of the big old names, but that doesn’t mean they
don’t know you’re a shitty human being.”
“Joe, that’s more than enough,” Pete says firmly. The blow is too low for
me to even respond to. I just lean back into the couch, having nothing to say. If
Joe wants to take the one thing I’ve ever loved – music – and make it void, rob it
of its importance to me, then he has reached a new level of assholeness, and I
won’t let myself sink as low as to retaliate.
An ominous silence lands on us, broken only when I say, “I need to take
a leak.”
They don’t try to stop me as I go to the bathroom where Brent fucked a
virgin not that long ago. Pete looks guilty, and even Spencer lets me walk away
just like that.
We were waiting for an explosion. Usually, Joe snaps something, I fight
back, Brent offers a mediocre comment that demonstrates his infinite stupidity
while Spencer pacifies and Pete tries to declare truce. But this one didn’t go that
way.
Once inside the bathroom, I flip down the toilet seat lid and sit down,
burying my face in my hands and closing my eyes. The audience cheers back in
the hall. The support band must have just finished a kick ass song, and I can
hear the commotion through the concrete walls. It’s like a tidal wave, from the
crowd’s open mouths and air-filled lungs, soaring out and onwards, pouring
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onto the stage and running backstage along the corridors, leaking under doors
and roaring in my ears. My hands shake as I fiddle with a lighter, a half-empty
cigarette pack now resting on my knee.
Is this it? I refuse to go to Europe and we break up? Or will they throw
me out? Could they do that? Popularity... It won’t be the same music without
me. I am the main songwriter, so they couldn’t... Would Spencer even back me
up?
I hear my band talking on the other side of the door, but it’s not
argumentative or sympathetic; it’s just murmurs I can’t make out. The support
band kicks into a new song loudly, causing me to almost miss the sharp knock
on the bathroom door. Spencer. Is he planning to be that supportive, sane part
of me? He hasn’t tried stepping up to that role yet.
I inhale the cigarette and sigh, breathing out and watching the smoke
swirl. I locked the door out of habit, and as I stand up, I study my worn out
reflection in the bathroom mirror. My long fingers tremble around the cigarette,
and I focus on it until my hand stops shaking. I brush brown locks behind my
ear with my free hand. The counter is littered with makeup and hair products,
none of which I’ve used. Most are Joe’s.
I lean against the wall close to the door, reaching out to turn the lock
like it’s a particularly hard task. My wrist feels powerless. I hear the soft ‘click’
and it opens automatically, inching forward slightly. I bring the cigarette to my
lips, having prepared a dozen snarky comebacks for Spencer, like ‘So how’s the
married life going?’ or ‘A few states isn’t far enough from your wife, is it?’, but
instead Brendon walks in, closing the door behind himself and locking it again.
“What?” I ask the roadie.
He sighs dramatically but keeps his eyes nailed to his shoes. “I’m here
to talk to you.”
“About?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Pete said that I should come talk to you, said
he thinks I’ve got a calming effect on you.” He finally looks up, his bottom lip
uncertainly between his teeth. “Do I?”
I don’t know if he wants me to say he does. “Do you?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t think I know you well enough to say.”
He leans against the counter. There is something soothing in his
posture, so maybe Pete is right.
I finish the cigarette with one, final drag, dropping it onto the floor and
stomping on it. Brendon looks like I shouldn’t litter the bathroom floor. I ask,
“Would you want to? Know me well enough, I mean.”
Brendon smiles crookedly. “I’m not sure.”
I wasn’t offering, anyway.
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Pete probably wanted him to come in and tell me why a European tour
sounds like a great idea, or talk me into not quitting or at least going on stage.
Start out with something small. Brendon’s not doing it, though. He pushes
himself up to sit on the counter, feet dangling off the floor. He’s clearly content
on us not speaking, but when it comes to him, I can’t hold my peace.
“It’s just bullshit,” I blurt out angrily. “All of this is fucking bullshit. I
need a break, not another tour.”
“I’ve never been outside the country. Well, except for Canada now. But
I think it’d be nice, going to Europe.”
“It’s not like you get to actually see any of the countries. It’s just hotel
rooms and venues except that you can’t understand what anyone says and the
fans are crazier and creepier and the drugs are stronger.”
“I’d love to have a job that enabled me to travel.”
“It’s not a job. It’s a way of life. They think it’s a job, but I know it’s more
than that.”
He casts me a long look. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
He’s probably right.
He leans against the wall by his side, his neck longer as he tilts his head,
dark brown hair shifting in front of his eyes. We keep up the eye contact, and I
feel the bathroom shrinking. “I don’t want to be on this tour either,” he
whispers. It shouldn’t surprise me, but somehow, it does. We all assume that
getting chosen to be our roadie must be the best thing that’s ever happened to
Brendon. “I just want to go home.”
“Where’s home?” I ask quietly.
“No idea. I just...” he begins and breathes in deep. He closes his eyes, a
frown on his face. He licks his lips. He probably doesn’t mean to, or at least he’s
not aware of it, but my eyes lock on the pink tongue swiping over his lower lip
before it disappears. I shift restlessly. God, he’s distracting. “Life feels
insignificant. People drop like flies. You spend- You spend your entire life
trying to be something, and then you just die. For no good reason.” His head
droops as he adds, “I just want to stop thinking about it.”
“Your late brother?”
He nods tiredly, his lips twitching downwards in the corners. “Life,
family, this tour... But I’m stuck here. I just need to deal with that.”
“I’m stuck here too. I could –” I begin, rushing it out too fast like I’m
nervous. I stop myself quickly, but he still looks up, a wondering look in his
eyes. “I could help you take your mind off of those things.” I’m not sure if he
knows I’m quoting him at first, but he must know as his face flashes with a
darker look. I step towards him, my eyes darting to the lock to make sure no one
can barge in. “Would you like that?”
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He sits up straighter on the counter. I can see myself reflected in the

mirror behind him. I’m surprised by how predatory I look.
“That’s not a good idea,” he says, but his voice is lower than it was a
second ago. Good. If he can’t get me out of his head either, then...
I step closer, my hands resting on his knees. He’s got skinny knees; I can
feel the bones through the fabric and skin. God, I’ve waited all this time just to
touch him.
Having sex with him once makes it impossible not to see him in that
light. Even when he’s playing guitar, drinking beer, hauling gear back onto the
bus, he’s not just Brendon. He’s the Brendon I fucked. I know what he sounds
like when he comes, a helpless groan deep from his chest, pupils widening. I
know. And having done it once, I just want to do it again, see how much more
helpless I could make him sound, how hard I could make him come.
“Why isn’t it a good idea?”
Brendon smiles. “Because you’re trouble, Ryan Ross.”
Me? Trouble? Hell, I could’ve told him that. His right hand lands on
mine on his knee, calloused fingertips brushing my knuckles and closing
around my wrist. “And what if...?” he begins but trails off, sounding younger
than he is.
“I’m just offering a distraction. For us both.”
My eyes are locked on his mouth, his full and pink bottom lip. My
stomach burns, my breaths deeper and faster.
“Fuck,” he whispers in disbelief, but I don’t know what he can’t wrap
his mind around: my actions or the lust that I can hear in his tone.
I pull his knees apart without waiting for an invite. He leans forward to
capture my lips as I step between his legs, my hands moving to his hips as I pull
him closer.
Twenty-four hours. I managed to resist him for a day. Really, I should
congratulate myself for showing such restraint.
Brendon’s mouth opens up for me, pliant and unfamiliar. I don’t
recognise his taste, maybe because I told myself to forget. The stubble on his
chin is long, slightly irritating against the skin around my mouth, but I kiss him
harder. I hear the music being played on stage, muddled and muted, and I hear
the crew and the band talking behind the door. Brendon sighs against my lips,
not nearly as aggressive as I am being. I take bites at his mouth desperately,
pulling on his bottom lip until he groans.
My hands are restless on him, his clothes in the way when I want to
touch him. His legs wrap around me hurriedly, his crotch pressed to me. The
last time, his kissing was as rough as mine. Now it isn’t. His hands run up my
arms and to my neck, one cupping the back of my head and bringing me closer.
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The kisses are just as deep and urgent, but not aggressive. They settle hard in
my guts, making my skin burn.
The kiss breaks when Brendon shifts, legs wrapping around me tighter,
pulling me in. “You gonna ignore me afterwards?” he asks against my lips,
voice a rough whisper. I don’t think he knows how erotic his voice is like that.
“Ashamed you fucked a guy again?” He looks at me with wondering eyes.
My hand moves between us, stopping on his thigh for a hesitating
second before going up to cup his cock. The outline of his erection burns hot
against my hand, trapped between his jeans and thigh.
“I can do whatever I want,” I tell him. As long as no one knows. The
back of my neck feels heated. He noticed the shame, did he? But my lust for
him, the desire and the burn, isn’t going anywhere, even if I could barely look at
my reflection the morning after in Florida, thinking ‘You had sex with another
man and liked it. You’re disgusting’. But I didn’t feel disgusted, and that was
why my reflection was taunting me. My peace with the act. Still, there is nothing
peaceful about Brendon: whenever he walks into the room, a war is declared
inside me.
It’s not the sex that’s the problem.
I keep palming him through his jeans, mind racing as I think of what
girls have done for me, what I’ve liked. His breathing is shaky, his cheeks rosy. I
trace the outline of his cock, thumb pressing the underside, index finger
pressing the top. Fuck, I can’t stop now.
“Ry,” he says breathily, one hand on the side of my face. We kiss
hungrily, and I feel his cock twitch beneath my hand.
“Come on,” I rush out, having absolutely no patience. I step back and
pull him with me. He slides off the counter, feet finding the floor. I fist his hair
to bring us together, our lips crashing.
“Around,” I tell him from the midst of feverish kisses. My hands
unbuckle his belt, quickly moving to unzip him and pull his jeans down. He
turns around, and I try not to groan. God, I want him. I look over his shoulder
and into the mirror where a guy who looks like me is standing behind him in a
compromising position. I press my crotch to his ass, trying not to shiver from
lust.
My eyes focus on the large bulge of Brendon’s blue briefs. In the mirror,
I see my hand sliding to rest on his lower stomach, on the stripe of skin exposed,
fingers flexing and wanting to move down to cup him. I stop watching. I flush
myself against him, my nose pressed to the side of his neck, body thrumming.
Brendon jerks and pushes against me, a needy sigh escaping his lips. He must
feel how hard I am. I suck on his neck, inhaling his scent. Want, want, want...
Brendon lets out a guttural groan as my fingers press into the soft skin
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of his stomach. I’m itching to move my hand down to cup him, to feel him hot
and hard beneath my hand, rub him, touch his cock and hear him moan. I don’t,
though.
I take a step back and yank his briefs over his ass. My stomach drops,
my insides dripping with heat. Brendon instantly leans forward, offering
himself to me as he spreads his legs the little he can, his palms pressed against
the counter. He is breathing hard, anticipating. I watch the curve of his back, the
way I can almost see muscles shifting beneath his red t-shirt. My eyes dart
downwards, focusing on his pale behind that is now revealed.
I always thought that I was mostly a tits kind of guy, but god. He has
got the most perfect ass: full, firm and smooth.
My hands fly to my zipper faster than I can acknowledge. Need to get
my cock out, need to be inside him. Now.
Brendon groans at the back of his throat as I take a hold of his hips and
roughly pull him to me, my achingly hard cock now trapped between us and
pressed against him. My pants are down to mid-thigh and out of the way.
My eyes land on the mirror again, and I can see his hard cock, flushed
and curved upwards in front of him. He leans against my chest, his head
dropping onto my shoulder. The view in the mirror is mesmerising – Brendon
in my arms with his jeans pulled down, his chest rising and falling rapidly, me
looming over his shoulder with a dark gaze in my eyes, my starving hands on
him. This one man on display just for me.
I thrust against his ass for friction, and he cranes his neck to kiss me as I
meet him halfway. It’s a dirty kiss. It’s a dirty situation. I hear Joe’s laughter
echo through the door, but it’s the panting, the small gasps and the wet smacks
that ring louder in my ears. We’re rushing it again. Brendon wants to not think
about his problems? Fine. I will provide that with the best ten-minute fuck he’s
ever gotten. Before they get suspicious. Before they come breathing down my
neck, telling me to justify this one, justify Brendon. I can’t.
I break the kiss, my hands on his ass and massaging. I cup him, the soft
flesh perfect to the touch. My cock is pressed between us, the pink head
pointing upwards, a clear drop of pre-come at the tip. Brendon shudders against
me.
“You want me?” I whisper into his ear, my voice deeper than I
expected.
I move one hand to the base of my cock and rub myself against him,
running the swollen head along his crack teasingly. Brendon’s head remains on
my shoulder, and he licks his lips, eyes closed. “Y-Yes,” he chokes out. “Please.”
I wasn’t expecting him to admit it, but fuck, it makes me even harder
that he does.
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I snatch his earlobe between my teeth, sucking on it briefly. “Lean

forward.”
Brendon obeys, leaning over the counter slightly. I spread his cheeks,
my brain humming. The air is thick with want. I have never felt so fucking
urgent with anyone before.
“Use this,” he says hurriedly, turning back and offering a bottle of hand
lotion. Lemon scented. It’s Joe’s, something about keeping his hands soft for the
chicks and for his own masturbation sessions. I take the bottle quickly,
frustrated. Chicks lubricate themselves. Couldn’t Brendon just grit his teeth and
take me?
When two of my lotion-covered fingers slip past Brendon’s tight ring of
muscle, I forget to be frustrated. He moans, trying to keep quiet, his muscles
squeezing around my fingers. He is just as tight as I remembered.
My aching cock is steadily poking his ass cheek as my fingers work him
open. His brows are furrowed as his breathing gets shallower. I poured too
much lotion and it’s too slick and messy, my palm and fingers and his hole
smeared with it, but god. He pushes against my hand needily, my fingers
slipping in deeper. I keep twisting my fingers to get a reaction.
The mirror reflects us, the way he is bending forwards, bracing himself
as he gets fingered. I study him, the way his fingers claw the counter. “You
fucked anyone during the break?”
“Yeah,” he groans, not even needing to pause. Fuck. He licks his lips,
eyes closed.
“How many?”
“Just the one.”
I pull my fingers out. I barely stretched him but I don’t care. “How was
he?” I ask, my mind flashing with images of Brendon getting fucked, him
coming and groaning and shaking. Jesus.
I align my cock with his hole, spreading his cheeks clumsily with one
hand. My cock brushes over his wet entrance, teasing. Brendon pushes back in
vain.
“He was alright,” he manages breathily. “He – Oh. Oh, god.” I’ve
pushed the tip of my cock into him. He freezes up, anticipating the rest. It’s
killing me, how tight he is around me, how I want to ram in the whole way and
thrust and fuck until we come. My palms are sweating as I grip his hips, my
forehead pressing to the nape of his neck as I lean forward to be closer to him.
My thighs are pressed to the backs of his legs, but I am only one inch inside him.
I am barely keeping it together.
“Tell me more.”
“Please –”
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“Tell me,” I order, biting onto his neck where there already is a fresh
bruise.
“In San Francisco. A club corner. Everyone fucks in the corners, so - This
tall guy, muscles and tattoos. He fucked me against the wall.”
I slide in further, making us both moan. Sweat rolls down my neck, my
mind flashing as I picture Brendon’s moans getting lost in the bad music played
in the gay club, the way Brendon pushed back to get more cock, like he is doing
now. I’d love to see him get fucked.
I make sure to look at us in the mirror to capture the moment I push in
all the way. I have no restraint left. Brendon muffles a groan, his expression one
of bliss. He stands up straighter, and my chest presses to his back. My hips
begin to move, smacks of skin on skin as I fuck him with hard, unrefined
thrusts. His head turns to the side, eyes focusing on my face, his pupils blown
and burning. My guts drop. He feels divine.
I focus on staring at the mirror image. That’s me. Fucking a man.
My hair is dishevelled, brown locks out of place and one glued to my
forehead. My mouth is hanging open as I try to get enough oxygen in.
Brendon’s got one hand on the counter and the other around his leaking cock.
He is stroking himself to my thrusts. God, he looks so hot, and my insides burn
seeing myself do this to him. Brendon kisses me desperately, catching my lips at
an awkward angle, but I don’t close my eyes as I kiss him back. I watch us kiss.
That’s me fucking him.
I love watching myself do something I shouldn’t.
Brendon breaks off the kiss when I thrust in deep. “God, I feel so full,”
he pants helplessly.
“Look,” I order, and he seems to become aware of the mirror for the first
time. His blown pupils get even more blown when he sees us.
My hips snap forward, the only part of me moving with erratic thrusts.
My upper body remains still and glued to Brendon, my toes curling in my shoes
and my fingers digging into his hips. Brendon leans to me further, giving me a
better view of him touching himself. He’s far gone right now. His other hand
reaches behind me and lands on my ass, and he draws me in deeper. “More.”
It gets frantic from there. I won’t let myself come until he gets off. My
cock pushes into him, and he’s wet, smooth and so tight. Pleasure, bliss and
ecstasy radiate from all sides. I keep kissing his neck, his ear, anywhere, his lips
when he turns his head before facing forward again. He watches me fuck him,
and I watch myself fucking him.
When I finally let myself grunt, low and dirty in his ear, he moans,
“God, there you are.” Like he was waiting for me to give in to the overwhelming
pleasure. He shifts his hips slightly and his breathing hitches, his barely hushed
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moans that much more desperate. “Watch me,” he pleads as I remember that
there are angles and spots, and now it seems to be just right.
My eyes snap to the mirror, and I fuck him even harder. My hands pull
on him hungrily, his skin, my tongue tracing his earlobe. Brendon is beginning
to shake, and I lift one hand to his mouth, placing my palm firmly over his
swollen lips. His eyes widen and he orgasms, fisting his cock. His muscles
spasm as white come shoots out from the head. I keep watching. He squeezes
damn tight around my cock that’s buried deep inside him. His eyes never leave
mine, even as his face flashes with pleasure, his mouth dropping open beneath
my hand and a dirty moan escaping, coming deep from his chest. It vibrates
against me.
I can let go now.
With that thought, I bury myself as deep as I can go, my orgasm hitting
me before my hips come to a proper stop. I keep fucking his ass through it,
small thrusts to get friction, to feel him better as I climax. I pant against his neck
where sweat is rolling down. I didn’t watch myself come, but I know he did.
I pull out of him the second I know I can without moaning. My cock
feels spent, glistening with lotion and probably my come. I let go of his hips and
unglue myself off of him. His t-shirt has sweat marks on it, his ass is red, his legs
still slightly parted. If I parted his cheeks, I could probably watch my semen
decorating his stretched hole. That thought should not turn me on like it does.
I stop staring when his blue briefs move to cover his ass again. He turns
around, zipping himself up with shaking hands, neck flushed a deep red.
“Damnit,” he curses when his hands shake too much. The bathroom stinks of
sex.
I feel restless, looking around and waiting for the setback as I try to get
my dick back in my pants. An earthquake? A car crash? I mean,
something must happen. Last time I fucked him, I saw someone die. If there is a
god, then that must have been a sign that some deity out there knows what I did
and goddamn disapproved of it. It was punishment. Then again, I watched that
chick blow her brains out, so I don’t think it can get much worse. I can’t stop
myself from wanting him.
Brendon’s mouth is swollen and red, lips still slick with our spits.
“Mahalo,” he manages when he’s properly dressed. I’ve zipped myself up and
only stare back, somehow angered by him thanking me in some stupid
language, by him thanking me full stop. He gets a dark look in his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing. And you too, thanks.”
Brendon quickly looks away. “One minute you want to, the next you
don’t,” he mutters quietly as he now busies himself with wiping the counter
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with toilet paper.

“I want to. When we’re on this tour, we could... We could fuck.”
If Brendon is going to be on that tour bus, I want to be fucking him.
“Casual sex?” he clarifies, now rolling the toilet paper into a ball, having
cleaned his come off the counter.
“If you want to label it.” I focus on not thinking about what I’m saying
or offering. I can scorn myself later. “But no one can know I’m fucking you. That
goes without saying.”
Brendon flushes the paper down. He stares into the bowl, making me
nervous. I just had my cock up his ass, and I feel nervous. There is something
sardonic about that.
“Okay,” he shrugs just as the audience bursts into applause, signalling
the end of the support band’s set. The roar is louder than I thought, making me
realise that covering Brendon’s mouth might not have been enough. I glance at
the door sceptically. “I’m needed on stage,” Brendon says hurriedly. Of course.
He seems closed up as he moves to get past me. I place a hand on his
hip, stopping him. “If we’re gonna be fucking,” I tell him, my voice rough.
I kiss him in a way that is not graceful or polite. My tongue pushes into
his mouth forcefully, brushing over his. He exhales and responds wantonly. It’s
the kind of kiss only two people who are screwing each other can share, one that
shows it’s just the tip of the iceberg. I love the way he tastes. When I break the
kiss, I give him a smug grin. “Am I distracting you yet?”
“Immensely,” he whispers, eyes nailed to my lips. I’ve got him
hypnotised, and I purposefully lick my lower lip. A shuddery breath washes
over my mouth as he leans back in for more, but I step back quickly. He seems
to snap out of it with a slightly bewildered look.
“You should shave,” I tell him.
“So you can pretend you’re kissing a girl?” he asks but his voice lacks
the usual poison. He sounds almost playful, and the wall he put up is gone.
“Because your stubble is irritating the shit out of my skin.” And there
is nothing in the way he kisses that could make me think he’s a girl.
Brendon grins. “Yeah, your mouth looks a bit red.”
I turn around in surprise to check myself in the mirror. I see his smirk
over my shoulder as he unlocks the door and walks out with a lot more grace
than Brent’s coked up virgin. My mouth is red, maybe even a beard burn on my
chin, and fuck. We are so obvious. Fuck.
I hear Pete immediately tell Brendon to get on stage. Does the bathroom
stink of sex? If someone walks in now, will they smell what we did? I wash my
hands and furiously flatten my hair, quickly wiping my mouth before I re-enter
the dressing room. My bandmates are idly sitting on different chairs, Brent
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playing one of my guitars and Joe biting his fingernails. Spencer looks up from a
magazine he’s reading, and I hold my breath, but then he just looks back down.
The roadies are gone.
Pete rushes over to me. “Ryan! Did Brendon talk to you?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
And I fucked him like the only thing that mattered in the universe was
getting off.
“I don’t want to talk about Europe right now,” I say, still on edge, still
waiting for someone to notice what has to be obvious.
“But later, yeah?” Pete asks hopefully, and I nod. Sure. Whatever.
“Groovy,” he smiles, hand landing on my shoulder and squeezing.
A venue worker comes in to tell Pete there’s someone there to see him,
and Pete hurries off. I gingerly take a seat on an empty couch. My bandmates
pay no attention. I can smell Brendon on me.
Didn’t they hear? Didn’t someone say “Oh, those two are taking long in
the bathroom?”, followed by a groan as I pushed into another man, burning
with lust? Clearly not. Clearly, no one noticed anything.
There is no punishment this time around. Leaning back into the couch, I
fight off a smile. Holy shit. I can get away with this too.
The crowd is now chanting for us, but I don’t feel stressed. My body is
relaxed, my mind at peace, mostly still clouded by the thought of Brendon. I can
get on stage just fine.
“Um, guys?” Pete asks from the doorway. We all look at him, and he
rolls his eyes. “There was this stupid radio competition, and the winner got to
meet you guys, so he’s here. I forgot, sorry, but I’ll invite him in, we’ll sit him
down, sign his shit and kick him out in five minutes, alright?”
Brent scoffs. “Sure.” Pete knows we all hate this kind of forced nicety.
“Okay, come on in!” Pete calls over his shoulder, and a skinny teenager
with millions of freckles spread across his face walks in. He’s wearing a
Followers t-shirt and is clutching onto our discography, holding it to his chest:
the self-titled debut album, Her House and Boneless. His eyes widen comically at
the sight of us, mouth dropping open and a long ‘eeeeeerrrr’ coming out.
Joe and Brent exchange unimpressed glances. The kid gives me an awed
and frightened look. He must be around fifteen.
Popularity.
I stand up and address him. “Hey! Come on in, sit down! You want a
beer? You seem to dig our music, that’s cool.”
I’m not sure who looks the most shocked: my bandmates, our manager
or the kid.
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The fan recovers the quickest, nearly stumbling over his feet as he heads
over, eyes shining with astonishment and gratitude. Somehow, his reaction
makes me feel a tiny bit better about myself. I can wrap this kid around my
finger in five minutes if I want to.
If it’s a popularity competition Joe wants, then he can bet his sweet
fucking ass that I will win. After all, I just realised that I can do just about
anything.
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CHAPTER 3: ONE OUNCE OF HONESTY
“Say one good thing about Texas. Go on, I dare you.” I lift an eyebrow at
Brendon, who tucks hair behind his ear and smiles at me.
The makeup artist covers up an irritated sigh as I move against her will.
“If you could just stay still for a while longer,” she begs, and I turn to the mirror
reluctantly. Brent and Spencer are ready, but Joe is still getting his hair done in
the chair next to mine. The girl goes back to applying foundation on my face.
“Cowboys are hot,” Brendon offers, causing me to snort and my
makeup artist’s eyebrow twitch. In the mirror, Brent makes gagging gestures
behind our backs. Brendon doesn’t notice as his eyes are fixed on me. I shift
uncomfortably.
The photo shoot for new promotional pictures is taking place in
downtown Dallas on top of a roof. For some reason, a roof says rock ‘n roll.
Brendon didn’t lose a bet this time; I asked him to come along. He probably
would have come without me having to ask.
“No eyeliner,” I tell the makeup artist fiercely when she picks up a pen.
“But it’d really make your eyes pop!”
“I think it’d suit you,” Brendon agrees.
I glare at the two. “No eyeliner.”
Both Brendon and the girl look disappointed.
When we get on the roof, the wind instantly ruins any attempts made
on our hair. A girl calls us back inside and sprays more hairspray on us, like that
could make a difference. The photographer is some Scottish guy who appears to
be famous. Pete is excited, and he usually knows who is who in these circles,
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and he murmurs to my ear that it’s Iain Macmillan. When I keep staring, he
says, “Abbey Road cover! Family friends with John and Yoko! John and Yoko,
Ryan!”
“I’ve met John. I didn’t like him.”
Joe hears us speaking and joins in with, “I’d call him a right tosser!” His
English accent is more than lacking. “If you asked me, someone should put a
bullet or two in that guy.”
Pete stares at us in shock. “He is going to live forever! And don’t you
dare say anything this radical in your interview this afternoon!”
Joe and I shrug simultaneously. John was an arrogant fucker, but then
again, he probably is rich and famous enough to behave like one. Pete, who
famously passed out at a Beatles concert back in ’65 from screaming too much,
walks away from us angrily.
“Wanker,” Joe remarks, still with a weird accent that makes him sound
more Mexican than English. I still manage to chuckle. At least Joe’s not fucking
my girl or lying to my face. He’s got honest arrogance, and that’s something. He
still has his moments.
The four of us stand in a group, waiting for Iain and his assistants to get
ready. Pete and Brendon are standing by the door leading to the roof, Brendon
nodding as Pete points at us, clearly sharing his vision of what the pictures
should look like.
“Why’s the fag here?” Joe asks from beside me, trying to light a
cigarette, but the wind keeps blowing out the flame of the lighter. Miraculously,
Joe has lost his moment.
“Do you have to call him that?” Spencer asks tiredly. He has always
been the open-minded one among us. I bet I’d win that competition now.
“I invited him,” I inform the rest, looking each of them in the eye,
daring them to say something. It doesn’t take a scientist to notice that the only
person I have been spending time with recently has been Brendon.
Joe mouths “oh” and curses as the wind blows out the flame again.
Brent hasn’t been paying attention as he says, “This one will be it. The
Picture.”
Brent has always talked about an imaginary, legendary picture of the
band, that one shot that will keep the spirit of us alive long after we’re gone,
guaranteeing immortality.
“If so, I wish I could at least be wearing my own clothes,” I mutter. The
clothes were waiting for us when we arrived, representing someone’s horrible
vision of what incorporates our music. We’re all wearing flared black jeans that
come up to our belly buttons with big buckled belts, white platform shoes
visible at the bottom, adding two inches to my height. Our shirts are snugly fit
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button-downs with two breast pockets, all different colours, giving us at least a
bit of individuality. Joe is keeping his shirt undone, the fabric flapping in the
wind, his ribcage shining through the skin when he stretches. Girls will
masturbate to this picture taken of him.
The necklace Jac gave me is around my neck. Brent’s words bore into
me: The Picture. If this is our legacy, do I want to see it in thirty years’ time and
see her lie on me? Iain is now telling us where to stand and how to face the
camera, automatically placing me in front of the others. I hurriedly remove the
necklace, trying to stuff it into a pocket.
“You want me to take it?” Brendon calls out, and I look up to see him
staring at me questioningly. He jogs over as I nod, and I pass him the piece. I
feel strangely naked without it. Brendon somehow reads my thoughts as he
says, “Here.”
I look at his extended hand where he has a simple, thin silver chain. I’ve
seen it around his neck a few times but have never paid attention to it.
“Thanks.”
The chain feels warm against my skin when I put it on.
Brendon is back behind the set with Pete, and Iain says, “Alright, lads!”
It’s clear that Iain has not heard Joe’s undisputed fact of him being the
most popular member now as he places me in front of my bandmates. Halfway
through us shuffling, changing positions, lifting our chins and keeping our eyes
open, Iain says, “Spencer! Your smile is stunning! You should all smile!”
I instantly turn to Brent, who clearly shares my opinion on smiling not
being very rock ‘n roll.
“Um, I don’t smile. I just look cool,” Joe explains, hands on his hips.
“Indulge me,” Iain says impatiently, with the snappiness of an artist
that I’m more than familiar with.
We try to smile, but Iain gets frustrated and Spencer’s genuine smile
turns into a stressed, artificial one. When Iain pauses to change film, we take a
break, the guys rolling their eyes at each other. It’s a few fucking pictures here
and there. I don’t care how it turns out.
“Stay where you are,” Iain requests hurriedly.
The guys stand behind me, waiting, and my eyes find Brendon, who
looks as bored as I feel. No one is paying attention to us: the guys are bickering
and Pete is trying to chat up one of Iain’s assistants, and I let myself stare at
Brendon from across the roof. He looks bored as he puts his fingers onto his
temple, pulling an imaginary trigger. I break into a grin. He looks around
quickly before mouthing ‘bus’, pointing at himself, then at me, and lifting a
rather seductive eyebrow.
Now that I think about it, Brendon is actually a bit of a dork.
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I grin even wider, unable to take my eyes off of him.

Flash.
I blink rapidly, staring at Iain in surprise. He lowers the camera and
hums. “That was the shot. We’re done.”
“You did get the left side of my face, right?” Joe demands dramatically.
New plans have to wait for three hours as we get stuck in interviews. It’s the
same questions on the song-writing process, what we’ve thought of this tour so
far, what it feels like to gain sudden fame and recognition, who Jackie is, and so
on. I sit on one of the thousands of seats in the oval shaped auditorium,
watching the stage being built in one end. A cigarette hangs between my lips as
a pretty reporter extends the microphone towards me to catch my mumbled
words. She’s a philosopher, asking me what rock is, how I perceive it, how it can
change the world.
She’s exactly my type: petite, blonde, full breasts. If I weren’t fucking
Brendon, I’d probably be chatting her up right now.
Roadies and venue workers keep walking back and forth across the
floor, creating a distracting background noise with bangs and shouts. I see
Brendon and William walking from the direction of the stage to our stack of
gear, deep in conversation. The photographer who is accompanying the blonde
thing interrogating me is snapping photos for the article near the stage.
“Is it true you suffer from stage fright?” the interviewer asks with
innocent eyes.
“Who told you that?” I ask, chuckling. Then I add, “I used to.” One
ounce of honesty per day.
“But you don’t anymore?”
“No, I don’t.”
She waits. I blink. She tentatively asks, “Could you... elaborate? When
did this start? What caused it? How did you overcome it?”
I think back to all the bathrooms I have locked myself into this summer,
shaking, trembling and cursing, Spencer’s steady hands on my shoulders,
murmuring encouragements into my ears. One night I was this close to
throwing up from the nerves.
I haven’t done that on this leg. I suppose I’ve forgotten to be nervous.
The crowds still terrify me, but I’ve been focused on other things. Right before
going on stage, I’ve been disappearing with Brendon instead of obsessing about
the audience.
I don’t want to elaborate because I can’t tell the truth.
I spot Joe walking up the stairs into our section of seats, and I ask, “Oh,
you talked to Joe yet? He’s got very insightful views on the universal influence
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of music. Joe! Joe, she wants to interview you!”

I quickly stand up, finishing my cigarette as the flushed girl stutters that
we only sat down three minutes ago. Joe, however, is hurrying over, a grin on
his face. “You want to ask the Trohman a few questions? Sure thing, doll.”
Satisfied with myself, I leave the two behind and descend the stairs,
entering the enormous floor where the crowd will be jumping and sweating.
William and Brendon are next to the semi-finished stage, and I head over.
“What’s up?” I ask them casually while letting my eyes roam over Brendon’s
form quickly and discreetly. He looks good today. What a surprise.
My mind’s been playing a porno loop of me and him since the photo
shoot. Fuck, my skin is crawling by now.
“The shape of the stage is not quite what we had in mind,” William
explains, brows furrowing in deep concentration. “We’re wondering how we’ll
position the monitors. One of them must have broken last night because it’s just
not working. Zack tried fixing it, but no such luck.”
William goes on to share his concerns, but I’m not listening. Brendon is
being attentive, though, nodding his head thoughtfully to his friend’s words.
He’s been better these past few days, more social, definitely smiling. I’ve caught
him lost in his thoughts a few times, a glassy expression in his brown eyes, but
then I manage to pull him out of it with a casual note or a simple poke to his
ribs.
There’s no use thinking about the dead. They’re dead.
“I’m sure you’ll manage, William,” I say impatiently and focus on the
object of my current desires. “Brendon.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me with a blank expression. I try to signal him with
my eyes. He looks confused.
“We should... go talk. Remember? We wanted to talk?” I ask hopefully.
“No,” he frowns, now facing the stage and adding, “If we put two
monitors there, we’re taking a wedge from Brent,” pointing out the places for
the monitors.
“Oh, yeah,” William says worriedly. “What if we put Brent closer to
Ryan tonight, if they could share? Or place the sidefill closer to Brent?”
Fuck the monitors.
“Brendon,” I try again, surprised when there’s a slight whine to my
voice. We could be on the bus by now, sinking into the couch as we tug our
jeans down and out of the way. I could be getting head from the blonde
interviewer right now too, but I’ve decided to go with him. He should be
flattered.
“We need to finish this, Ry,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, and I
just manage to catch the grin he is trying to hold back before his face is
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absolutely neutral again.

I stare in astonishment. He’s being a tease. He is intentionally cock-
blocking me. He knows why I’m here, what I want, and he is making me work
for it.
Doesn’t he know who I am? I don’t need to work for it. I don’t need to
whine or wait around. I could get anyone in this damn auditorium. If Brendon
thinks he can play with me, he can think again.
“Brendon?” I ask again, more demandingly and with just a bit of
desperation now. William gives me a confused side glance.
“Alright,” Brendon grants, flashing William a friendly smile as he
follows me.
We walk side by side towards one of the exits. He doesn’t say anything,
no tension in his shoulders. I chew on my lower lip worriedly, glancing over my
shoulder once, but there is no one around who knows us.
“So,” he says casually, checking his wristwatch. “I think we’ve got
fifteen minutes before someone comes looking for me.”
“Alright.”
We get to the bus in two minutes, just one of the roadies and the
frontman getting on the bus they spend most of their time in anyway, probably
to look for a missing shirt, take a nap, nothing out of the ordinary.
We land on the couch in the lounge, Brendon on top as I kiss him
hungrily. My god, finally. He sucks on my lower lip, letting out a slutty moan as
he grinds against me. “What was that about?” I ask hastily, but he hums in
question. “Monitors?”
He pulls back, hair in disarray. His pupils are slightly blown, his mouth
promisingly red. I brush some hair behind his ear, trying to catch my breath. It’s
only been a few days since we agreed on casual sex, and sadly, we haven’t even
had that much of it yet. It’s practically impossible to sneak away when there are
no hotel nights and we’re constantly surrounded by the guys, but we fucked the
other day and he blew me before our show last night, so it’s been an alright deal
so far, even if I horrifyingly begin to feel like Joe, a self-proclaimed sex addict.
“Important stuff, monitors,” he argues before he cracks under pressure
and grins. “You’re hot when you squirm.”
“I never squirm,” I state, instantly squirming as he grinds against me
again.
I hook my calf over his left leg, keeping him close. The kisses are wet
and deep, our hips working together to find friction. I don’t want a fifteen –
twelve now – minute fuck when I could take all night with him. Can I get off in
twelve minutes, though?
Absolutely.
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I fight my shirt off me, dropping it onto the floor next to candy
wrappers and beer cans. Brendon’s straddling me, his erection visible through
his tight jeans. I pop the top button open, sliding the zipper down, eyes hungrily
following the trail of body hair that starts at his belly button and disappears in
his underwear. God.
“Lube,” he says hurriedly, leaning down to peck my lips before getting
off me. He heads for the bunks, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes, and I
groan, quickly unzipping myself.
Eleven minutes.
I go after him, finding him rummaging his small bunk that is full of
clothes. I kiss the nape of his neck, moving onto his shoulders as my arms wrap
around his bare torso. He lets out a sigh, turning around and attaching himself
to my lips again wantonly and messily. I needily press him against the bunks,
wondering if I could lift him and fuck him there, face to face, if that position
would work.
His fingers slide from my chest up to my neck, over his chain I forgot to
remove, to the back of my head, bringing me closer as the kiss deepens.
“Holy fuck!”
My heart jumps to my throat as I detach myself from Brendon instantly,
slamming into the bunks behind my back. Someone is standing in the open
doorway of the lounge. Spencer is standing in the open doorway of the lounge.
He saw.
“Sorry,” he manages, his face one of complete disbelief and shock with
wide, wide eyes and his face as pale as snow. He swirls around, clearly unable
to look at me.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck,” I groan in disbelief, feeling horror hit me like a
speeding truck slamming into my body. “Wait! Spence, just wait!” I call out,
panicking, wiping my mouth, eyes flying from my bare chest to Brendon’s
unzipped jeans, mind flashing with the way I had him against the wall, our
hands everywhere and our lips locked. And Spencer saw me. With him. “Fuck,
fuck, fuck,” I chant, trying to zip myself.
Brendon’s eyes are wide and fearful. “I’m sure he’ll –”
“Don’t talk to me right now!” I snap. Spencer saw us. He
knows. Someone knows what I’m doing with the queer roadie.
Brendon’s eyes widen even more. I see a fresh bite mark on his neck.
“God,” I spit, shaking my head.
I’m so fucked.
I pick up my shirt off the lounge floor on my way out, throwing it on
me and buttoning it hastily. Brendon calls after me, but fuck him. This is his
fault, seducing me on a daily basis, enticing me, making me fornicate with him.
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I played with fire, and I just got burned.

Spencer’s not outside the bus.
Where did he go? What if he tells the others? What if everyone finds out
what I’ve been doing?
I wouldn’t survive it.
It’s Brendon’s fault. Fuck, it’s entirely his fault.
The first person I bump into inside the venue is Zack, who hasn’t seen
Spencer. Andy knows that he went to the bus to get a book he’s reading. It’s
relatively safe to say Spencer is not on the bus anymore. I look around the
enormous venue, at the seats that surround us, hoping to spot him sitting
remotely somewhere.
Neither can I find Joe anywhere.
A paralysing fear sets in my guts at the thought of Spencer telling Joe
everything. Joe will eat me alive. The one thing I’ve got going for myself in his
eyes is how I have not fucked up royally yet. I’ve just lost that.
I’m about to despair when my eyes land on a directions board, arrows
pointing to different sections of the venue. The venue has conference rooms.
None of us would go there as it only reminds us of record deal negotiations. I
shudder at the thought.
That’s where Spencer’s hiding.
The conference rooms are on the second floor, and I go to the first two
rooms without finding anything except enormous tables with a jug of water and
glasses in the middle. I enter the third room, and Spencer, who is sitting at the
far end of the table, flinches and stands up abruptly.
“Wait!” I tell him hurriedly, closing the door behind me. He is about to
say something, but I hold up my hands, asking him to give me a chance. He
remains silent, but he’s clearly upset. I have to force myself to look him in the
eye. I cannot justify what I’m doing with Brendon. Half of the time, I tell myself
to get the fuck over it and be normal again. “What you saw is –” I begin before
remembering how I walked in on his family, how he said it wasn’t what I
thought it was, lying like a coward. “It’s probably exactly what you think it is,” I
admit, feeling ashamed.
Spencer’s eyes are angry and confused. “How can you – How long have
you…?”
“I just- Look, it’s not that big of a deal. So yeah, I sleep with him
sometimes,” I shrug. “That’s all.”
I try to sound casual, but I can barely breathe. My throat feels too tight.
At least I gave him more honesty than he’s given me.
God, I’m going to be sick.
“That’s all?” Spencer repeats, letting out a short laugh. “That’s- that’s
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everything! The band and the reputation and if this got out, if this –”
“It will never get out.”
“I just walked in on you two! Are you stupid?!”
“And I’ve just been taught a lesson to be a lot more careful! Everyone
who knows is in this room, so how could it get out?” I demand to know. He
doesn’t say that he will leak the information or that he will blackmail me. He
just looks lost and appalled. Appalled. That’s what I should be feeling whenever
I touch Brendon, but I don’t. God, what is wrong with me? “It’s not like it’s a
thing. It’s just sex.”
“With a man!” he snaps. “With another – Have you always been like
that?” he asks desperately before he pales, eyes widening. He looks nauseous.
“Fuck, you’ve seen me naked.”
“What?” I breathe out. “Dude, I’m not- I don’t look at you like that!
Jesus Christ!”
He’s my best friend, I’ve known him forever, we’ve wrestled naked on a
few occasions when alcohol has been involved. He sees me sucking one guy’s
face and this is what he assumes? That I walk around undressing men with my
eyes like I’m one of those promiscuous fags prowling up and down Castro
Street in Brendon’s immoral San Francisco? “God, that’s sick,” I tell him angrily.
“Exactly! It’s sick!”
And therefore I’m sick.
“Have you not been the one telling us to accept Brendon’s sexuality?” I
snap angrily. It’s fine if Brendon does it, but not okay if I do? What a two-faced
asshole.
“My best friend wasn’t fucking him then!” he barks, yelling at me from
across the room.
A surprised silence lands on us. He called me his best friend. He
wouldn’t care about this if he didn’t care about me. Why do I feel this relieved?
Spencer looks taken aback himself, but he shakes it off quickly. He eyes the wall,
jaw clenching. “What were you thinking, Ryan?”
“Look, I’m not gay! One guy doesn’t make me a fag!” I defend myself.
Eric said everyone’s trying god knows what, and we know a few guys who
enjoy both men and women, but we also know that those guys are straight
men who just occasionally fuck a guy. It’s a deviation and should never be
talked of or publically supported. It’s a kink. People have kinks. And I’m
nothing if not straight. “Spencer, come on. You’ve seen me with chicks. You, if
anyone, know how much I dig chicks!”
“Which is exactly why I feel like someone’s just bashed me with a
baseball bat!” he says in frustration, his arms crossing over his chest. He won’t
look me in the eye. “Is this- Is this punishment?”
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“What?” I ask quietly, completely baffled. I’ve never seen him look
defeated like this.
He hesitates, a sorry look on his face. “I married Haley behind your
back, so you decided to screw Brendon behind mine. Because if that’s what’s up,
then I don’t even know. If you’re so angry with me that putting your dick up a
guy’s ass is the only way you feel you’re getting even – Fuck, I don’t want to
think about what you do,” he grimaces, face flashing with disgust.
I swallow hard, willing myself not to tremble. “It doesn’t make me gay.”
My words sound feeble to my own ears. Before this tour, I would have
agreed with him wholeheartedly, that two men fucking is unnatural and
disgusting. One cock too many in that equation. But now that I’ve done it,
everything I’ve known about sex has completely transformed itself. It’s a whole
new world of sexual interaction I didn’t know I’d enjoy. I’ve never been
obsessed with sex, not the way Joe is. I can go without getting any for a long
time. But now, with Brendon? It’s like being inside him is all I can think about.
A constant yearning for his lips and skin and groans, and we’ve only managed
to get together a few times, so I jerk off three times a day now when I can’t have
him. I go to the bathroom, thinking about him, my hunger for him, and I’ve
never been obsessed like this before. I’m not in complete control of my urges,
and it’d be frightening if it weren’t so thrilling. Everything Brendon does feels
like an invitation, and afterwards, I only want him more.
I’ve figured out that it must be lust. I’ve never experienced that until
now.
After a long pause, Spencer heaves a sigh. “So what are you saying?
That you’re bisexual?”
“Bisexual?” I echo.
“Yeah, you know, like David is. You swing both ways.”
“Maybe that kind of an explanation works in Europe,” I snort. You
could never get away with that here. It doesn’t matter you do girls, they will
only focus on you doing guys, and that will probably make you even worse
than a gay man. You prey on the women too while still practising your twisted
behaviour with men. No, being bisexual is completely out of the question. I am
so not that. “I’m straight. I’m Ryan Ross, I fucking love girls and I love eating
pussy, I’m just –” I swallow hard, mind racing, “getting off with Brendon. He’s
on the bus with me. He wants me, so what the hell, you know? He knows
what’s what. We’ve talked about it.”
“You’re not in love or anything?” Spencer asks tentatively.
“With another guy?” I ask, not able to stop the crooked smile from
appearing on my lips. “With anyone?”
He has to know me better than that.
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And he does. He laughs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling now.
“You’re the most twisted fucker I know.”
Something stirs up in my chest, something I haven’t felt since
Cincinnati. Some of the tension in Spencer’s shoulders is gone. He knows what
I’m doing, and he’s still here.
“Just don’t make this more than it is,” I ask him quietly.
He finally approaches me, perhaps now convinced that I don’t want to
have sex with him. I really don’t. Not with him, not with anyone else on our
crew or in the venue. It’s all Brendon in my head.
“Maybe I should’ve known. I mean, you spend all your time with him.
Joe and Brent are making fag jokes, but they’re just jokes. None of us actually
think that you two… fuck. Literally.” He stops a bit further from me than
perhaps he normally would. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he mumbles. “I
just wish I didn’t know.”
That makes two of us. I wake up every damn day wanting to be
oblivious to Haley and Suzie. If I didn’t know and he didn’t know, we could still
be friends.
“I know your secret, you know mine,” I offer.
He nods solemnly. “Then I guess I have to keep it.” He looks restless as
he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Be careful what you’re doing. This is bad,
I can feel it. You fucking that kid is not going to end up well.”
Brendon is probably as old as Spencer is, but we call everyone kids. This
band has taken such a ride that we all have seen more than enough of the world.
We’re older and, in comparison, most of the people our age are just kids. I don’t
really see Brendon like that, though. He’s seen death and he’s seen loss. He’s
seen more than most.
“It’s not going to end up in any way,” I assure him. Spencer’s
predictions are true nine times out of ten, but not this time. “I told you it’s
nothing.” Spencer’s lips turn into a crooked smile, and I look at him
suspiciously. “What?”
“Nothing. If you say it’s nothing, then I believe you. Even if I cannot for
the life of me wrap my head around you being intimate with men –”
“Not plural.”
“One is enough to throw me off balance,” he notes sourly. “I didn’t
know you were inclined to even try. Do what you do, but I don’t want to know.
I mean it. I don’t want to see as much as a look between you two.”
“If it took walking in on us to figure it out...” I note.
“But I know now,” he says worriedly, sounding slightly paranoid in my
opinion. “Just keep it below the radar. Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” I assure him, even if some tiny part of me feels insulted for some
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strange reason. I wasn’t thinking. I haven’t been. The bus is too small and public
for me and Brendon to do anything there. Brendon could be sensible and stop
me when he must know that I don’t think straight when he’s around.
“Alright. Good.” Spencer clears his throat. “And if you say there’s
nothing going between you and Brendon, apart from what I saw, then I’m –”
Spencer shuts up the instant the door to the conference room opens, and
Pete walks in. “Hey, guys!” he smiles, looking at us curiously. “I thought I
heard your voices! Bad timing?”
I sneak a glance at Spencer. “Not at all.”
“You guys sharing secrets?” he asks suspiciously before laughing. “Just
kidding! Ryan, that blonde girl playing to be a reporter is refusing to leave until
you give her a proper interview.”
“Not now,” I instantly refuse.
“Alrighty, I’ll have her thrown out,” our manager assures us, still
smiling widely. He stares like he’s waiting for something, but when it doesn’t
come, he adds, “You guys can confide in me, you know. You’d be surprised just
how aware I am of everything that goes on around here. Leave it with me, boys.
I’ve got you covered.” He winks and taps his nose.
My god. He’s looking at the drummer, who is secretly married and has
a child, and the frontman, who is conducting an illicit homosexual affair. Pete
has no fucking idea, has he?
“We were just... talking about our birthdays. Probably throwing a joint
party when we get to LA,” I offer.
Pete’s eyes light up. “What a great idea! Oh, you can leave that with me,
I’ll throw you two the best party!”
“Fantastic,” Spencer says, and we awkwardly follow Pete out of the
room. Pete inquires what kind of a birthday bash we have in mind, informing us
that when he called the label yesterday, they already had four boxes of presents
fans have sent us.
Spencer looks at me wearily, and I try not to feel like his suspicion of me
has wounded me deeper than I thought possible.
Andy is driving us to Oklahoma City, loudly lamenting how he can’t drink as

he’s on duty and that he will pass out from withdrawal before we hit the state
line. The rest of us are in the lounge, waiting to take off, except for our manager
and Brent’s designated roadie. My attention is focused outside where Pete and
Brendon are talking. Brendon’s got his back to the bus so I can’t see his
expression, but Pete’s got his business face on. He uses it whenever he talks
about the label to me.
What are they discussing that they couldn’t talk about as we’re driving?
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Joe says a pondering, “When we tour Europe, we need to finish up in

London so we can stay there for at least a week afterwards.” He keeps talking
about the theoretical tour to annoy me, but right now, I’m distracted.
Pete offers Brendon a cigarette, and they begin to smoke. Andy is
impatiently drumming the wheel and singing our Six in the Morning, waiting for
the two missing crew members to get on the bus so we can go.
The couch dips next to me and Spencer’s voice mutters, “You know,
staring isn’t particularly the best way to keep it under the radar.”
I glance at him briefly. “Words spoken by a professional.”
“Just giving tips on how to be non-conspicuous.”
I turn to face the lounge, heaving a sigh. Since when have I cared what
orders Pete gives to one of our roadies? It’s not like I take special interest in
Brendon. My only interest there is making sure that Pete doesn’t put too much
pressure on him. His brother didn’t die too long ago, not that they know that.
We don’t need Brendon to crack under pressure.
I glance at Spencer casually. “So what did you and Hales fight about?”
He flinches, and I try not to smirk. I can still read him as easily as ever.
It’s not often a recent father volunteers to go to Europe and not spend his time
gushing over his daughter, but even if he was against the tour, I could tell
something’s wrong from the restless look in his eyes. His thoughts are probably
repeatedly stuck on, ‘What did I do? Was it something I said? Is she still mad?
Should I call her?’
“Everything,” he replies, and I quirk a surprised eyebrow. I was not
expecting a straight answer. He lowers his voice as he leans over slightly,
sneaking a glance around the lounge. “Truthfully... we’re kind of on a break. It
just felt a bit too intense, you know? I mean, I adore her and Suzie, but it’s like
she thought us getting married would mean all these changes, and I’m not
ready to give up quite as much as she wants me to. So. Break.”
“Can married couples go on breaks?” I didn’t know they could.
“Sure. I think,” he frowns. He clearly doesn’t have anyone else to talk to
if he’s telling me this. It’s not like anyone else knows his secret. “It’s 1974. I’m
pretty sure married couples can take breaks,” he concludes thoughtfully.
The engine starts up, and I instantly turn to see Brendon and Pete enter
the lounge. Brendon glances at me and Spencer before he mumbles, “I think I’ll
just go to bed. Night, guys.” William asks him to stay, but Brendon shakes his
head. Spencer is making a point of studying his nails, and I feel uncomfortable
with the two of them in the room. Now that Spencer knows, he might catch the
way I can’t help but look at Brendon, and Spencer specifically requested to be
left in the dark and oblivious to me undressing Brendon with my eyes.
Pete looks disapproving when the roadie wants to go. I don’t care about
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the united team spirit like Pete does, but Brendon looks like he wants to go to
his bunk to mope and ponder about death. I’ll let him. Rather that than freak
Spencer out further. Brendon leaves without another look at me.
I indulge my bandmates, gracing them with my company until we hit
the highway. Joe plays Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show on his acoustic as
William does backup vocals for him and Brent and Zack clap the beat. I swear
the air is misty from the cigarette and grass smoke. I’m getting a pleasant
second-hand high.
“I’m exhausted,” I tell the guys, though I’m not. “I’ll try and get some
sleep.”
“You should stay,” Spencer says, being the only one expressing their
wish for me to grace them with my presence longer. When I shake my head,
Spencer glances towards the bunks and mutters, “He’s probably asleep already,
anyway.”
“Sorry?” I ask, gritting my teeth. So now he assumes that whenever I’m
not in sight, I’m banging Brendon? Is that why he confided in me about his
failing marriage? To pull me back in because we’re both epic fuck ups? “I
manage my time the best way I see fit,” I point out. “And I said I’m going to
bed.”
The guys call goodnights after me.
The lights aren’t on in the bunk area when I enter. I keep my fingers
tracing the wall as the door closes behind me. I locate the switch, and the
narrow corridor lights up. Most of the curtains are hanging open, revealing
bundled up pillows, covers and dirty clothes, but Brendon’s curtain is closed. I
stop outside his bunk.
“I know you’re not asleep,” I state firmly, lifting an eyebrow at the
orange curtain. It opens after a few seconds, revealing Brendon lying on his back
in the narrow space. He’s stripped down to grey briefs and a white t-shirt that’s
ridden up his body slightly. He’s keeping his eyes on the ceiling, taking in a
deep breath. I watch his chest rise. I get the insane urge to crawl into the bunk
with him. “Avoiding me or everyone in general?” I ask quietly.
He stares at the bunk ceiling with a blank expression, one hand beneath
his head, the other resting on his stomach. “Everyone, more or less.”
“You pissed off?” I ask. He avoided me the entire night. I was hoping to
fool around before the show tonight, but he was nowhere to be found. We
played a shit show. I was terrified of the audience again, and my flask was
empty. Since when have I forgotten to keep it filled to the brim?
“Why would I be pissed off? Because you walked out on me when
Spencer saw us and then avoided me?”
Alright, so maybe I avoided him too, initially. We had a pretty good
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cycle of avoidance going on until I felt like it had been too long since I had been
inside him.
“Don’t give me shit about going after Spencer.” How did he expect me
to react? Politely ask Spencer to drop by later? Brendon can’t expect me to
defend my idiocy.
He sighs and rolls his head to the side. He’s got bed hair. I wonder what
he looks like in the mornings when he first wakes up. I’ve never seen that. He
says, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
Really, he’s not. He’s probably pleased that someone found out what
I’m doing. He’s far too pushy with his promotion of gay lifestyle, and since I
am, in theory, at least engaging in sex typical to said lifestyle, he probably thinks
I should be telling everyone I know, calling my dad to inform him of this
sudden development and then announce it on stage too.
“Spencer avoided me all night.”
“Well, he’s freaked the fuck out,” I note. “He saw me with my tongue
down your throat.”
Brendon gives me a full blown grin. “A shame he walked in when he
did.”
I snort and try to ignore how sexy he looks right now. “I talked to him,
and he’s going to keep his mouth shut. It’s lucky it was him. Anyone else, and
we’d be fucked.” Or, rather, I’d be fucked. Everyone expects him to do
something irresponsible and faggot-like, anyway. “From now on, the key word
is discretion.”
“You have none.”
“Then I’ll get some,” I grin, feeling my stomach flip when his eyes
sparkle. When did flirting with him begin to feel so natural? I tear my eyes off of
his fingers sliding an inch closer to the top of his briefs. I know how soft his skin
is there. “So what did Pete want?” I ask to change the subject.
He shrugs. “Just some crew stuff. The broken monitor. He’s made some
calls, the new one should be waiting for us at the next venue. He really takes his
job seriously, doesn’t he?”
“He does.”
I hear voices right behind the bunk doors and shift worriedly. I said I’d
go to bed, not go talk to Brendon. He catches me looking towards the lounge,
and I know he disapproves of me treating him like the dirtiest and nastiest
secret I’ve ever had, but that’s because he is.
“Goodnight,” I tell him before I do something stupid like actually crawl
into his bunk.
“Goodnight,” he returns, but it sounds like he is disappointed that I
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don’t plan to give him as much as he wants. Tough luck. I’m giving him one
night to get over it because he’s in no position to give me an attitude.
For a second, I consider leaning in to capture his lips in a goodnight
kiss, but then it occurs to me that casual sex whilst on tour excludes that.
Instead, I pull his curtain closed for him.
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CHAPTER 4: WHITE NOISE
The goal of sex, as I’ve understood it, is to get off, so I’ve never asked myself
how long it’s physically possible to fuck without coming.
I really should have.
The morning sun is coming in through the curtains, giving Brendon’s
skin a golden glow. A drop of sweat rolls down his chest, crossing his flat
stomach as his hips move in a slow, steady rhythm. My eyelids flutter shut as I
push up to meet him, heated pleasure prickling up and down my spine.
“Fuck,” I sigh helplessly. His hands land on my chest, running
upwards, my skin burning up at the touch. He is biting on his lower lip,
muffling a groan as he slowly, slowly rides me, his weight on me. My toes get
tangled up in the sheets.
God, he has no idea how good he’s making me feel.
“Hotel nights,” he manages, breathing in deep and unevenly. His cock
is proudly erected and leaking, the tip shiny. I have no idea how good I’m
making him feel.
I close my fingers around his wrist, feeling his rapid pulse through the
skin, like his heart is going for the world record. “Thank god for those,” I groan,
feeling his hips come down, him sinking onto my cock. We both cry out without
meaning to. Fuck.
I try to tug him down by his wrist, but he shakes his head, eyes closing
and face flashing with pleasure like he can’t focus on anything else right now
besides the way our bodies are connected. He rolls his hips as I fuck up into
him, and an involuntary moan escapes from my lips.
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“God, I love hearing you,” he breathes, and only then do I become

aware of all the moans and gasps I’m completely failing to muffle. I know I’m
the grunt-when-climax guy usually, but this? How could anyone keep quiet
during this? Thanks to a fuck up or another, my hotel room is on a different
floor than the others’ – of course we had to make use of it.
My hands move to rest on his thighs, nails digging in. I held his hips at
first, determining the speed and depth, enjoying the way he whimpered and
gasped when I got the angle right, but then I forgot to keep it up. He’s got an
amazing sense of rhythm, though. I’ve seen him play the drums a few times, so I
shouldn’t be surprised. Now we’ve figured out our own speed, and there are no
seams in it – it’s a breathtaking, brain-melting, fluid movement that has his
chest flushed and sweat rolling down my hairline.
“I’m gonna die,” Brendon informs me in a half-moan, a dirty “ah”
escaping his lips when my cock pushes in as deep as it can go. His breaths are
short, shaky gasps. He twitches. “God, right there- Oh fuck, ohfuck,” he slurs, the
muscles of his stomach quivering, fingernails scratching my chest.
He keeps up the rhythm, angle and depth, clearly driving himself
insane. I bite on my lower lip so as not to grunt, my other hand moving to my
hair, like that will somehow help keep my head on. It works somehow, pulling
on my own hair. It helps coordinate everything, deal with the sensations rattling
through me. My hips buck up, pushing into him, and he’s so tight.
He slows down the pace. He is heaving, cheeks rosy and pupils blown. I
had given up hope that he’d fucking kiss me when he leans down to do just
that. I instantly attach my lips to his. The kiss is salty; sweat has pooled onto his
upper lip. He whimpers against my mouth.
I thought we’d come back to my room for a quick fuck, not that we’d
end up having an inhumanely long fuck session. Bottled up energy from quick
handjobs before shows, clearly, as discretion is proving to be the same as
celibacy. Right now, I’m not complaining.
I’m drowning, not needing air as we kiss. He begins to pull back, but I
place both hands to the back of his head and pull him back in. He groans – in
objection at first, then in pleasure. My tongue pushes into his mouth, dirty and
wet, tracing his taste, while I try to take a hold of his damp hair, only managing
to let the short strands sweep through my fingers. He kisses back hungrily, his
leaking cock twitching against my stomach.
I run one hand over his shoulder blades and down his spine. The skin is
slick with sweat, and I feel his bones beneath the skin. I cup his ass, reaching
further until my fingers find the place where I disappear into his body, where
he’s stretched and filled. Brendon jerks as my fingers explore the area that’s wet
from lube, around the base of my hard dick that’s buried in him. I try to press in
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the tip of my middle finger.

Brendon breaks the kiss, choking on his breath. His eyes are wide but
dark. “I’m gonna come if you do that,” he whispers, voice trembling.
I lick my lips slowly. So he could take it. “Good.”
He presses our foreheads together, trying to catch his breath. “Let me.
Just this once.”
I pull my hand back, silently bending to his will. I always make him
come first. I don’t feel comfortable finishing up before he’s been pushed over the
edge, maybe because I don’t trust myself to care enough to relieve him after my
own release. But if he wants to switch roles this once, then okay. Fuck, I can’t
hold back much longer, anyway.
Brendon straightens up, keeping one hand on my chest for balance. His
pupils look more blown than I’ve ever seen them.
He picks up a steady, torturing pace. I place my hands on his hips,
thumbs tracing the hipbones sticking through the skin as he moves. There’s an
angry, red mark on the other one from where I bit him earlier when we were
pulling each other’s clothes off. I press my thumb against the bruise, and
Brendon’s breathing hitches. His head rolls back as he rides me a bit harder
now. He sounds so dirty, and god, he’s so responsive.
Now I know why he said he was going to die. If not that, I’m going to
pass out. The pleasure is fucking overwhelming. My hands grip his hips
because I desperately need something to hold onto. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s got me
right where he wants me.
“You still with me?” Brendon’s voice asks, swallowing hard. The pace is
steadily increasing, the way he comes down and the way I push up. He’s got his
other hand slowly stroking his flushed, leaking cock. God, he’s so hard from
fucking himself on me. My hips have now resorted to irregular and
uncoordinated thrusts, a sporadic response to the stimulation that is making me
see stars.
“Uh huh,” I manage.
The sun that is shining through the windows catches my eyes, blinding
me for a second. There was a party after the show, and we didn’t get back to the
hotel until four in the morning, Brendon not able to slip away from his and
William’s shared room immediately, and since we’re clearly pushing for a
record here, the sun has caught up with us.
Not the dimly lit back lounge or the fluorescent lights of a backstage
bathroom. I see him perfectly in the gentle light of dawn and can’t look away.
He’s now letting himself slam down, loud groans escaping. “Oh god,
oh god,” he groans, fisting himself harder. The muscles of his thighs are
trembling by my sides.
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My head slams into the pillow. My body feels electric, every inch of my
skin sensitive to the touch. “Brendon, I can’t –”
“That’s okay, that’s okay,” he hurries to say, but he doesn’t get it, how I
can’t contain it anymore, how I’m breaking apart beneath him. My hands run
up his thighs restlessly, brushing his stomach and chest, running over the hand
he has on his cock. He groans at the back of his throat, a hint of desperation in it.
“Shit,” I gasp breathlessly.
The bed creaks loudly, and he places one hand where my ribs end, heel
pressing into the skin as he rides me. His cock disappears and reappears from
his fist. My hands move to the sheets where they gather up balls of fabric,
closing into fists around them, squeezing as hard as possible.
My entire body vibrates, short, nearly panicked breaths escaping from
my lips as he moves. There are levels of pleasure, and in the middle are the ones
that are shades of red, lighter and then darker, and when you hit the really dark
reds, you come. But if you don’t, the red fades into black, and then turns to grey,
and there, at the top of this mountain of ecstasy you had no idea fucking
existed, it all turns white: white noise, white electricity, white pleasure.
“Brendon,” I rush out, trying to breathe, but the fire that’s been circling
in my veins has now found its way to my throat, cutting off air. It’s heading for
the finish line, soaring forwards with incredible speed. I can taste blood from
how hard I’m biting on my lower lip. Brendon sinks down onto my cock, tight
and hot and fast, and he’s trembling, riding me, touching himself, slick and
fiery, moaning and shaking, and I can’t take it.
A soaring fills my ears, white, white noise, and Brendon never stops
moving, but keeps slamming down, and his voice sounds distant and it’s hard
to make out the words from the explosion of pleasure, but it sounds like a
rushed, “Fuck, fuck, that’s it – Come on, Ry – God, I can feel you –”
Something drops heavy in me, not just the mind-blowing orgasm that
rattles through me, reorganising my molecules, and it’s not the white noise,
white noise, white noise. It’s his hands on my chest, the way there is only him
and then nothing, and I am diving into it deeper and deeper. Fuck, it just
goes on, and when I know I physically can’t have more semen to empty inside
him, I keep coming.
My eyes flutter open, catching the way his hips roll down, my cock
disappearing into him. Both of his hands are pressed against my chest for
balance. He slams down and comes. He’s not touching himself, but he pushes
down on me and comes, cock twitching, fingernails digging into my chest,
mouth dropping open as he rushes out, “Oh god, oh god, yes, yes –” and then it
stops being words and turns into the filthiest moan I’ve ever heard, erupting
deep from his chest, low, masculine and helpless. His muscles squeeze around
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me, and I curse blindly as air escapes my lungs. His come hits my chest and
stomach, warm and wet, oozing white. It’s all white.
I’ve never known why it’s called a little death. Suddenly, I do.
His movements come to an eventual stop when we’ve both finished. His
cock is still pulsating against my stomach, his muscles still quivering around my
own. I feel drained. Absolutely fucking drained.
Brendon rolls off of me, crashing onto the bed unceremoniously. I blink
at the ceiling. It’s white.
Our loud, uneven breaths fill the air, sounding like we’ve just finished a
marathon. It takes a while for me to realise that, if I want to see him, I need to
move my head, which proves to be challenging when my motor skills seem to
have paralysed. I finally manage to turn my head to the side a little.
Brendon’s got one hand over his face, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he
swallows hard, brown hair sticking out everywhere. His chest is flushed red, a
sheen of sweat on his lean body, drops of semen catching the sunlight right
where his pubic hair starts. Mine or his? No idea.
I close my eyes and try to pull myself together. “So you, like... came
without touching yourself,” I observe shakily, having difficulty speaking. He
lets out an agreeing sound. I taste blood in my mouth. “I didn’t know that was
possible.”
“Me neither,” he laughs, and then he’s just laughing, covering his eyes,
mouth in a wide grin. I blink. He’s fucking insane.
His come is cooling on my skin unpleasantly, and I wipe it off the best I
can, drying my hand on the sheets. My hand is shaking. I flex my fingers,
staring at the long digits in astonishment. Still trembling. My brain has been
reduced to mush, and my insides feel like they’ve swollen, like there is
something inside me that is too huge for my body to contain. It’s definitely not
helping with the shaking and how I might’ve just had the best orgasm of my
life.
“Are you alright?” Brendon asks me, and I flinch. He looks at me
curiously, moving to sit on his knees next to me. I hate him for being able to
move already. My hand inches to one of his knees, and it seems to help with the
trembling. Not enough, though. He stares at me in wonder. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Brendon gazes down at me, his eyes full of depth that reveals nothing.
He smiles when I least expect it, probably telling himself a silent joke that he is
leaving me out of. He doesn’t lie down. I know he’s not going to snuggle up
against me, that we won’t start trading slow kisses. We don’t do that after we’ve
come. This morning, the post-sex routine will probably involve him getting
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dressed and sneaking back to his room while William’s still asleep.
My heart rate has slowly come back down, and my hands have stopped
shaking. Brendon’s still looking at me, like he’s waiting for something.
“I don’t wanna sleep,” I sigh.
“You’re not tired after that?”
“No,” I lie. I’m fucking exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep. “Let’s go
somewhere. Do something. We’ve got time before bus call, right?”
He nods even as he lifts an eyebrow. “It’s seven in the morning. On a
Thursday.”
“And?”
“And we’re in Omaha,” he points out. Fair point. “Pretty much the only
thing worth doing is fucking or sleeping.”
“I find your negative attitude harmful for the team spirit,” I tell him,
giving his knee a quick tap before rolling out of bed. “Come on. We’re going.”
He falls back onto the bed dramatically. “You’re gonna be the death of
me.”
“So you said,” I smirk, pulling my boxers on, my knees wobbly and legs
weak. Fuck, Brendon will be the death of me if we’re gonna be fucking like that
on a regular basis. The feeling of the orgasm lingers, still clouding my thoughts
and leaving my body wrecked. It feels like some part of me is giving up or
giving into something.
I plan to go down fighting.
Brendon has turned to lie on his stomach, and I trace his naked form,
the milky white skin, my eyes skimming over the roundness of his ass. His
breathing begins to even out threateningly, so I lean over to give his behind a
sturdy slap. He jerks awake. “Ow!”
He turns back around, glaring, and I snatch a shirt from my open
suitcase and throw it on. “Come with me.”
“You’re such a whiny ass,” he grumbles bitterly, and I choose to ignore
him.
The only reason why I’m putting up with that attitude instead of
throwing him out of my hotel room is because we just had amazing sex. He’s
lucky he’s so talented in that department.
When we head for the door, both of us dressed and presentable, our
fingers brush together.
Once outside, I stuff my hands into my pockets and cast my eyes
downwards.
So the fag’s right. There is nothing to do in Omaha at seven in the morning on a

Thursday. The streets are desolated, one car driving by once every five minutes.
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The shops won’t open for another few hours, so there is no reason for anyone to
be up and about. The sun is steadily rising in the horizon, and I can already tell
that it’s going to be a hot day.
We’ve practically got the street to ourselves as we stroll down in silence.
The initial tiredness has faded away from the fresh air and bright light. Brendon
keeps looking at the shop fronts and street signs. “Look,” he says when we pass
a record shop that has copies of Boneless on display. I just shrug. Our albums are
everywhere, so it’s stopped being amazing.
Buy Ryan Ross’s bleeding heart for three dollars and forty-nine cents.
“Absurd what they ask for records these days, isn’t it?” I point out.
“How much would you pay for it?”
“Nothing. Get it all for free, anyway,” I mutter as I get out a pack of
cigarettes. I offer him one, and we start smoking outside the record stop.
I picture myself walking down the street as someone who does it
regularly and not as a visiting rock star who made the city’s youth scream their
lungs out last night. What if Spencer and I hadn’t met Brent at Woodstock?
What if we had, but hadn’t gotten a lift back out West? What if we had gotten
stuck here, for example? I’d probably be doing a shit job of some kind. Bus
driver. Mailman. Guitar long forgotten in one corner of a shitty house. And this
Thursday would be my first day off in a while, and I’d sleep in until the sun
woke me up. Scratch my stomach, fry bacon and eggs. Eat in front of the TV. Get
in my car, drive to a friend’s house. Drink up, talk bullshit about local politics
and feel mutual resentment towards the city council members in their nice cars
and nice suits. Worry about the car’s engine that has been letting out a wheezing
sound lately, and I’d live that life not knowing what London looks like after two
days of heavy rain, what it feels like to open your hotel room door to find a
beautiful girl behind it, waiting and willing. I’d live not knowing any of it. I
could have ended up here, ignorant but free. I could have.
Bullshit.
I would have never put the guitar down. Even now, when I know the
hell it has brought me, the hell that is to come, I can’t put that fucking
instrument down.
I watch Brendon taking a long drag. The wind ruffles his hair.
I can’t stay away from what’s bad for me.
“You hungry?” he asks. “I’m famished.”
I’d make a reference to our fuck fest earlier, but we don’t refer to it in
public. I can still taste him in my mouth, feel him beneath my fingers. The
physical distance between us feels confusing somehow.
“Hotel breakfast?” he goes on to ask.
I scrunch my nose, slowly sucking on my cigarette. “Don’t wanna go
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back yet.”
“Well, there’s a diner around the corner. It should be open.”
“When did you become the official tour guide to Omaha?” I ask
sceptically because he’s pointing to a direction we didn’t come from.
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it. “Probably when I
used to live here.”
I instantly stop smoking and stare at him, feeling my guts tie together.
He doesn’t notice, just nods towards the direction of this supposed diner.
“Come on.”
He didn’t lie – there is a tiny diner just off the street we were on. It’s
dead as one can expect, and we both automatically choose the booth that’s the
furthest from the counter. Brendon orders himself pancakes, and I go for some
pie. I usually have a craving for something sweet after sex, though that’s a secret
I’ll take to the grave.
As we sip our coffees, Brendon notes, “Your lower lip is bruised.”
“Yeah.” I bit on it too hard. It feels swollen and sore, a hint of iron in the
taste when my tongue sweeps over it. I lean back in the booth, against the red
leather of the seats, as Brendon bums another cigarette off me. “So are you from
Omaha?” I ask.
“No, but I lived here once,” he explains, which I knew because I know
where he’s from. Or, well, Audrey never told me what town, but still. As far as
Brendon is concerned, though, I know his first name, that he has a dead brother,
he lives in San Francisco and likes cock.
“When?”
He shrugs indifferently, and I insist, “No, really. When was that?”
He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, but eventually, he says, “’67,
’68, I think. I don’t remember for sure. You know how kids are at that age, don’t
pay attention to things like that.”
“Your family moved around, then,” I conclude. I wait for Brendon to
say that no, his family wasn’t with him, but he says nothing at all. I know his
family wasn’t with him. God, he gives nothing away, does he? What has he
done and what has he seen that is so bad he won’t tell anyone about it?
The way he looks at me is making me feel like he’s estimating me
somehow, trying to weigh me. He shakes the cigarette above the ashtray, small
grey flecks floating down. “I worked at this steak house on Harney Street
downtown, washing dishes every night from five p.m. to one a.m. Never seen so
much grease in my life. The place actually made me a vegetarian for six
months.”
“Made you a what?” I frown.
“I didn’t eat meat.”
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“That cannot be healthy,” I mutter, refraining from making a joke about

him loving meat in other forms, down his throat, up his ass, but then he’ll get
pissy and the box to Brendon’s past will snap shut right before my eyes.
“It’s trendy in San Francisco. I know, like, at least one guy who doesn’t
eat meat,” he says. Yeah, well, what isn’t trendy in that city?
He keeps smoking, and I catch sight of a bruise on his neck where my
mouth must have attached itself at one point. I wonder what the guys will think.
They’ll probably assume that Brendon and William are fucking. But what will
William think about Brendon disappearing for hours on end, coming back
looking utterly fucked? Not that that twig of a man will be able to piece it
together, but he must be suspicious.
“Plates, they’re alright to wash. Spoons too. They had these steak knives
with these tiny crooks that were impossible to clean, and don’t even get me
started on glasses,” he says, shaking his head as he takes another drag. “Sparkly,
sparkly. When it wasn’t sparkly enough, they fired my ass. Probably just
because they needed an excuse. I’m still pretty sure my boss saw me with this
guy I took home one night. My fault. Should’ve known better. But at least they
came up with an excuse. Most places haven’t bothered.”
The waitress brings our food, giving us suspicious looks though she
refrains from commenting. It’s not that she suspects that, it’s just how we look
with dirty hair, stubble, wrinkled clothes, eyes red from sleep deprivation. Or at
least I’m speaking for myself. Brendon always manages to look stunning.
She lingers by the booth after we’ve mumbled thanks. Is she gonna kick
us out or what?
“I’m sorry, but you’re Ryan Ross,” she blurts out when I finally lift an
eyebrow at her. I blink. A thirty-year-old waitress in a diner in Omaha. Wow.
It’s true. Everyone knows me now.
“He is,” Brendon supplies easily, flashing a grin my way. Backstabbing
fucker.
“I recognised you from The Rolling Stone cover,” she explains
nervously, now offering a napkin and a pen, “I-I hope you don’t mind if –”
“Not at all,” I mutter impatiently, quickly signing the napkin for her.
“Thank you!” she beams when I pass it back to her. “Oh, I- We keep a
camera in the back if –”
“Maybe a bit later. We’re in the middle of a conversation,” I tell her
flatly, pointing between myself and Brendon. She blushes furiously and stutters
on her words, making a quick exit.
Brendon gives me a harsh look. “I thought you decided to be nice to the
fans now.”
“Fuckever. What I want to know is how you juggled high school and
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that job.”
Brendon looks astonished, but it’s sufficient enough a reason to send
waitress girl on her way. Brendon is sharing, which, for the record, never
happens. It’s probably the post-orgasm fuzziness that’s making him loosen the
ropes around his past, which won’t last forever.
“So?” I press on.
“I wasn’t in school anymore,” he says eventually, sounding slightly
confused. “Who needs an education, right? God, these smell delicious.” He
hungrily digs into his pancakes, snubbing the cigarette on the side of the plate.
And that’s him done sharing. Great.
So he never went back to school? At any point? Lucky bastard. I
should’ve disappeared off the face of the earth at fifteen too, saving myself the
torture of finishing high school. I was the weird quiet kid who didn’t have a
mother and just hung out with that oddball Smith all the time. On the other
hand, I can count to ten in French. Maybe that trade was worth it.
“I was a paper boy one summer. Saved up money to buy a guitar,” I tell
him quietly as I eat the tasteless apple pie.
He smiles. “Can’t picture you doing anything apart from what you’re
doing.”
I stab a piece of the pie with the fork and mumble, “I had my share of
shit jobs in LA before the band kicked off. I know what... what it’s like. Being in
a place where you don’t know anyone. Fuck, that’s my life every day.”
Brendon stops chewing, giving me a cautious look. “Yeah, I know it is,”
he nods eventually. “Can I try your pie?” He leans over to steal a piece without
waiting for permission. I let him finish it off, quietly watching out of the
window.
It’s our day off, but we’re leaving for Denver in a few hours. We took a
vote and unanimously decided that we’d rather spend our extra time in Denver
than Omaha. I wonder if Brendon’s lived in Denver, too. Who knows with him?
I don’t.
“What’s your last name?” I ask, causing him to flinch.
He sucks pie filling off of his thumb. “Why do you want to know?”
“I could ask Pete, though even he probably doesn’t know.”
“I repeat: why do you want to know?”
“Can’t I take interest in you?”
He frowns, looking genuinely puzzled. “You can. People just don’t.”
When I keep staring, he sighs. “Cory.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. You’re only saying that because this place is
playing Sounds of Silence and they just played that song.”
Three years ago, you never would have heard that song playing in a
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diner early in the morning. A song in which a guy blows his brains out and
where the lyrics have the word ‘orgy’ in them? Never. Just like Richard
Cory once was, our songs are played on night-time radio as my references to sex,
drugs, sex, alcohol and sex make it completely unacceptable for them to be
played during the day. But give it a few years and my words will become
acceptable, and then it will be my voice playing in places like these. And on the
day that happens, I will blow my brains out.
Brendon smiles, leaning backwards casually. “Alright. How about
Donald? Lewis. Thompson.”
“Fuck off.”
“Jackson, Brown, Peterson, Matt –”
“Urie.”
He stops instantly, eyes widening before his astonishment turns into
anger, maybe touching upon fear somewhere in between. “Why do you ask me
if you already know?” he snaps coldly, and just like that he’s out of the booth
and heading for the door.
I curse under my breath, digging into my pocket for change that I throw
on the table. He can’t fucking leave me here – I don’t even know where the hell I
am.
“Bye then!” the waitress calls after me nervously.
When I get outside, I just catch sight of Brendon disappearing around
the corner. It’s too early in the morning to be running, but I do anyway, catching
up with him on the bigger street that is still just as dead as it was before. “Does
bad temper run in the family?” I call to his back.
Brendon comes to an abrupt stop, swirling around. “I don’t have time to
play your fucking games!” he barks, eyes flashing angrily. I remain unaffected.
“Are you snooping around? Are you spying on me? And what business of yours
is it?!”
“It’s just your name. How can that be classified information?”
“Unlike you, my life has not been written down in interviews, where all
the fans know your birthday and your full goddamn name, George Ryan Ross
Junior, and –”
“I’m the third, actually.”
“Whatever!” he snaps. “I don’t care! My life is not for sale, and I don’t
want to share.”
He storms off, quite reminiscent of William, who does the same thing
roughly five times a day, which only reinforces my belief that William is just as
gay as Brendon is.
I watch him go disbelievingly. “Hey, come on!” I call after him. “Wait!
Come on, Urie! Just wait!”
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He instantly turns back, walking right up to me. “Don’t call me that.”

“Urie?”
“Yeah. That.”
“Can I call you psycho?”
He grits his teeth, eyes flashing dangerously. I think me not getting
worked up over him snapping at me is only pissing him off more.
At least, I don’t get worked up until he grumbles, “How do you manage
it? Can I ask you that? Going from- from the guy I can’t wait to see right back to
the guy I can’t stand the sight of?”
My hands curl into fists. “No one’s forcing you.”
“Oh, I’m being forced,” he snaps, and when he walks away this time, I
let him.
That did not qualify as a fight. Fights involve punches and lots of yelling and
throwing things around, not a few snappy remarks early in the morning after
pretty fucking amazing sex. And the mere idea of a fight is suggesting the
premise of a relationship that goes beyond roadie/musician and casual sex
practitioners.
I know his last name. So what? I go on stage every damn night and sing
my secrets into a microphone. If someone wanted to, they could probably
decipher every one of my lyrics, even the ones I wrote when I was high. And he
freaks the fuck out on me because I know one thing about him. Jesus Christ,
fucking a gay man is no different from fucking a girl – both are equally
irrational.
When Jac throws a bitch fest at me, I usually wait around for a day or
two for her to come to her senses. I’m not upset that she’s pissed off because it’s
what she does. Jac very rarely does anything that actually means something,
which I try to keep in mind whenever I notice Brent looking slightly forlorn and
lost in his thoughts. So Jac wanted to go from fucking one Follower to two,
perhaps dreaming of conquering Joe next, which I definitely would not put past
Joe, anyway.
But that’s just sex. That doesn’t mean anything. And it doesn’t mean
anything when Brendon and I spend two and a half hours fucking – not
multiple sessions, but all round one – but our non-fight? It won’t let me rest for
a second.
It eats me up as I gather my belongings, throwing them all into my
suitcase with my back to the bed where Brendon and I didn’t sleep. It’s taking
stabs at my goddamn brain when I go down for breakfast, still not having slept,
finding Pete and Zack eagerly stuffing fried eggs into their mouths in the
breakfast room that is mostly empty apart from them and a few tourist families.
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It’s downright taunting me when Pete looks concerned and asks me if I’m
feeling alright. I tell him I haven’t slept all night. He offers me a pill or two, just
something to help me out. I refuse.
And then Spencer joins us, bed hair sticking out as he munches on toast,
and Pete instantly shares his concern for my health, and Spencer takes one look
at me – just one – and he sighs like he knows what’s up.
Fuck him. He knows nothing.
When Zack takes off to get the bus out front, William and Brendon walk
in, both with duffel bags they threw clothes in for the hotel night. William gives
us a small wave as they choose a table on the other side of the room. Brendon
doesn’t look our way. His hair is wet. Couldn’t stand the smell of me on him,
could he?
I glare at my plate, not feeling hungry at all.
“I’ve been making some calls to the guys at the office, about the
European tour?” Pete starts. Brendon’s at the buffet table, looking at the
different cereals. I know he’ll go for Freakies before he even lifts the box. He
always eats those. “They’ve been sketching it out, contacting our London office
–”
“Look, can we- Can we not talk about this right now?” I ask
impatiently. Brendon’s now back at his table with William, and William is
chatting away, Brendon nodding occasionally but clearly detached from it.
“Ryan, come on. You gotta work with me, man. We need to discuss
this,” Pete sighs. “Hasn’t Brendon talked to you about it?”
“No. Why would he? He’s got nothing to do with it,” I point out,
adding, “Barely talk to the guy, anyway.”
“I know, but – Yeah. Maybe later?”
“Later,” I shrug, and Pete nods solemnly, disappointment clear. He
mumbles that he’ll go see if the bus is out front yet.
Slowly, the rest of the crew comes down for breakfast, taking their time
stuffing their faces with as much food as they can before bus call. My crumpled
up napkin lies on top of the food I didn’t even touch. Andy is sitting with
William and Brendon now, but Brendon isn’t taking part in the conversation.
Spencer mumbles, “Told you nothing good would come of it.”
I snap out of staring at Brendon. “Don’t talk about things you don’t
know,” I tell him sourly.
“Doesn’t take a scientist to figure out you did something. Did you fuck
that redhead at the party last night? And now he’s pissed, right, because he
thought you had plans?”
“What redhead?” I ask distractedly, tensing up as Brendon picks up his
bag, motioning towards the door as William asks him something.
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“The one who spent the entire night trying to get into your pants? You
spent, like, twenty minutes talking to her at one point. You don’t remember?
Honest to god?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” I might have talked to some
girl at some point, but what she looked like, if she was flirting, I have no
recollection of.
Just as Brendon is at the door, he looks towards our table. It’s just a brief
glance, but our eyes meet, and something heavy seems to set in his posture, his
shoulders slumping down. And that’s not anger. That’s sadness.
He’s gone in the next second.
“Fuck,” I breathe out.
Spencer clears his throat. “Told you. I said nothing good could come of
that. But hey, if it’s over, it’s over. It’s not like it matters.”
“You know, as a guy who can’t even keep his six month old marriage
together, I’d refrain from commenting,” I tell him flatly, and he gives me a glare
but shuts up. And it’s not over, not that there is an ‘it’ to be over, but it is so not
over.
Or maybe it is.
We both brood by our table until Pete comes to the doorway of the
breakfast room to inform us that the bus is out front and that there are some
fans waiting to get autographs. “Great,” I grumble, though Spencer seems to
brighten up. He likes meeting the fans. Joe too, only for his ego, but Spencer
likes people, even if he’s been an anti-social fucker all year. He likes people who
aren’t us.
When we’re finally back on the bus, the fans standing outside and
waving goodbyes eagerly, Pete does the head count as Zack pulls off the curb.
“Where’s Brendon?” he asks.
I flinch and instantly scan the lounge. I knew it. I mean no, I didn’t
know it, but I should have known it. Brendon’s taken off, is gone, vanished, got
freaked out, and it was just his name, the fucker, hitch-hiking on the side of the
highway with a sign that says ‘anywhere’, that cunt, that fucking –
“In his bunk. Poor thing didn’t get any sleep last night!” William
explains sympathetically, lowering his voice and adding, “We should keep
quiet. Let him rest.”
Oh.
“Bouts of insomnia going around,” Pete notes, eyes lingering on me for
a split-second. I stare at him in wonder. What’s that supposed to mean? “I’ll go
check up on him, see if he needs anything.”
“Just let him sleep, Pete,” I mutter tiredly. Joe and Andy have settled to
playing cards, and Brent is engrossed in a book – the first one he’s probably ever
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picked up. The bus is filled with drowsy, warm air, and no one has the energy
to talk much. It’s that part of the tour when it’s not exciting to be on the road
anymore, and it’s not close to the finish line either, and we all just want to lie in
bed for a day or two.
If Brendon’s happily dozed off, not bothering his mind with mundane
things like non-fights, then I should do the same. I’ve got a bed on this bus,
unlike the rest of them. I’m the king and they’re the court full of bitter noblemen
and scheming concubines, but who’s the jester and who’s really pulling the
strings?
“Oh, you guys, I think I figured out how to drink through my nose!”
William declares.
Okay. So William’s the jester.
Instead of sticking around to watch William splash Coke all over his
shirt, which is the only way that can end up, I tell the guys that I’ll try and get
some rest. It’s a long drive to Denver, nine hours at least, and I can catch up on
some shuteye.
I walk straight through the bunk area, not letting myself consider
pausing there, entering my nest at the back. I tiredly begin to unbutton my shirt
when I realise that Brendon is sitting on my bed. He appears to have made
himself comfortable, shoes on the floor, feet resting on the covers as he sits with
his back against the wall. The dirty back window of the bus is showing the road
over his shoulder, white lines on the asphalt disappearing into the distance. He
doesn’t look at me, and I don’t bark for him to get the fuck out.
My hands drop from my collar. “Did you want something?”
I count the seconds flying by before he says, “When I was growing up,
Matt got called Urie by the other kids. He was older and, I don’t know. Kids
called him that. So you can’t call me Urie, because that’s not me.”
He shifts uncomfortably, his hands restlessly twisting in his lap. I feel
anger pouring out of me and I nod. “Alright.” When he remains silent, I say, “I
switched to Ryan when I was eight. One day realised didn’t want to share my
father’s name. Up until then, people actually called me George. It was a good
name because of The Beatles, but I felt like a copycat. Besides, Ringo’s the best.”
“I like George,” he says, briefly glancing at me, and I don’t know if he’s
talking about Harrison or me.
“He’s alright,” I shrug, still not sure who we’re referring to. I move to sit
on the bed, and since he doesn’t shift or object, I sit next to him, pressing my
back against the wall as we face the door to my nest. I could let him know that
he will not get away with behaviour like that, that I’m not the forgive-and-forget
type of person. He’s come back to me, trying to reconcile, and I could turn it
against him easily, and that’s exactly what I’d normally do but, on this morning,
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I am too tired to.

I’ve never really looked at the back lounge from this perspective before
– I usually just sleep here or read a book lying down, sit on the edge and play
guitar. There are windows on three walls – the two small ones at the sides and
the big one behind our backs. Usually I pull the curtains over it so that no one
can see inside and I can’t see the highway we’re driving along. The nest is
chaotic since I’ve mostly dumped my suitcases in it, and considering the bed is
the only piece of furniture in it, the floor and bed both are being used as
dumping grounds. It’s simplistic, claustrophobic and cluttered, and one of the
rare places that has felt like a sanctuary to me.
“What was Matt like?” I ask quietly, staring at his bare toes next to my
shoes. I don’t look at him – eye contact could scare him off. The silence stretches
and stretches, but I wait it out.
“Funny,” he says at last. “Smart. Everyone loved him. But he picked on
me a lot. I was always just really tiny in size and he was a lot older, and then he
could easily pick me up and I couldn’t fight him off. We just- We never saw eye
to eye on much. And then I had to live up to him, but I never really could, and it
was like I disappointed him too.”
“Sharing blood doesn’t make people compatible, does it?” I ask,
knowing the answer too well myself. Brendon makes an agreeing sound. “When
was the last time you saw him?”
“Fifteen,” he says instantly, not having to think about it. When he
dropped off the map. I don’t ask him to explain why he didn’t see his big
brother during the second half of his teenage years at all.
“It’s a shame you never got to know what became of the other,” I offer,
trying to determine what it is he is hung up about. It could be love, but it’s hard
to love someone who is gone and, from what Brendon told me, it doesn’t sound
like they had much of a personal connection, anyway.
“I wouldn’t have had anything to tell him. I mean, what am I? A roadie
for a rock band?”
“Not just some rock band, but The Followers. We’ve been number one
on Billboard for five weeks now. Five.”
“I doubt he would’ve cared just how ridiculously famous you are.
William knew I was out of a job, out of an apartment since I got evicted, and he
got this job for me and saved my ass. Jobless and homeless. Matt would have
been less than impressed with that,” he notes sourly, but quietly adds, “Still. I’ll
never know, will I?”
“You won’t. That’d keep anyone up at night.” And the finality of it.
Even if you had no plans to get in touch, the possibility was always there. You
could pick up the phone, you could meet up. But death puts an end to all of
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that. And I certainly would not expect Spencer to die when he’s young.
“When I heard, he’d been dead for a month. I wouldn’t have attended
the funeral, anyway, but I – He’d been in the ground for who knows how long
before I knew, and I just panicked, took the first bus back home, thinking I had
to see the grave, had to stand there with my own two feet. That’s why I missed
my flight to Nashville. Got to the state line and got out of the bus. Couldn’t do
it. Matt’s dead and I can’t bring myself to...”
“Well, he’s not going anywhere. You can visit his grave some other
time, you know?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him turning his head to look at me. He
is giving me a crooked smile. “That’s not necessarily comforting, Ross.”
“Yeah. I’m not very good at that,” I admit truthfully. When our eyes
meet, he breaks into a grin. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says with a quick shake of the head before he leans in
and captures my lips before I can react. The kiss is soft and sweet, nothing
compared to the dirty and wanton making out from only a few hours before. It’s
like a wave of cooling water washing over me, calming me down.
“You wanna sleep?” I offer when the kiss breaks. I ask without thinking,
and I get a split second to worry about his reaction, but he just nods like he
wanted to do just that, anyway.
He lies down, and I busy myself untying the laces of my shoes, kicking
them off. I wordlessly move to lie down next to him on top of the covers, and he
looks smaller somehow, bearing signs of that kid his big brother used to tease
the hell out of. I’m unsure of what to do, but he easily takes my arm and wraps
it around his waist as he settles down, his back pressing against me. It’s
surprisingly easy to relax into, letting my face bury itself in the crook of his neck
and breathe him in. He’s warm and somehow shaped just right, making me
want to pull him to me and just feel him pressed against me.
The bus hums around us, the guys’ voices distant like they are useless
attempts from another world to penetrate the little bubble we’re in. It feels
alright now that he’s here with me – the non-fight, the anger and anguish fading
away.
He whispers, “I didn’t mean to, you know. Lash out like that this
morning. I just don’t like people playing games with me or –”
“I wasn’t.”
He sighs – I feel his chest expanding as he pulls in air. “Well, you
pretended not to know something you knew.”
“William just mentioned it one time. Probably didn’t even mean to, he
was mostly talking to himself. You know what he’s like,” I find myself lying, not
sure why I don’t just tell him it was Audrey. I don’t want him to freak out and
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pull away. With him, it’s like trying to approach a deer without frightening it
off: practically impossible.
But for some reason, today he willingly sat here waiting for me to come
and pull the trigger. Who knows if I hit the target. I think I might have. In any
case, he’s lain down in surrender. He wants to lie here in my arms. We’re just
sleeping. That’s all.
“Yeah, I know what Bill’s like,” he admits after a while.
I feel the bus slowing down and Brent’s voice asking why we’re
stopping, Zack calling back that it’s a train crossing and we’re stuck waiting. As
for the world that starts at the door of the back lounge, Brendon’s breaths are
evening out, and my arm curls around his waist tighter, my hand on his lower
stomach.
I distinctively hear Pete’s voice yelling, “Zack, you are respecting the
flashing red lights and waiting! Don’t you dare cross and endanger this band!”
I chuckle without meaning to, picturing Zack impatiently drumming
the wheel when no train is in sight, and Pete’s eyes popping out. Brendon shifts
slightly, brushing against me as we’re glued together. I have a hard time
remembering what exactly our casual sex pact included.
“He knows, you know.”
“Come again?” I ask tiredly.
“Pete. He knows what we’re doing.”
I freeze up, and Brendon turns around to face me. I study his face,
trying to catch up. “How do you- What –” I swallow hard. “Tell me.”
“He just came up to me and called me out on it. I mean, I said he was
insane, but he knew.”
“When did this happen? This morning?”
Brendon’s eyes seem to focus on my throat. “Dallas.” Just as I’m about
to snap about that having been a few states back, Brendon says, “Oh, fuck you,
you’ve known my name for who knows how long. I’m telling you now, aren’t I?
I mean, I figured that Spencer must have told him, though he said Spencer
hadn’t.”
“No. No, Spencer wouldn’t tell.” Not when I have something to
blackmail him with.
“Well, he knows. And he’s not gonna tell anyone, said he doesn’t care if
you’re fucking me, but...” He seems to hesitate, and I wait for the punch line.
“He wanted to... I mean, like to... recruit me? What I mean is – he basically said
my job description now entails keeping you on this tour and I told him how
messed up that was but he –”
He sounds nervous and nearly panicked, so I cut him off. “Okay. I get
the idea.”
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“I said yes to get him off my back, you know? I can’t force you into
anything because you can’t make people into something they’re not.”
It sounds like Pete, trying to get to me through someone else. But how
does he know? That’s what terrifies the most, even if I know that Pete will die
with that secret if he has to. Pete, who I don’t trust to care for me personally,
would do anything for the band. Spencer will deal because he has to, because
I’ve got one on him, whereas Pete is trying to scheme behind my back, turn it
into a weapon.
“It’s fucked up how this band works,” Brendon adds quietly. “Everyone
just lies and goes behind each other’s backs.”
I can’t exactly rush into the lounge and pull Pete aside, so I relax back
into the mattress, still holding Brendon close to me, even if my mind is racing.
Pete knows. I know that I work for him, but he also works for me. And I know
what Spencer would say, that it’s the beginning of the end, that clearly Brendon
and I aren’t being subtle when we’re the only ones missing all the time. Even
now, all someone needs to do is look into Brendon’s empty bunk to realise that
he’s back here with me. And as Pete shows his true nature once more, I’m not
sure how much I care about what he thinks of me. Pete has never really liked
me, anyway. It doesn’t hit home the way it did with Spencer.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers.
“What for?”
“I don’t know,” he laughs. “I just feel like I should apologise.”
“Don’t,” I tell him. I needed to be reminded that I can’t trust them. “Just
sleep,” I tell him quietly, and he nods, pressing closer to me. I always thought
that if the situation ever got worse, I’d opt out. But Pete knows, and instead of
pushing Brendon out of my bed, I try to figure out what do with Pete that will
protect the status quo. I like how things are right now.
I know I won’t be able to sleep at all today. Brendon’s hiding his face in
my chest, one of his arms around me and pulling me closer. I breathe in his hair
that smells like hotel shampoo, hoping his dreams will be free of ghosts of
people he hasn’t known for years because blood isn’t family. I don’t know what
is, but it certainly isn’t that. And it’s not this band.
The bus jerks forward slightly. Brendon curls into me more as the bus
drives over the tracks. I keep my eyes on the closed door that conceals us for
now, wondering how long we’ll manage to keep it that way.
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CHAPTER 5: IMMORTALITY
We get to Denver just as the sun is setting in the horizon, the bus coming to a
stop outside the Cosmopolitan Hotel. We cram into the lounge and wait for
permission to go. Brent’s got pillow imprints on his cheek and Joe’s eyes are
unfocused and sleepy as Pete goes to get the hotel keys and ask where Zack can
park the bus. I lean into the lounge couch, feeling like a zombie.
Andy’s sudden burst of laughter attracts the attention of the entire crew,
and he keeps peering outside one of the windows. “Dude, there are two girls
outside with a sign that says ‘The Trohman Twins’,” he grins, and Joe instantly
perks up slightly.
“Oh, that’s gonna be Kirsten and Kirstin,” Joe grins. “Always on time!
Amazing girls! There’s a party we’re going to. Anyone coming?”
Brent and Andy instantly volunteer, which is hardly surprising. What is
a surprise, however, is Brendon saying, “Sure, I’ll go.” He’s leaning against the
bunk area door, his hair tousled and his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them.
I focus on my bitten and sharp-edged nails, studying them quietly.
William instantly asks, “Yeah? Because I’ll go if you go.”
Brendon fell asleep before we even reached Lincoln. I listened to him
breathing for a while, losing track of time. He sighs in his sleep sometimes –
these peaceful, deep sighs, and then he shifts slightly. I managed to untangle
myself a hundred miles before the state line, grabbing a book and moving to the
lounge where the guys who hadn’t moved onto the bunks were dozing off.
He looks well-rested now, soft and warm. I think back to the party in
Cleveland, him doing coke and ending up in a corner with some guy all over
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him. I smirk to myself a little. It’s amazing how many different sides he has to
him.
“Far out, man. Anyone else?” Joe asks, and I shake my head. I’m going
on my forty-sixth hour of being awake, and we’re outside a hotel and don’t have
a show tonight. I know what my plans are.
When Pete comes back, handing us all our room keys, we finally get
permission to leave. I keep waiting for some kind of an indication that shows
Pete knows, a knowing look or a smirk, his eyes piercing through my skin in
disgust, the way Spencer’s did at first. There’s nothing there. It’s like Pete’s
made out of stone, and it’s unnerving beyond belief.
What else does he know?
I’ve stuffed semi-clean clothes into a small suitcase, gripping onto the
handle as we pour out of the bus. Kirstin and Kirsten instantly rush over, giving
Joe a hero’s welcome. I head straight for the revolving hotel doors as Joe calls
out that the party people should be waiting outside in half an hour. We cause a
commotion in the lobby – or not us, the tired band and crew, but the few kids
that appear out of nowhere, waving LPs and posters around like maniacs when
Pete said that the coast was clear.
Pete groans, “These two again, for god’s sake.”
I hear my name called out several times with slurs of, “I’m your biggest
fan! Ryan! Spencer! I love you guys! Brent! BRENT! Remember me?!”
“Hi, Walter,” Brent says with a wave that says ‘I don’t give a shit’.
“Sisky! But you remembered! Oh god, you remembered!”
I promptly ignore the boy and his thankfully more silent friend,
impatiently pressing the elevator button up as Pete and Zack step in to kindly
ask the kids to go. When the elevator doors open, my band rushes in first,
clearly desperate to get away from the stalkers. There’s no room for me, Joe
saying, “Sorry!” as Kirsten and Kirstin press to his sides, Spencer shrugging
apologetically.
“Thanks, you guys,” I remark, giving them the middle finger as the
doors slide shut.
Zack and hotel security are in the process of kicking out the fans, and
the kids are now putting up resistance and persistently calling my name, and I
stab at the arrow up until I hear another soft ‘bing’. I look at the hotel key in my
hand – 532.
When I step inside, someone follows me. I don’t realise it’s Brendon
until the doors close and the sound of the commotion fades, leaving us two in
the relative quiet of the confined space. “Which floor you on?” he asks as he
presses for the fourth floor.
“Fifth,” I say blankly, and he presses it for me, smiling with his eyes. I
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smile back tiredly.

“Didn’t you sleep at all?” he asks after a pause, and I shrug and then
shake my head.
“Am about to.”
“You’re not coming to the party? I thought it’d be a nice change.”
“No.”
Too tired to. Besides, it’s better this way. He should go and fuck
someone, throw the rest of them off the scent. It’s not like he shouldn’t fuck. He
should. He’s goddamn good at it.
The doors open to the fourth floor. He looks hesitant, stepping out
slowly, and I lean back against the elevator wall, willing myself not to collapse
right there. I’m too tired to say a simple ‘bye’ or ‘have fun’.
Just as the doors begin to close, Brendon pushes between them and
holds them open. “Hey, what’s your room number?”
I dangle the key tiredly so he can see the number engraved on the key
ring.
He grins. “Got it.”
I smirk at him, though it’s probably only half a smirk. Exhaustion is
setting heavy in my limbs.
He steps back, and we keep eye contact as the doors close. He mouths
‘bye’ at the last second, and there’s something incredibly free about him in that
one blink of an eye, the capability to do as he pleases, a youthful power to walk
into any room and make it his.
I’ve never met anyone like him.
The door closes.
My hotel room is beige and brown with an orangey carpet. It hasn’t got
several rooms, lounge and bedroom, like the nicer hotels we’ve stayed at, but
it’s still spacious with an extremely promising looking bed. I pull the curtains
shut to block out the setting sun, switching the TV on and finally sitting on the
edge of the bed, feeling the mattress bounce. I feel dirty and sweaty and tired. I
absently pull at the collar of my shirt and take a whiff of myself: Brendon, sweat
and sex.
As much as I’d want to go to sleep, I can’t. I wait for half an hour or so,
wanting to make sure that those of our crew who wanted to go out have long
gone. Only then do I call reception and ask which room Pete Wentz is staying in.
I don’t ask for Pete Wentz because even he needs a codename these days. I’m
Angel Eyes, still, though honestly my eyes are just bland. I should change it,
come up with something more sincere. George Urie. Now there’s a name they’d
never figure out was actually me.
Pete goes by Barbi Benton. It’s the kind of name I’d have expected Joe or
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Brent to pick out, but if Pete’s not trying to hide his Playboy addiction, then
good for him.
Turns out that Barbi Benton is staying in 531. Right opposite me.
It takes a moment for Pete to open the door, and when he does, he looks
surprised, telling me to come in and excusing himself as he’s on the phone. He’s
obviously planning to catch up some sleep – or so I think at first because he’s
stripped down to boxers and a tank top – but then I notice the massive amounts
of paperwork spread over his bed. He goes back to the phone on the desk,
continuing the conversation and sucking on a cigarette. He hums and nods,
saying ‘yes, of course’ and ‘that’s the plan’. I look at the papers, the scribbled
notes – phone numbers, addresses, interview times, merchandise orders, budget
estimates, all with small markings in a tiny, miniscule scrawl.
Pete has practically single-handedly organised this tour, and when we
go to bed, he’s still working.
When Pete finally ends the call, I ask, “The label?”
“My mother.”
Huh. That’s even worse.
“So what can I do for you?” he asks, walking over and organising his
papers into a pile. It seems like he sees order where I only see chaos.
I take a step back, feeling the silence land on us. There’s a lump in my
throat, and I try to focus on anger because that’s easier than the uncertainty.
“I’ve been... I’ve been sleeping with Brendon.”
He slows down – doesn’t freeze, but slows down – and turns to me,
expression blank. Then realisation seems to hit him. “Ah. So he told you.”
If he had faked ignorance, I would have been less angry than what I feel
now. He’s playing me. Fuck. And he’s succeeding. “Yeah, he told me,” I note
angrily.
Pete sighs dramatically. “I was gonna give him a bonus for it, you
know. It’s not like I was being unreasonable!” He shakes his head and adds,
“Well, if he thinks he doesn’t need the money, then whatever.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred bucks.”
We make three hundred bucks approximately every five hours with the
album and ticket sales. God, Pete’s cheap.
“That’s it? No wonder he told me,” I note sarcastically, though of course
he was going to tell me, whether it be three hundred or three thousand. He was
going to tell me.
Pete shrugs like it’s not that big of a deal. “You want a drink?” he offers
instead.
At this point of this disaster, I need ten drinks, so I nod. Pete goes to his
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bag, packing his paperwork and getting out a half-finished bottle of Jack as he
tells me that it’s so much cheaper than going for the hotel’s mini-bottles. Yeah,
no shit. He’s already threatened Joe with less interviews if he doesn’t stop
emptying the mini-fridges because Pete doesn’t want to be paying for that.
Pete finds paper cups in the bathroom and pours us drinks. He motions
me to sit down on his bed so I do. He makes himself comfortable on a chair,
taking a sip, nose scrunching as he swallows some whisky down. “So,” he says
at long last, “I think we should talk about Europe.”
I glare at him. “I think we should talk about the gaping holes of mistrust
in this manager-musician relationship and how you try to go behind my damn
back to –”
“Make you happy,” he says before I can finish. I scoff because that’s a
laugh. Does he think I’m happy right now? He leans forward conspiratorially.
“Let me tell you where The Followers is at right now, and you better listen to
me. You are half an inch away from it.”
“It?”
“Immortality!” he enthuses, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “This album
is your big break and we need to use the momentum to push you guys into
superstardom! You’re everywhere – night-time radio, music magazines, doing a
huge North American tour, and you need to keep pushing! You do know that
Led Zep had their own airplane for their last tour, right? You can have that. I
swear, you work with me here, I can give you guys all of it: limousine rides, free
champagne, fuck, anything! I can get you out of that bus and up into the air, but
you need to stop swimming upstream and work with me! I can’t get this band
there if you don’t let me!”
“But I don’t want that!” I argue, causing him to snort.
“You think you don’t. Once you have it, you won’t be able to picture
your life without it. We need to go to Europe now when the kids are all dying to
follow The Followers! Make sure that the other side of the Atlantic is eating out
of your hands! One tour, Ryan, and I promise that the world is yours! It’s the
last thing standing between being a shooting star and being the new sun of rock
‘n roll!”
I can’t take it in, can’t wrap my head around it. I nervously drink all of
the whisky in one go. A crowd of twenty-thousand people. Body guards.
Airplanes. Photographers at our tails.
Immortality. Is that worth fighting for?
Pete sighs and leans back in his chair. “What will it take? Brendon?”
I glance at him briefly, feeling the hairs at the back of my neck prick up.
“Meaning?”
He shrugs. “You want Brendon there? Consider it done. I can get him
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on that tour and you know what? He won’t answer to Brent, won’t have to set
up the gear, he won’t be a roadie. He’ll just hang around, and he can dedicate
every second of his time to you. Because if that’s what it takes, then I can make
it happen.”
“When did you become God?” I ask him quietly, feeling my chest
expand at the thought. Brendon in Europe. It didn’t occur to me, probably not to
any of us – Brendon is still Simon’s replacement, and Simon’s leg will have
healed by November or whenever this European tour is meant to get going.
Brendon’s a part of the crew on this tour, and after that he is sinking into
oblivion. We’ve had plenty of crew guys, temps and techs, who have come and
gone. I don’t think the rest of the band is expecting Brendon to stick around
after Jackie, and I doubt they’ll miss him.
Pete shrugs easily, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. Is Brendon all it
takes?
Well, I’m not this easy. He can’t throw Brendon into the mix and make
the thought of a European tour suddenly seem plausible.
And if the tour doesn’t happen, then in less than three weeks, it’s over.
Brendon will go to San Francisco and I will be in Los Angeles with Jac, and we
will no longer have any good reason to see each other. San Francisco is full of
men, and LA is full of women.
Whereas if we go to Europe and he comes along...
“I’ve been thinking,” Pete says in his business tone of voice. “I’ll give
him some kind of a nominal job, like make him my assistant. You think Joe or
Brent will notice he’s not actually doing anything? Highly unlikely,” he notes
with a scoff.
I stare at him. “Do you spend hours figuring this shit out or do you
make it up as you go?”
“I wing it,” he grins, going back to his drink.
Brendon might want to go to Europe. He’s never been. He might like
that.
“Think about it,” Pete says eventually.
“Sure. I’ll think about it,” I grant him eventually, and he grins at me like
I’m exactly where he wants me.
When someone knocks on my door in the middle of the night, it can be one of
three things: a groupie, a stalker or a fan. All three are different things, and they
all want to sleep with me.
I ignore the knocking the best I can, groaning and placing a pillow to
cover my head. I’ve been asleep for hours, but I’m not done yet. It’s still the
middle of the night, and I haven’t slept in days. No, I have plans, important
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plans to sleep until soundcheck tomorrow. God, if only I could do that...

The knocking intensifies. For fuck’s sake. I lift the pillow and shout “GO
AWAY!” before collapsing back onto the mattress.
“No!” comes a persistent reply, and I stir awake slightly. Oh.
A warm buzz sets in my stomach as I roll out of bed clumsily, dragging
the sheet with me and wrapping it around my waist to cover myself up. Sleep is
still clouding my mind as I fumble with the lock, managing to get it open. The
lights of the corridor hit my eyes, and I squint slightly.
Brendon stands in the corridor, a pleased smile on his lips. His hair is a
mess and his posture slightly wobbly. “Heeeello,” he purrs, breaking into a grin
as his eyes roam over my form.
I roll my eyes and lean against the doorframe. “Well, someone’s drunk.”
“No!” he denies, but then grins, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re
wearing a sheet. I like it. The sheet thing.”
God, he’s an idiot. I quickly glance to the corridor, checking both
directions to make sure there’s no one there. “Where are the others?”
Joe’s room is right next to mine – I would’ve heard him coming back
because he never returns alone and he is never quiet when he fucks.
“That’s... that’s a good question. I lost them. I think I lost them?” he asks
himself now, brows furrowing in confusion. Joe and his friends and their stupid
parties.
“How did you get back to the hotel?”
“Oh! We got a ride!” he recalls, expression brightening up. “And then,
yeah, I think they’re in Andy’s room downstairs, but I sneaked out and came
here because I just- I don’t remember anymore, but now I really, really want to
suck you off.” He licks his lips and steps closer. “And you’re only wrapped up
in a sheet. Fuck. Fuck, are you trying to seduce me?”
“I clearly don’t have to.”
“’S true,” he nods. “I’m easy.”
“You’re drunk and need to sleep it off.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “I could suck cock unconscious. Trust
me.”
I can’t stop the laughter that erupts from my throat. He looks pleased,
and fuck, he’s a charming drunk. “Get in before someone sees you,” I tell him,
and he smiles brightly, snaking in when I hold the door open for him.
He’s on me before I’ve even turned around, starving hands on my bare
skin and a moan escaping deep from his chest. Our lips crash together. He tastes
like alcohol, a mix of vodka and beer. He instantly pulls the sheet off me, right
there next to the door.
“Fuck,” I groan, finding it hard to breathe when he presses against me,
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the denim of his jeans rough against my legs. He is fully dressed and I’ve got
nothing on me. My mind is clouded by the control it gives him. His hands run
up and down my naked form as we stumble towards the bed. I choke on my
breath when he grabs my ass with no shame whatsoever, mouth hungrily
attacking my neck. He’s also a horny drunk.
We crash on the bed with me beneath him, and he groans, hands in my
hair as he pulls me closer to deepen the messy kisses. God, his hands on me, his
stupid hands feel so –
I flip us over and pull his Jack Daniels t-shirt up, taking bites at his
chest, licking his stomach, sucking on his nipples, and fuck, fuck. I practically
tear the shirt off him and throw it away.
“You sore?” I ask in between kisses as I move back up, partly hoping he
is. God, that’d make him so much more sensitive when I fuck him.
“Yeah,” he admits, a sigh against my lips. “But I like it.”
I lose my breath instantly. Fuck, how does he manage that?
I try to unzip him in the dark, wanting him to be naked too because I
feel too self-aware, even if he’s too drunk to notice.
Just as my hand awkwardly reaches into his pants, finding his hard
cock – god, he’s so hard, shit – someone knocks on my door. The kiss breaks,
and we pant into each other’s mouths in the dark. I see Brendon’s outline in the
slight moonlight coming in through the blinds.
“Who’s that?” he asks me, trying to catch his breath. “Is it morning?”
“What? No, it –” I sigh and shake my head at his drunken
incomprehension. “Maybe they’ll go away,” I offer hopefully, leaning down to
press a needy kiss to his lips. His tongue pushes into my mouth forcefully.
Someone keeps knocking. I pull back with a wet pop and curse. Do I
really need to send groupies on their way so that I can have my cock sucked?
And since when did I start living in Opposite Land?
I groan as I get off the bed, locating boxers on the floor and grabbing a t-
shirt, pulling it over my head. I’m still fucking hard. If it’s those two stalker kids
that have followed us from town to town, I will call Zack’s room and have him
beat those bastards up. I don’t care if they adore me.
I find the light switch and flick it, letting the yellow glow of the lamps
illuminate the room. Brendon is lying on the bed, zipper down and shirtless. He
mutters, “I’m just gonna get these off, gonna take ‘em off,” trying to inch his
jeans down.
“Quiet,” I tell him, and his eyes widen and then he nods, comically
serious. When I get to the door, I call out, “Who is it?”
“Joe.”
Oh. Not a groupie.
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I look over my shoulder to the bed that’s not in direct view. I take a
quick look at myself from the mirror next to me, trying to flatten my hair since
Brendon loves messing it up. My lips are slightly swollen. There’s a bulge in my
boxers. Goddammit.
“Can’t it wait until morning?” I call out hopefully. Brendon is in my
hotel room, drunk and mostly naked. Not a good time for Joe to pay a visit.
“Ryan, open up!” Joe’s voice says impatiently, and I mutter silent curses
as I take another look at Brendon, whose jeans are down to his ankles. He
presses his finger against his lips, indicating that he’ll be quiet.
I unlock the door reluctantly and open it the little necessary, making
sure I block the way in. Joe stands in the corridor, his big hair all over the place
and his shirt hanging on him unbuttoned.
“What’s up?” I ask, making sure I sound slightly annoyed. It’s in the
middle of the night, after all, and he and I have not gotten up for nocturnal chats
since ’72. We used to, though. We’d talk until morning, but those were different
people entirely.
He asks, “You got extra condoms?”
Oh.
“Yeah, sure,” I nod, relieved that’s all he wants. “How many?”
“Say about... ten?” He counts with his fingers. Girls or rounds or what?
Don’t know.
“Uh huh,” I grant, feeling on edge. Don’t want him here when
Brendon’s in the room. “Just give me a sec.” I close the door and hurry to my
suitcase, rummaging through it in search of condoms. I find three opened
bottles of lube, one of which is definitely Brendon’s. Not what I need right now.
At the bottom is an opened pack of Trojans, and I instantly fish it out.
Brendon says, “And done!” I look up to see that he’s managed to fully undress
himself. He’s clearly proud of himself as he lies on the bed blissfully, naked and
hard.
“Joe’s out there, so just –”
“Oh!” he gasps, pursing his lips and nodding again.
I hurry back to the door. I pause for a second before opening it, taking
in a calming breath.
Joe is waiting impatiently on the other side, and I hand him the pack.
“Have a good –”
“Don’t you have the extra large ones?” he asks me, sounding annoyed.
I keep myself wedged between the door and the wall. “What am I? The
fucking pharmacy?”
“I’m just saying,” he grumbles.
I hear high-pitched laughter, and I lean forward slightly to see to the
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end of the corridor where Kirsten and Kirstin are walking towards us and
supporting each other. Oh god, Brendon and I will have to listen to Joe’s
threesome? Fantastic. Just great.
I have to tell Pete to make sure my room is far away from the rests’
when we tour Europe.
I rush out, “Seems like you’ve got your hands full, so I’ll just –”
“Do you have someone in there?”
I flinch. “No.”
Suspicion has taken over his features, his voice slightly alarmed. “I
thought you were talking to someone.”
“Just myself. Inner monologue.”
Joe’s eyes thin as he stares at me. He gives me the once-over, stare
scrutinising. I clear my throat nervously and bring the door even closer to me.
“I...” He pauses. Thank god just the mere sight of him has killed my
erection, otherwise he’d think I want to screw him. “I didn’t interrupt anything,
did I?”
“No. I was sleeping.”
He keeps staring, eyes flickering over my shoulder. He focuses on me
and half-smiles. “You really need to get laid. I know you like Jac and all, but
tour rules, man.”
“Girlfriends don’t exist, I know.” Everyone knows that rule. It’s the
most fundamental rule there is and one I abide by religiously. Would abide by
right now if he’d fuck off.
“Well, thanks for the –” Joe begins, stopping when a sudden thump
echoes from behind me. I flinch without meaning to, freezing up entirely, my
heart jumping to my throat as my ears catch the quiet ‘ow’ coming from behind
my back. Joe arches an eyebrow at me.
“The TV,” I explain.
“Said you were sleeping.”
“With the TV on. I need background noise.”
“Right,” he nods. “Thanks.” He lifts the Trojans appreciatively,
clutching the packet.
“Sure thing.”
He backs away and notes, “Nice t-shirt.”
“Uh huh. Goodnight,” I say again and quickly close the door. I exhale in
relief once I have the door between myself and my guitarist. I hear the girls’
voices coming closer, one of them giggling.
Brendon is on the floor by the bed, blinking at the ceiling uncertainly.
“What are you doing?” I ask pointedly when I walk over.
“The bed moved.” His face scrunches up. “I don’t think I feel good.”
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Great.
Brendon manages to get up and even finds the bathroom by himself. I
sit on the edge of my bed and sigh, now hearing Joe, Kirsten and Kirstin starting
their party on the other side of the wall. Puking sounds carry to my ears from
the bathroom.
I sigh and crash against the mattress.
One of these nights.
“I’m honestly really sorry,” Brendon says for the hundredth time. “I –”
“It’s okay. I told you that Spencer’s thrown up on me once, Brent
vomited in my suitcase on our first tour and Joe once puked all over my guitar
on stage,” I tell him patiently. Considering how familiar I am with my
bandmates’ bodily fluids, you’d think I’m fucking them and not the roadie.
“It’s just embarrassing,” Brendon mumbles as he goes back to replacing
the broken string of Brent’s red bass. The support band is on stage and their
music echoes to the dressing room. The other guys are still doing interviews, but
mine was short because I kept it short.
“I’ve seen worse things,” I tell him, smirking from across the room. My
hair is goddamn annoying and all over the place, and I’m trying to fix it but my
reflection tells me I’m failing. Maybe I should just go with one of Jac’s hats.
“At least I didn’t scare you off, I guess,” he concludes, now tuning the
instrument. He tunes by ear, concentrating, and then he starts playing for the
hell of it. It wasn’t particularly scarring to tell him to get dressed and then send
him off to his room. I’ve kicked out girls in the middle of sex just because I no
longer felt like having it.
The dressing room door opens. The rest of my band sans Joe pours in,
and Brent notes, “Don’t break it now.”
“Yeah, no. Sorry,” Brendon mumbles, offering the bass to Brent, who
takes it lovingly.
Brendon shifts to give Spencer room on the couch with him, and
Spencer looks slightly self-conscious but sits down anyway. Brent grabs a chair
and begins to fiddle with the bass, humming quietly to warm up his voice. Brent
does backup vocals, so it’s not uncalled for, but it’s managing to tick me off,
anyway.
“Brent,” I interrupt harshly after two minutes, catching his attention.
“Do you have to?”
“I’ll be needing my voice tonight.”
“What for?” I mutter under my breath.
“Hey, I sing out there too!” he objects.
“If you count a few choruses.”
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He glares at me, and I glare back through the mirror. “Why do you have
to belittle the rest of us all the time?” he snaps angrily. “There are more people
in this band than you, you know, so –”
“Oh, really? Because your nagging led me to the illusion I was by
myself.”
“Screw –”
“Do you have to?” Spencer now cuts in, sounding tired. I feel vaguely
like Brent and I are the parents fighting in front of the kids. Brendon is trying
not to notice. I forgot he was in the room and feel vaguely embarrassed. I’m not
like this. It’s just- Brent’s an asshole. He is. He fucks my girlfriend and makes
jokes behind my back about me fucking Brendon, so do I have a single good
reason to be nice to the guy?
Brent shoots me a glare and goes back to vocal warm ups, which I know
I should be doing too. But I’ll be fine. I do these shows nightly, I’ve got it in the
bag. Really, no big deal. Could do it in my sleep.
Pete shows up when we hear the support band finishing off, and
Brendon instantly hurries off to set up our gear with the rest of the roadies. Pete
starts talking about his European plans now that he has my consent, or well, I’m
not completely against the idea. Spencer is complaining about the setlist, and
Brent is still jamming by himself and singing and looking at me with a smirk.
God, he thinks he’s so mighty just because he’s fucking Jac. Been there, done
that, was nothing extraordinary.
Speaking of sex, I could do with a pre-show blowjob right now. “Ryan,
no, no, wait!” Pete says the second I try to leave, and I grudgingly sit by the
dressing table. “I’ve been thinking about where we should record the live
album. Paris has class. You think Paris?”
“I thought West Berlin,” Brent interrupts.
Spencer frowns. “Why would we do West Berlin? ‘The Followers, live in
West Berlin’? That has zero glory.”
“I thought London,” I note, not that I’ve actually given a live album
much thought because I object to the entire idea. It feels even more like soul
robbery when the songs are live and not fine-tuned in a studio.
“We’ll vote!” Pete offers. “A democratic vote! We’ll do that in the
meeting.”
“What meeting?” I ask, still annoyed that I’m being held up when I
could be with Brendon somewhere. If we do Europe, I am definitely taking Pete
up on his offer: Brendon for me only, all the time.
“Joe wants to have a meeting before the show,” Spencer informs tiredly.
Great. I know Joe’s meetings – it’s either going to be demands for more
complimentary dressing room snacks or his choice of beer or, most likely, he
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will bitch about my nest and try to get it for himself. He can’t deny the fact that
I’m the star of this band. I try denying it more than he does.
When someone wants to put you up on a pedestal, it’s useless telling
them that you don’t want to be there. They’ve already made up their minds.
The roadies come back after having set up our gear, my eyes following
Brendon and William who stay by the door. Zack looks around wonderingly.
“Where’s Joe?”
Pete checks his wristwatch, and we all end up waiting for him to come
and present his list of demands. He does this same thing five times a tour, Joe
meetings where Joe talks and Joe demands and Joe bitches.
Joe finally decides to show up fifteen minutes before we’re due to get on
stage. “Ah, everyone’s here!” he says brightly as he enters, and we all sit or
stand up straighter. I rest my hands on my knees, fingers flexing and preparing
for two hours of guitar playing.
Joe easily takes the floor, not even waiting for anyone to ask him to start
the meeting. “So!” he says, addressing all of us. Andy clearly senses that this
will take a while as he flops down to sit on the couch with Spencer. “I know that
we, the band, and you, the crew, and then you Pete, have our problems. We’re
not perfect, but I say –” He holds a dramatic pause and lifts his palms in front of
his chest, “– show me a band that is. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure,” Brent sighs, clearly bored. Glad I’m not the only one. The crowd
is chanting for us now, on edge after the ‘one, two, three’ checks when they
know that the band is going to come on stage any minute now.
“Some things we should let slide. Like, Brent, you know how you
messed up the bridge part of The Diplomat in Kansas City, right?” Joe asks, and I
remember it clearly too, when Brent switched from bass to keyboards and had
to take a good half a bridge to recall what he was supposed to be doing. Brent
looks like he’s about to snap something back, but Joe cuts him off with, “But
that’s okay! It’s not a big deal! I mean, that one time I slipped on stage and
knocked myself out! Remember that? Or how Spencer once got into a fight with
that one venue worker in Tallahassee on our first tour?”
Spencer laughs slightly. “They threw us out and refused to pay us.”
Brent chuckles, but I say, “Memory lane, I get it. So our perfection is in
our imperfection, is that it, Joe? Because we kinda have a show to play.”
He looks at me for the first time since he walked in. The first time the
entire day, actually.
“That’s not it. My point is that some things you can let slide, but some
you can’t. So we’re having this meeting because everyone on this tour has the
right to know what Ryan and Brendon are up to.”
Suddenly, Joe has all my attention. Pete looks alarmed and, over his
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shoulder, Brendon has frozen up. Spencer mutters a disbelieving, “Oh, fuck.”
“What?” Andy asks, clearly confused and looking around.
“Spence actually supplied it there for us,” Joe smirks. “They’re fucking.
As in fucking.”
I’m quick to stand up, feeling such hatred towards him that I feel like I
could rip his heart out. “Where the hell do you get off saying such bullshit about
me?!”
“Joe,” Brent laughs slightly, “I know we all say they’re at it, but come
on.”
“I’m not kidding. They disappear together all the time, always shut up
when someone else walks into the room, they’re fucking glued to each other!”
he rants, and my palms are sweating. My eyes locate Brendon, who remains by
the door, not moving, not looking at anyone, and William is next to him, eyes
wide as saucers and looking scandalised.
“That’s not proof, that’s paranoia! There’s nothing going on!” I retort.
“Then why was he in your room last night? Why was he in your room in
the middle of the night?!” he barks, now pointing at Brendon. When I open my
mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, he turns to me and snaps, “No! I am done
with your bullshit, Ross! You think I don’t know what you look like when you
fuck? I’ve seen you fuck. And you stood there with your sex hair, wearing
Brendon’s t-shirt, the same shirt I saw on him just twenty minutes before! The
one he wore all night! And I saw this glimpse in the mirror, I swear, I saw the
bed and someone on it and I thought that no, no way, not Ryan, who I’ve
known for years, not him, but you stood there and lied to my face like I was
gonna believe it, all the time having the queer freak in your room so you could
fuck the guy! And that I cannot let slide!”
A deafening silence lands in the room, disturbed only by the distant
echo of the crowd.
“When you –” William’s voice starts. I’m breathing hard, my insides
twisting together in a sickening burn. I’m being outed. “Is that where you
vanished to last night?” William asks Brendon quietly. He sounds hurt. “All
those nights?”
“I’d say it’s a safe bet,” Joe notes.
Brendon lifts his gaze, and our eyes meet. Fear. A paralysing fear in his
eyes. I can’t breathe.
“Well?” Brent now barks. “Aren’t you gonna say something?”
“What can he say?” Joe snaps. “Nothing! Turns out our frontman’s a
faggot.”
“What did you just call me?” I ask quietly, my voice trembling with
rage.
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“You heard me! You’re going around frolicking with that obscene little
pervert, and I can’t be in this band when something –”
“Does Jac know you’re fucking around with him?” Brent asks
demandingly, which has got to be the most irrelevant question of all time
because who cares what Jac thinks or knows or does? She is in no way
connected to any of this.
“Is it actually true?” Andy now asks, sounding genuinely puzzled and
baffled more than anything else.
I scoff. Deny, deny, deny. Joe was drunk. No one was in my room. For
crying out loud, I have to get out of this one. I shake my head and shoot Joe a
disgusted look. “Of course no –”
“It’s true,” Spencer says, and I stop short. He’s staring at his shoes,
shoulders slumped as he sits on the couch, like he hopes it will swallow him
whole. “I walked in on them once.”
A painful ache enters my chest. I stare at him in utter disbelief. Did he –
How could he... Did he just –
“You knew?” Joe asks, and I’m not sure if he’s surprised to get
ratification or that Spencer withheld information.
I stand where I am, mouth open, mind racing with explanations,
anything, I could come up with some amazing lies to explain this away, but then
Spencer, my best friend, confirmed it, is sitting there and now gives me a
defeated and disappointed look, like he somehow thinks that this is what I need,
an intervention, his sympathy, their rejections, their objections –
He thinks he’s well in his right to do this.
Everyone seems to realise at the same time that Joe wasn’t lying. The
room bursts into life as everyone speaks over each other, yelling, arguing,
demanding the truth, apart from Brendon who seems to fold in on himself,
looking disbelieving and mouthing ‘fuck’ to himself, and William is
interrogating him, a scandalised, “How could you not tell me?! I’m your best
friend!” snapping out of his mouth while Pete stands still like it’s all over now, a
dead expression on his face, he’s gone, he’s given up, and Joe and Brent are
shooting more accusations at me, and Spencer’s slumped on the couch, head
drooping low, and Zack just stares at us all like he is stuck in some kind of a
nightmare.
“How can you do this to Jac?!” Brent barks furiously. “With him?!”
“I knew it!” Joe declares. “Fucking knew it, first time I saw you two off
on your own, knew you were a fag just like him –”
“Okay!” I bark, just wanting them all to stop. Joe stops his slew of
insults, catching his breath. “Okay, I’ve had sex with him. But you call me a fag
one more time, Joe, and I swear I’ll kill you.”
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“I’m gonna be sick,” Brent announces.

The way they look at me – like vermin. I know. I know it’s wrong, I
know I should be disgusted, but I’m not, even when I pretended to be.
“You’re going through some shit,” Spencer, of all people, says. He was
the one to put the last nail to my coffin. “We just want to help.”
“Help me? You want to help me?!” I yell at him. I’m not sick. Sleeping
with another guy isn’t sick – they only say it is because they haven’t done it, but
I swear, if any of them ever got Brendon Urie into their beds, they’d change
their fucking minds. “How could you rat me out like that?” I hiss at Spencer.
“Don’t blame him if he chooses not to support your lies!” Joe demands.
Lies. I know about those.
Spencer’s looking at me, and his eyes widen. “Ryan. Ryan, don’t do it.
Fuck, man, you can’t –”
“You know, I’m not the worst one here,” I say with sudden clarity,
feeling my mouth twist into a cruel smile. “At least I’m not married or a father.”
Magically, the room quiets down again. Pete, who has been silent
throughout this entire mess, asks, “What?” His voice is wearing thin.
Spencer’s eyes are pleading, but I promptly ignore him. “Spencer never
broke up with Haley. He married her, and they have a kid. So I suggest that if
we’re gonna talk about lies and deception and who’s screwing up this band,
then let’s talk about that.”
I take a step back and let the scene unfold, watching the beautiful way
in which the blame now flows away from me. Not all of it and only temporarily,
because they will remember and come after me, but no one can tell me that I’m
the screw up in this room.
Joe wants to destroy me. I’ve known that for years.
What he doesn’t know is that I always knew this day would come,
when he decided to take the fatal blow, and I’ve been ready. I have no plans
except to drag him and everyone else down with me.
I announce that I’m quitting this shitty excuse of a band before any of
them beat me to it.
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CHAPTER 6: BAD BUSINESS
When I was fourteen, I decided that I was going to be a musician. I had had my
guitar for a bit over a year. I didn’t think I was amazing with it, not yet anyway.
I wasn’t allowed to play when Dad was hungover, which in practice meant that
I could only play when he was out. I went over to Spencer’s house to play
sometimes, but not too often. They were a real family. I didn’t want to intrude
on that.
Spencer and I started busking to work on our skills, but we rarely made
money. My voice was untrained, my fingers clumsy. He had this red tenor drum
that he dragged around. I didn’t take our efforts seriously until one night when I
realised that I had to get out. I sat next to my bed in the dark, guitar in my lap.
My lower lip was busted. Dad had left for the bar since. It wasn’t his fault, but
my own. I tripped rushing upstairs.
I don’t ever remember crying during those years, and I know I haven’t
cried since my departure – not out of sorrow, not out of happiness. It’s all the
same to me.
I thought back then that the only chance I had, the only one I was ever
going to get, was music. That if I left, which I did, and if I got a band together,
which I did, and if we became successful, which we did, I’d be happy.
But ‘happy’ is such a vague word, meaning something different to
different people. I just wanted to play my music and hopefully some people
would like it, and then I could make a living out of it. I could stomach the fame
if the focus was right, but it’s not. The girls come to the shows to stare at me or
one of the others. They scream and scream, hands outstretched, and they
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have posters of me hanging in their bedrooms, and they bat their eyelashes at the
paper version of me, use hairbrushes for microphones and sing my words at me,
kiss me goodnight, and I could be singing about fucking daffodils or a pile of
horse shit and it wouldn’t matter. They want me. Music is just the excuse.
The boys who come to the shows aren’t any better. Despite Brendon’s
preferences, I still think we live in a heterosexual world, so they’re not there to
fuck me. They want to be like me. I can’t wrap my mind around it, what it is
about this circus that they would want to get a piece of. It must be the girls that
they want. The fame.
And both parties claim that it’s the music. It’s the mind-blowing music,
the highs and the lows, the world I create, the crazy whirlwind of emotion that
the instruments conjure around us. It’s the change in time signature at the sixth
minute or the explosion of drums when you least expect it.
I know they don’t care about that. Critics do, giving me some
gratification and some of that acknowledgement of musical integrity that the
kids try to take away from me. Two out of every thousand fans come to the
show for the right reason. I like those two kids.
I’ve known that my bandmates are in this for the wrong reasons. I’ve
known that Joe, Brent and Pete have all been chasing immortality, Joe probably
wanting it with a side of sex icon status.
Spencer’s been in it for me.
So what do you do when you realise that the last pieces of string
holding you together have dissolved?
I know what we did. Firstly, we went on stage twenty minutes late. It
was the biggest fight we have ever had, and Spencer got the same amount of
shit I did. He’s married and a father. Pete didn’t know. Goes to show how
stealthy Spencer has been about it all, how deep that deception goes.
I quit first, then Joe said that no, he was quitting, and then Brent said he
had been meaning to quit for weeks now, and Spencer said he couldn’t be a one
man band, so he quit too. Pete only managed to get us on stage by blackmailing
and reminding us of our contract, saying that no hasty decisions should be
made and that without the band we were nothing. So we went on stage, and we
played the show. Why? Because we’re professionals. Joe now thinks I’m not,
that having fucked another man has cancelled out the little I had going for me.
I think it equals out in their minds, my sex life and Spencer’s marital
life, my few-weeks-old secret and his month-after-month-after-month
deception. My affair with a member of my own sex has gone beyond any nasty
thought they’ve ever had of me. They’ve thought I’m a cunt at one point or
another, but even then, they didn’t think I’d sink this low.
I’ve used up my voice saying that it’s just sex. It’s tour sex, which has
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even less meaning than normal sex. Compared to some of the shit Joe’s done,
my perversion shouldn’t be that big of a deal. That’s the thing, though. It is.
I haven’t talked to Brendon since.
That’s the second thing you need to do – alienate yourself from the
source of disruption.
I’ve wanted to be a professional musician since I was fourteen. Now
that I am, I realise that I should have been more specific. What kind of success?
A van or an airplane? A full auditorium or a half-empty bar? I should have
decided early on what exactly I was chasing. It hasn’t been immortality. Maybe
I’ve just wanted a break or to finally like myself or to find something stupid and
childish like a home.
And Pete was right. Without this band, no matter how much we loathe
each other, what am I? Who am I? Am I anything at all?
Even if I’ve now realised that my existence is tied into this circus, it
doesn’t feel good that the truth is out. It doesn’t feel good to stand on stage on
our second and final night in Denver, when no one in the band is talking to
anyone. It doesn’t feel good when we finish a song and Brendon comes to give
me the next guitar, and he looks at me, trying to get eye contact, but I don’t
return his gaze. Thousands are watching me, but they don’t pay attention to the
random guy who appears on stage momentarily. They only see me, and I need
to learn how to do that too. Learn how to find myself in this chaos instead of
only finding others.
I can’t look at Brendon without someone thinking I’m a disgusting
freak. I’m not trying to be like the world around me – I just want the guys to let
me be. And that means that I have to choose something instead of flickering
back and forth between right and wrong, normal and abnormal, heresy and
orthodoxy.
After we wrap up the show, playing the final song, Joe thanks the
audience, Brent and Spencer waving to the crowd as we drag ourselves offstage.
I never wave to the audience once we’re done. Usually, the roadies and Pete are
standing in the sidelines, high-fiving us or patting our shoulders, telling us that
we did alright, but this time, they let us pass in silence. Zack and Andy are both
trying very obviously not to look at me.
Pete’s organised a car to take the band back to the hotel while the crew
are left to clean up. We sit in the back of the limo, the four of us, no one saying a
single word.
A limo. I guess it’s a sign of Pete’s utter desperation. Throw us into
luxury, and we’ll be too overwhelmed to remember that we’re not even friends
anymore.
It’s raining in Denver, droplets rolling down the tinted windows. It
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takes ten minutes to get out of the venue because fans have flocked outside, and
the car has to inch through the crowd, shouts and occasional flashes of cameras
penetrating the silent, dead atmosphere inside the vehicle. Joe is looking out of
the window at the fans we can see, though they can’t see us. His hair is wet from
a quick post-show shower, a beer bottle now firmly in his grip. Joe’s the only
one who’s ever been honest, even if I’ve felt the furthest from him. Maybe it was
the honesty I had trouble with. Brent is looking at me, malice in his gaze.
Spencer looks uncomfortable and shamed like he’s let Brent and Joe down,
staring at his shoes. Spencer would think that. He’s still been friends with them.
No one’s shouting at anyone anymore. We already did that part.
When we get to the hotel, Joe and Brent march straight for the stairs,
clearly having no desire sharing an elevator ride with me or Spencer. At least
we go down together, me and him. It’s got symmetry in it.
The flustered woman at the reception tells me that I’ve received a
message, giving me big eyes like she’s staring at a superstar. It’s no wonder
because the hotel guards are holding back the eager fans outside even as we
speak. I quickly take the paper slip from her, reading, ‘Where are you? – Jac’
before folding and pocketing it. There’s a reason I’ve practically hung up on Jac
the few times she’s called.
Spencer’s got a message too. He reads it, then looks up and says,
“Haley.”
“Figures,” I reply, keeping my voice as neutral as I can.
I expect him to take the stairs too, but we end up in the same elevator.
The confined space feels claustrophobic, too small for us to be in the same space
after we’ve stabbed each other in the backs. I’m relatively sure I’m still bleeding
all over the place.
I look at the lights above the door, seeing the number two light up, and
god, this is slow, we’ll never get to the fifth floor. Does he expect me to say
something? Or am I waiting for him to take a swing at me? Who’d be more
justified? The number three illuminates, and I feel the tension between us, thick
and murky, weighing me down. Four. Thank god, just a bit –
“You didn’t have to tell them, you know.”
I instantly press the stop button on the side panel, causing the elevator
to come to an abrupt stop in between floors. Spencer meets my angered gaze
calmly. When Spencer’s pissed, I mean really pissed and not just shocked or
upset, he doesn’t yell. He talks to you, acknowledges you, but his eyes remain
blank. It’s the clarity he gets when he’s furious.
“You didn’t have to tell them either,” I point out sharply.
“I didn’t do it out of spite,” he notes, then adding a muttered, “unlike
some.”
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“You sold me out yesterday! Doesn’t matter why you did it!”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, and I avert my gaze, feeling anger
boiling inside me. “Listen, Joe saw you. He wasn’t going to believe any excuses,
not when you had guilt all over your face. Come on, I only verified what
everyone knew. Subconsciously, anyway.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Sometimes you don’t want to believe what’s right in front of your
eyes,” he says in this annoying holier-than-thou, I-understand-the-world voice.
“Fuck yo –”
“I was trying to protect you,” he cuts me off.
“My god,” I laugh bitterly, but he stares me down unblinkingly. I grit
my teeth. “Since when have you had to protect me, huh? I’ve always taken care
of myself, you know that. I’ve –”
“Do you even believe that?” he asks quietly.
“That’s different,” I argue. “The fans, the fame? Okay, maybe I don’t
know how to deal with that, maybe you’ve had to talk me into going on stage,
like, once. But when it comes to who I take back to my room? I know you don’t
like Jac but you’re not going around sabotaging that, and Brendon’s fucking
harmless so –”
“It’s not- It’s not the sex,” he says, clearly struggling to verbalise it,
which means that it is the sex. I scoff and press the stop button again, the lift
jerking as it kicks back into motion. “Listen,” he demands as the doors open to
our floor, and we step out together. “I like Brendon, it’s not like I’ve got any beef
with him, but... You’ve never – I know he’s the only guy you’ve ever done those
things with, and it’s not like you, you’re just acting out because –”
“Oh, this is your revenge theory again, is it?” I scoff. Maybe this isn’t
about any of them or what they do or don’t do. Maybe this is about Brendon
and me, and how we – “Joe fucks anything that moves, but no one cares because
it’s all pussy. I do one guy after dozens of women, and everyone thinks I need
help. Such bullshit,” I mutter under my breath as we head down the corridor.
“Joe fucks women we never see again! Brendon’s around us all day and
night! He’s around you all the time, and –”
“So?”
“It – For god’s sake!” He stops walking, causing me to mimic him. He
looks troubled as he sighs. “He could go to the press with this or he could get
clingy. I mean, the other day I realised that I know nothing about him.”
“I know him,” I object as I get out my room key.
“Yeah?” he asks, tone challenging. “How old is he?”
“What?”
“What year was he born?”
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“Look, I don’t – I don’t need to answer tha –”

“You don’t know.”
“I don’t care to know,” I note. “Just because we’re famous now doesn’t
mean that we have to do the third degree on everyone! Some people are for
real.”
“No one’s real.”
He looks dead serious, not trying to be sarcastic, not sounding sad. He’s
stating a fact he believes in. It’s Pete’s fault. When Pete tried to pay Haley off,
Spencer lost trust in the business and anyone involved. He’s convinced there are
no genuine people around us and he’s mostly right, but Brendon is different. He
doesn’t care how famous I am. Fuck, he’d leave me for Bowie in the blink of an
eye if he could.
“Don’t stand there and say you’re fucking concerned because we don’t
know Brendon,” I mutter angrily. “Just own up to it, alright? Be honest.”
“Own up what?”
“That you’re repulsed by it.”
Spencer looks at me for a long time before averting his gaze. It settles
hard in my guts, and I can’t push the feeling away. Instead I quickly go to my
hotel door, and he follows me stubbornly.
“My point is,” he says, not giving me an answer, “that I was trying to
do what was best for the band. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do. It’s bad business,
this thing with you two. Saw it myself in Omaha, the second you had a fight
with him you acted like the world had ended and he wasn’t much better, and
we can’t have that in the band. There’s too much at stake. Whereas you
jeopardising the welfare of my wife and daughter simply for payback?”
“Doing what’s best for the band,” I retort, pushing my door open.
“No. That was not for the best for anyone,” he disagrees coldly. “I
wanted to keep my girls away from this scene, and I thought you of all people
would have understood that, that you- Now this band’s fucked. Joe and Brent
are fucking pissed off at us, and –”
“I haven’t talked to Brendon since yesterday, alright?” I snap. “What
more do you fucking want?”
He steps back. “More. If we plan to stick together as a band, a hell of a
lot more.”
But I feel like I’ve given all I can possibly give.
He turns around, stuffing hands into his jean pockets, shoulders
slumped as he heads for his own room. I watch him go.
The Followers has been the focal point of my life for the past five years.
No matter what I say, I can’t imagine my life without it, and now it’s slipping
away and fading out, leaving me with a lot of nothing.
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If someone asks me what it feels like to live the dream, I’ll tell them that
my fourteen-year-old self knew fuck all. Distinguishing a dream from a
nightmare is surprisingly hard.
Brendon is giving me space. Or he might be. All I know is that he hasn’t come
up to talk to me, and I haven’t acknowledged him either, so I don’t actually
know what’s going on. Maybe he’s lost interest. Maybe he knows what I know –
that it was fun while it lasted, but we got caught. It’s easy for him because he’s
just some gay kid from San Francisco. What does he have to lose?
I’ve never really had to break up with people, not that we were together
in any capacity – you can’t have actual relationships with other men – but it’s
still been more than a fleeting backstage blowjob or two. I can’t just walk away
or ignore him forever. He’d think I’m an asshole.
I’ll take responsibility of my actions this time around. If I do the right
damn thing, no one should have anything to complain about.
So all I need to do is go up to Brendon and inform him that we’re done
fucking around. Then I will force myself to keep my hands to myself for the rest
of this pathetic tour, not watch him when he crosses the room because there’s
just something irresistible in the way he walks, the way his jeans cup his ass, his
t-shirt always an inch too short, the way his hair falls over his face, the way his
neck glistens with sweat during the shows even if he’s not on stage himself. I
won’t pay attention to any of it. It’s not like it’s an addiction.
I had my insane homosexual affair. I’ve ticked that off on my ‘Crazy shit
to do before I die’ list, right there between feeding a shark and mountaineering.
I wait until we get to Salt Lake City. Denver caught up with my lies,
revealed my dirty secret to everyone, and I divided my time between the shows,
the soundchecks, the interviews and then hiding in my room and not showing
my face out of shame and anger.
It’s not that I’m putting it off. I just had some crucial brooding to do in
Denver. That’s all.
Brendon’s been driving, and I’m not sure if it was his turn or because he
didn’t want to get stuck in the lounge with me. Or with them. Both.
It’s early afternoon, and a car is waiting behind the venue, ready to take
Joe and Spencer for an interview at a radio station. Pete starts delegating who
goes where and does what. Everyone knows the truth now, knows what’s up
and who’s been lying, but we just ignore it. We’ve been ignoring it all along,
first limping slightly, then an entire leg dropping off, but we’ve kept dragging
ourselves, inching forwards with a mouth full of dirt. By now, we don’t even
have our head on, but we’re too stupid to notice.
Pete is eyeing his wristwatch worriedly as the crew starts leaving the
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lounge. “We’re late, god, we’re late, don’t have time to go to the hotel until after
the show. God. Spencer, you’ve got three interviews before soundcheck,” he
calls after our drummer, who is getting off the bus.
“What about me?” I ask, unwilling to get up from the comfy lounge
couch.
“Decided to give you a free pass today. Thought you might need it.”
“Spencer doesn’t need it?”
“It seems like Spencer’s a master in juggling several things all at once,”
Pete notes sourly. He’s taking Spencer’s deception personally. All this time, Pete
thought that he had managed to get rid of Haley. Being wrong must sting.
“What you gonna do about it?” I ask curiously, and he gives me a blank
expression. “His family.”
“What can I do about it?” he asks sharply. “Invent a time machine and
make sure those two never cross paths? Nothing I can do about it. Hope that no
one finds out until they have to. Keep the ball rolling. All I can fucking do.”
For some fucked up reason, I feel vaguely guilty for keeping Spencer’s
secret as long as I did. But what difference does it make? It could only end up
like this. He can’t have both. He told me that he knows he can’t, and neither can
I.
“Can I borrow Brendon for a bit?” I ask Pete, who instantly looks both
worried and angered. “Not to... do whatever you’re thinking right now.”
“Then what for?”
“To tell him I’m done with him.”
“You are?” he asks sceptically. Sceptically. Does he think that he knows
me? He eventually shrugs. “Sure. That’s good. That’s what the band needs.”
It’s that something more everyone’s expecting from me right now. It’ll
show them that I’m not what they think I am, to show I am committed to the
cause. Of course I am. Even in the sorriest state of this enterprise, I have nothing
else worth fighting for.
Brendon’s waiting for me outside the bus when I finally force my feet to
move. The compartments on the bus’s side are all open, Zack, William and
Andy getting the gear out. The venue backdoors are wide open, venue workers
helping the guys out as Pete supervises everything. Brendon’s smoking
languidly in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of blue bell jeans, the most boring
combination of clothing ever but he looks so fucking good.
“You wanted something?” he asks me.
“Yeah. We should go for a walk.”
Pete is not looking our way, Zack and Andy following his example, but
William stops to peer at us, eyes thinning curiously and pensively. I feel
awkward around Brendon now, making sure to keep my hands by my sides, my
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gaze generally on his face, not fixed on any specific feature like his lips, with at
least three feet between us.
“Sure,” he shrugs.
We walk away silently, and I don’t even know where the hell we are.
The back of the venue is full of parked cars and we walk through them silently
towards the street. There are no fans around, a rare exception these days.
“Are we just walking or going somewhere?” he asks when we get to the
side of the road, lighting up a new cigarette. I look up and down the street,
hoping maybe to spot a bar or someplace neutral. Not here where anyone could
see or hear.
“Maybe there’s a bar around the corner.”
“There are no bars around and, even if there were, they wouldn’t be
open right now.”
“How do you know? You lived here too?” I ask pointedly.
“No.”
“Exactly,” I grumble, nodding to my left to keep us moving. We’ve
walked half a block in silence before it hits me where we are. He hasn’t lived
here, but he’s lived a short drive away. What was it that Audrey said? That
where she grew up, this city was the big bad wolf? Brendon knows this place.
It’s amazing how I’ve spent the last five years of my life travelling around this
continent, but I don’t know my country at all. Brendon, on the other hand,
knows the gay bars in San Francisco, the diners in Omaha and the bars in Salt
Lake City.
He seems closed off, but restless somehow. I don’t know if it’s because
he knows what’s coming or because he’s back in Utah. He said it himself that he
got to the state line when he heard about his brother’s death before turning
back. Now he’s been forced to come back here.
I keep leading us aimlessly until I spot a park across the road. It looks
tranquil, trees swaying in the summer wind as out in the distance beyond the
city mountain ranges rise high up, breaking the skyline. I could pick a worse
place to do this.
We walk into the park, and I eventually stop by a tennis court two men
are playing on, the smacks of ball versus racket cutting through the air.
Brendon’s been smoking like a chimney the entire way, but he now looks into
his cigarette pack and curses.
“You got any?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“We’ll stop on the way back. I’ll get you some.”
He stares, like he might be offended. “You don’t need to buy me
smokes.”
“I know, I just –”
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“Look, what do you want?” he asks impatiently. “I should be working,

but instead I’m here because you wanted to take a stroll, and you didn’t drag
me to the nearest hotel to fuck me, so –”
“Would you keep it down?” I hiss because there’s a family on a picnic
not too far away, the father looking at us with scandalised eyes. God, why did I
decide to have this conversation with him at all?
I grab Brendon’s arm and drag him further down the path and out of
sight. Last thing we need is someone calling the cops on the two sodomites
arguing in front of precious, innocent children, though they couldn’t arrest us
for talking. It’s different in California, I don’t think they have laws against what
we’ve been doing there anymore, but in Utah? It has to be illegal here. Maybe
they never implement it, but the law is there. They could put us behind bars for
public disturbance if they wanted to. Getting arrested in Philadelphia showed
that I really can’t trust the authorities.
Brendon pulls himself free, taking in a deep breath as we’re now more
remote and by ourselves. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I just- I haven’t slept,
I spent all morning driving, and you’re –”
He stops, and I ask, “I’m what?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters, shrugging. “Scaring me.” He keeps his eyes
firmly on our shoes, his cheeks a slight tinge of pink. His hair is sticking out at
the top a little bit, and I have to resist the urge to smooth it down.
“It’s just a mess,” I say quietly. “After they found out about Haley and
Suzie, and about what we’re doing. The band’s a mess.”
“I know,” he says in a slightly disbelieving tone, like witnessing the four
of us strangle ourselves with our lies is like watching One Life to Live, only with
less bad acting and more real emotion. “William’s been such a drama queen
about it, constantly yakking away at what a bad friend I am. Kinda been
keeping my distance from you to let him calm down, you know?” he asks
timidly. “Felt like you needed it too.”
“I did.”
He sighs restlessly and finally looks up at me. “So what do we do now
that they know?”
“Now that –” I start, feeling a lump in my throat. “Now that they know
we’ve fucked a few times, we have to stop. We can’t do it anymore.”
“We can’t lie about it anymore? Because that –”
“We can’t do this,” I clarify, motioning between myself and him. “I can’t
do this. It’s not good for the band, our reputation, when we’re so close to really
making it. I don’t want to be a shooting star. I can’t risk it for... whatever.”
The band’s all I’ve got. They’re all I’ve fucking got, and I hate them for
it. I’ve spent all summer biting the hand that feeds me.
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He stares at me with expressionless eyes for what feels like forever

before he says, “Oh.” He looks over my shoulder. “Not like I expected anything
else, anyway.” I try to read him, if he’s angry or sad. I get nothing. He clears his
throat, a momentary pain flickering in his eyes before it vanishes. “It’s not good
to keep casual sex arrangements on for too long either. You lose the spark and
then they become a drag.”
“That’s true,” I agree. But there’s just the slightest tension in his
shoulders that I can detect if I focus on it hard enough.
“It’s good,” he adds, now beginning to walk back to where we came
from, and I follow him. “William will get off my back, you know?”
“And they’ll get off mine,” I mutter, hoping to god they will. If it’s in
the past, they should just let it go. He’s taking this well. Maybe he’s taking this
too well.
“Yeah, because Joe calling you what he did...”
“Exactly!” I agree instantly, the memory still pissing me off. “God, he
should know me better than that.”
“Right. Because you’re totally not gay.”
“You’ve met my girlfriend, right?” I ask, chuckling.
He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. Definitely met her...” His voice fades as
he sticks his hands into his pockets. The late August day doesn’t feel so warm
anymore. I look around as we walk, trying to think of things to talk about. If I’m
not whispering dirty things in his ear, then what am I doing?
We take a different route back to the venue, and I thank my lucky stars
when we pass a liquor store. “I’ll wait here,” he says, voice perfectly neutral.
He’s not looking at me. I try not to let it bother me. I mean, I didn’t want him to
get into bitch mode or to make a scene so I appreciate his tact, but it’s like he
doesn’t even care.
He doesn’t care, and all I want to do is get drunk to get rid of the sense
of loss.
I end up buying him three packs of cigarettes, three for me, two bottles
of vodka and a bottle of bourbon. The shopkeeper looks at me like I’ve walked
out of a prison as he puts my purchases into paper bags. I plan to be drunk as
hell within an hour, prowling backstage with a bottle, anything to forget how
Brendon’s there but not in the capacity I’d want him to be. Hell, maybe I’ll even
try and get Spencer, Brent or Joe to have a drink with me, ask them how they’re
doing.
“Thanks,” I tell the guy, my hands full as I leave the small, stuffy store,
the bell ringing as I push the door open. I instantly bump into Brendon, nearly
losing balance as we hit each other, me stepping out and him on his way in. I
drop one of the bags, the sound of glass breaking as it meets the concrete, the
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brown bag instantly turning into a darker shade as the alcohol soaks into it.
Brendon looks at me, blurts out, “Sorry,” but I stop entirely. His voice is
rushed and panicked, his eyes wild with fear, and he glances over my shoulder
as he pushes into the store, practically running in. I swirl around and see a big,
middle-aged man rushing down the street towards us, face full of surprise.
There’s something eerily familiar about him.
Not knowing what else to do, I wrench the door open and step back
inside, just catching a glimpse of Brendon disappearing into the backroom as
the guy behind the counter yells, “I told you that you can’t go in there! You –”
“Wait up!” I call after him, dumping the rest of my purchases onto the
counter.
“I don’t do refunds! Listen, you’re not allowed to go back there, I’m
going to call the –”
“Fuck off,” I snap, rushing after Brendon.
Just as I get into the backroom, I hear the front door opening again, the
bell ringing and a steady, firm male voice saying, “Excuse me, but did –” and
the voice has got an echo to it that I recognise. I don’t stop to listen as the
backdoor of the shop slams shut across the small storage room, and I follow,
exiting the shop and stepping onto a dirty back alley.
My eyes find Brendon who is far gone by now, running as fast as his
feet let him. I’m completely bewildered, the shock in his eyes circling in my
veins, an image I can’t forget. I’ve never seen him scared.
I hear raised voices behind me, sounding like the shopkeeper and the
other man arguing just behind the door, a “This is unacceptable, you can’t come
in here!” echoing through.
I break into a run, trying to catch up with Brendon. I know he’s got
excellent endurance – I know that first hand – but after two blocks, I think he’s
fucking overdoing it. He keeps pushing people out of the way, leaving
pedestrians staring after him in astonishment, but it clears the path for me,
enabling me to finally catch up with him.
“Brendon, fucking stop!” I yell, giving his back a shove. He stumbles
right on his feet, crashing forwards and making friends with the ground. I come
to an abrupt stop, completely out of breath. “Sorry, fuck –”
He only scrambles up to his feet, swirling around. His right cheek has
now got a nasty, red scratch on it, but he doesn’t seem to be aware as his eyes fly
to where we came from.
“No, you don’t!” I snap when he tries to break into a run again. I grab
his arm and pull him off the street and in between buildings. I let him go,
shoving him backwards until he hits the dirty brick wall in the dead end
alleyway. He’s as out of breath as I am. “No one’s following us,” I say, trying to
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get in some air as my right side prickles painfully. I wince and place my hand
there. I don’t need to exercise – playing shows is enough and I’m naturally
skinny. Now, however, I regret not being in better physical condition.
Brendon’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, disbelief and anger on his
features, clearly having gotten over the initial fear that I saw.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap. “Are we running a marathon
here?”
“I need to go,” he rushes out, moving to get past me, but I push him
further into the alleyway and away from the street, the people, his only exit out.
“Ryan, fucking let me –”
“No! You start talking!”
“It’s none of your –”
“Most sons greet their fathers with hugs. Guess you’re an exception to
that rule too,” I snarl, and when his eyes widen, I add, “I’ve got a father too.
Trust me, I know that ‘fuck me, it’s my old man’ look when I see it. I’m not
stupid.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“So tell me!” I yell out of frustration. The guy had Brendon’s eyes,
Brendon’s chin, his voice was somehow similar, the way they punctuated
words. Brendon saw the guy and ran for it. No, Brendon panicked and ran.
“Since when do you have the right to pry into –”
“Alright, I’ll go back and ask him then! You ran like a coward when –”
“Screw you!” he snarls. “Last time I saw him he broke my arm! You
think I was going to stick around for round two?!”
I take a step back. My eyes instantly run over his arms, as if one of them
might still be broken, but he’s intact even though he’s not. Clearly, he is barely
holding it together. He curses heavily, hands in fists as he aims a forceless kick
against the wall.
I think back to his father with a sudden, cold rage. Dad threw me
around a few times, and I ended up with bruises, but he never –
“You didn’t just vanish,” I find myself saying, recalling Audrey’s words
of one day Brendon being there, the next not. “You ran. Just like you did now.”
“Well, him beating the crap out of me hardly made me want to stay,” he
notes, voice dripping sarcasm. It’s not enough to cover up the fear in his tone.
“Fuck, you were only fifteen,” I breathe out. I think I’ve known for some
time now that it was him who left, having put the pieces together from what
Audrey told me and how Brendon knows this country, has lived all over. The
way it’s obvious that he takes care of himself and doesn’t expect anyone to tuck
him to bed at night. The way he won’t talk about any of it. And now I know he
had a good reason to leave. “You haven’t seen your father since, have you?”
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“No,” he says, voice trembling slightly.

He’s trying hard to act like he’s not afraid, but he is. I stopped being
scared when I was still living with my own father. You can only watch
someone’s self-inflicted messes, their pathetic struggles for so long before you
realise how they don’t deserve your concern, pity or fear. One punch to his jaw,
and we knew the score. Dad never bothered me again.
Brendon’s still scared.
“Did he do that a lot? Smack you and your siblings around? Hell,
maybe your mother too,” I add as an afterthought. Fuck, what if Matt got beaten
up by their dad so badly that he died of it? All that crap about falling off a roof
was just a cover up.
He shakes his head, and even though I’ve caught my breath, he is still
breathing in and out hard. God, he’s upset. I’d give a supportive shoulder
squeeze if I didn’t feel like he’d punch me for it.
“He never touched anyone else.”
“But why would –” I start before it comes back to me. “Oh.”
The start of the tour, Nate starting shit with Brendon in St. Louis and
Brendon’s nose bleeding, him sitting on the ground outside of a café, and he
told me back then, didn’t he? I knew his story all along without knowing it. He
said he’s gotten punched for it before.
“You came out to your dad, and he beat you up.”
To my surprise, Brendon laughs, shooting me a degrading glare. “You
think I would’ve been that stupid? Telling them?”
“If not that –”
“Didn’t have to tell them,” he notes bitterly. “I kept these –” he starts
before smiling to himself crookedly. “I’d ripped out pages from fashion
catalogues at my friend’s house... Men’s underwear. Fucking lousy jerk off
material, but it did the job. I hid them under my mattress, and then... I don’t
know who found them, but Dad didn’t stop to ask questions. I came home from
school and instead of a hello I got... And they all watched. They all just stood
and watched as Dad put the fear of God in me. That fucking –”
He cuts himself off and attempts to hit the brick wall, deciding at the
last second it’s probably a stupid idea, his knuckles only briefly grazing the
hard material.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He was fifteen. He was a
fucking kid. Maybe I was younger when Dad first took a swing at me, but I was
never actually young, not in my heart or my mind, and my dad’s swings at me
mostly missed the target, anyway. He never really beat me up, not properly. I
never ran away. I wanted to get out, but I wanted to be smart about it and make
sure that when I did leave, I wouldn’t come back.
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“They just stood there without stepping in between?” I ask slowly. His
siblings, his mother, just letting his father beat the crap out of him?
“Yeah,” he says. “There was a doctor we knew. He put my hand in a
cast that night. Mom had to smuggle me out of the house behind Dad’s back to
get me checked up, to get me stitched up and the... She kept saying that they
could fix me, that now I knew it was wrong and that Dad did it because he
loved me. They called it love.”
“That’s not love,” I note quietly, mind flashing with Brendon on a floor,
maybe the living room floor, a sharp kick to his stomach, blood and tears, and
they just fucking stood there and watched as he got called a faggot and a sinner.
Maybe for the first time in his life, too, but definitely not for the last time. Did he
beg his father to stop, for the rest of the family to intervene, or did he just lie
there, accepting his fate?
Which approach has left him this angry?
“I knew it wasn’t love,” he says roughly. “I knew I’d die if I stayed
there, I knew that, I - So when everyone went to bed that night, I left. I didn’t
even pack, I just had to get out. Hitch-hiking with a broken arm and a black eye,
looking like you should be in school? Fucking miracle I got a ride.”
“Brendon.”
He glances at me in surprise like he forgot I was here. I don’t know
what to say when I notice the moisture in his eyes. He blinks quickly and ducks
his head, wiping his cheeks quickly. “Yeah, I know. Shit happens. It’s just a
story now.”
“It’s not,” I tell him quietly. “He didn’t have the right. None of them
had the right to do what they did to you.”
“But that doesn’t make it easier, does it?”
I step closer to him, lifting my hand to his cheek. He flinches but stays
where he is, eyes cast downwards. I carefully trace his cheek bone with my
thumb where a red scratch now cuts across the pale skin slightly wet from the
stray tears he let himself shed. I can pretend he didn’t slip if he wants me to.
“Hey,” I whisper, feeling the ache in my own chest ease as I have him
closer. When my hand slides to the back of his neck and I lean in, eyes on his
lips, he takes an abrupt step back.
“Don’t. You’re done with that, remember?”
Fuck, I already forgot.
“That was before –”
“You knowing doesn’t change anything,” he notes, the anger now back.
“I don’t want your pity. Don’t need it either. You know what you want, and it’s
not this, so...” He stops to take in a quivery breath. “So let’s get back to the
venue. Before I...”
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He pushes past me, and this time I don’t stop him. His steps are
hurried, something broken and hurt in the way he walks. Somehow similar to
the way his father walked.
The club is smoky, sweaty and swarmed, an upbeat pop song belting loudly in
the background. I’ve been talking to Zack since we got here, grateful that he’s
not avoiding me despite him knowing about my extracurricular activities. I
think he’s decided that if he pretends it didn’t happen, then it didn’t happen. It
might as well not have happened. Brendon’s somewhere in the club, and I
haven’t been keeping an eye on him, even if I can’t stop thinking about him for a
second.
Girls come up to Zack and me at regular intervals, but all I need to do is
give Zack a look and he turns them around. One time a blond boy walks over,
handsome and looking like he might be too young to be there, giving me a long,
awed and undoubtedly seductive look, and instead of waving him off, Zack
looks uncertain and lifts an eyebrow at me. “God, him too,” I say restlessly and
focus on my drink as Zack tells him that Mr. Ross wishes to be left alone.
“Sorry,” Zack mumbles once the kid is gone, and he leans against the
bar table with me. “Just wasn’t sure.”
“Whatever. I don’t swing that way, you know?” I ask pointedly and
cling to my beer bottle. Salt Lake City got a shitty show, and it wasn’t because I
got wasted like I wanted to. I was sober, but I couldn’t concentrate at all. After
what happened with Brendon, it’s been the only thing on my mind. And now he
clearly expects me to act like nothing happened, but I can’t do that.
Zack shrugs beside me. “I don’t really care what way you swing.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Really?”
He sips his beer, looking unusually thoughtful. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t
know anything was up. If it was still going on but was, like, undetectable, then I
don’t see why I should care. Not my business what people do behind closed
doors.”
“You’re the only one in this club, no, in this state who feels like that.”
“That’s because I’m amazing,” he concludes casually, and I laugh as I
take another sip. There’s always someone who’s the odd one out, but he just
goes to prove that I can’t anymore. Regardless of Brendon’s past, the way I can’t
stop thinking about him and the way I feel hollow, I can’t.
Even Zack is giving consent on the condition that he doesn’t know. But
sometimes it’s damn hard to hide something like that. You forget you can’t do
the same things out in the real world.
Zack starts talking about the best new band he’s discovered this year
called Kiss and how they wear makeup and are totally rocking, but I don’t pay
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attention. Sounds like the band’s theatricality is trying to cover up the

mediocrity of the music. We end up talking bullshit about music, anyway, with
our backs to the bar, watching the people in the club, Zack still turning down
girls who approach me.
My eyes eventually find Brendon standing on the other side of the
dance floor with the good-looking blond guy that tried to come up to me earlier.
The red lights of the club land on them, and Brendon doesn’t seem to be into the
conversation. The guy, though, is leaning in to whisper into Brendon’s ear, is
laughing and flashing smiles, and you don’t need to be gay to realise what the
guy wants. Brendon doesn’t even react. Eventually, Brendon seems to excuse
himself, and I watch him head to the toilets. The blond kid looks after him,
looking frustrated and disappointed.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I inform Zack. I get stopped four times crossing
the room, but if I just ignore the ‘oh my god, you’re Ryan Ross!’s, they are so
star struck that I’ve passed them by the time they recover.
The men’s restrooms are not overly busy; one guy in fashionable disco
attire is washing his hands. I scoff. Disco. That’s not music, that’s just noise.
Stupid fads...
Next to the guy is Brendon who is absently staring into the mirror and
fixing his hair like he has no actual interest in it. I march over, snatching his
wrist. “Come on,” I say swiftly, not giving him time to argue as I pull him to the
nearest vacant stall with me. I don’t care what Disco Boy thinks about that.
I lock the door as Brendon stares at me, eyes thinning. “What are you –”
“Why’d you turn that guy down?”
He looks even more confused. “Who?”
“That incredibly good-looking blond kid who’s spent the last half an
hour chatting you up? What, you practising celibacy now? Don’t believe that for
a second.”
“Maybe I don’t feel like sex tonight,” he says angrily.
“Please,” I snort. He’s practically insatiable. He keeps glaring, and I
add, “I think you stood there wondering if your dad was right. If you are a
freak. If, now that you’re back in your home state, he can just somehow sense
your immoral thoughts, and maybe you did deserve what he did to you, maybe
–”
“Shut up!” he orders, clearly distressed by my words. God, I was right.
“You don’t- Just because you know, it doesn’t mean you get to talk about it!
You don’t get to talk about it. Not now, not ever.”
I let out a sigh and lean against the stall wall. “Alright.” After a pause, I
shrug. “But you should still fuck that guy. You should go back to his place and
have the gayest time you’ve had in your life.” He laughs disbelievingly, looking
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at me like I’m deranged. I smirk at him as I get out a joint and light it up.
“Really,” I note as I inhale.
“And why would I do that?”
I stare at him intently, hearing the thud of the club outside. Sounds like
they’re playing Grand Funk’s cover of The Locomotion. Screw me on the day I try
to cover up my lack of originality by playing someone else’s music. I offer
Brendon the joint, but he doesn’t take it. Instead he keeps his brown eyes on me.
“Because there’s nothing wrong with the way you are,” I tell him quietly, my
voice sounding oddly soft to my ears.
Brendon breaks the eye contact by glancing down, and some of that
anger that he’s been carrying around all day seems to fade away a little. “I’ve
been... been thinking that at least... at least he knows I’m alive, you know? I
wouldn’t- I wouldn’t want them thinking I’m dead or anything.”
“Yeah,” I agree slowly. “At least he knows now. If you ask me, he’s
gotten more than he deserves.” I offer him the joint again, holding it low for him
to see. He clears his throat as he accepts it, lifting his head and taking a hit.
He holds in his breath, eyes closing as he passes the joint back. He
eventually exhales, blinking as he opens his eyes. “Fuck, that’s good shit.”
“I’m too famous for bad drugs,” I note, letting my eyes focus on his lips
that twist into a smile. It’s true, though. Magically, throughout this summer, the
drugs we do have gotten better and better. No one even tries selling us B class
products anymore, not when we’re clearly above that.
“I should go back, then. Find the lucky guy,” Brendon says quietly. His
voice is a bit lower, the way it gets when he’s thinking about sex. “Before
someone thinks we’re... Because we’re not anymore.”
“We’re not,” I confirm, more to remind myself, really. We’re not. It’s
over now. I keep staring at his lips, joint forgotten between my fingers. God, I
just... He licks his lips, and sudden want pools in my guts. The grass is affecting
me now, blurring my senses slightly, and really, what harm could it do to say
goodbye, to just... Brendon moves forward slightly, and I instantly step closer to
him. His breathing is heavy as it washes over my lips, his hand resting on my
hip. I close my eyes and let our foreheads press together. We stay like that for a
while. He might be waiting for me to make the move. I’m not waiting for him.
Really, I’m not.
“I should go,” he whispers huskily. All I’d need to do is press forward
just a little to press our lips together, and then again and again and again,
undress him right here and –
“You should,” I admit, my skin tingling. I let my free hand move to his
hair, running through the soft, short strands before my hand settles firmly on
the back of his neck. I press my nose against his cheek and breathe him in. He
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turns his head slightly, our mouths perfectly aligned and an inch apart. I pull
back only slightly to let my eyes meet his.
He stares at me, brown eyes pouring into me. “Goodnight, Ry,” he
whispers. When I say nothing, he steps back, slipping from my grasp. He
unlocks the door and walks out with one last look over his shoulder.
I exhale shakily, leaning against the stall wall and bring the joint to my
lips again, feeling my body buzzing with excitement and anticipation. I need to
tell it that, no, we’re not going down that road anymore. I just resisted
temptation for the first time in my life.
The joint dangles between my trembling fingers, the adrenalin rush far
greater than the one I get from the shows.
God, he’ll be the death of me.
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CHAPTER 7: DON’T FOLLOW ME
The diner is mostly empty apart from the crew this early in the morning. I enter
the small establishment after everyone’s already ordered and settled down. I
took forever to wake up when the bus came to a stop. We’ve refuelled the bus
and now need to refuel ourselves, and I rub the residues of sleep out of my
system as I head for the booth with Pete.
I’ve told my bandmates that the thing with Brendon and me is over, but
that doesn’t mean Joe wants to be friends or that he isn’t thinking I’m a fag.
Brent still looks murderous at the sight of me, and Spencer probably thinks he
did the right thing and saved me from the perils of mind-blowing sex. Sure,
because that’s really what the problem was.
Pete doesn’t judge as he just wants things to work. He’s pleased with
me right now, so I end up sitting across my sworn nemesis since he’s probably
the only person who’ll have me.
“We ordered for you already,” Pete says as he sips his coffee, reading a
newspaper that’s at least a week old. I nod tiredly and look around the diner,
seeing Brendon and William in a booth by themselves across the room, talking
and laughing as they smoke cigarettes. Spencer’s by the phones, receiver
pressed to his ear.
“Who’s he talking to?”
“Haley,” Pete notes, voice professionally neutral. “Must be easier for
him now that he doesn’t have to sneak around so much.”
“True.”
“You’ve got four interviews before lunch today.”
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I instantly feel a headache coming on. “Great...”

“That’s what I like to hear!” he says, completely ignoring my blatant
sarcasm. He then looks around to make sure we are alone as he lowers his voice.
“Listen, I was talking to Joe, and he seems to have calmed down a little. I don’t
think he thought you and Brendon had actually put a stop to that nonsense
though you said you had, but then we all saw Brendon leaving with that kid last
night, and that’s not the first time recently, so...”
“Yeah, I saw them leave too,” I say, which is true. I did. Not the blond
kid; that was the night before. Last night it was a black-haired kid, devilishly
handsome with broad shoulders. Not in a million years would I have guessed
that he swung that way, but he did. It’s funny, really. Before I met Brendon, I
didn’t know a single gay man. This summer, I’ve seen more than I fathomed
there were in the country. Queers always find each other in crowds, exchange
looks, signal each other somehow. When Brendon wants to fuck, he will find
that one gay guy within a hundred miles and do him. “Whatever,” I tell Pete. “I
really don’t care what he does. I’m not fucking him anymore.”
“I know you’re not. But hey, I can still fire him if you want me to.”
He means it, and the suggestion feels like a punch to my guts. “We’re
almost done with the tour so I don’t see any need for that.”
“Just saying,” he replies and, after a pause, adds, “You did the right
thing, you know.” I hear the smile in his voice like he actually thinks
everything’s working out now.
“I know.”
Spencer joins us in the reject booth shortly after. “How are things back
home?” I force myself to ask. He probably thinks it’s sarcasm, me referring to
his disaster of a union as ‘home’ and, really, it is sarcasm, but he seems touched
that I asked in any case.
“Apparently Suzie’s growing loads,” he says, sounding proud again.
Suzie’s a baby. She cries, sleeps, sucks nipples and shits her pants. Is that
anything to be proud of? “Haley’s coming to LA for the birthday party Pete’s
been organising. Her mother will look after Suzie. It’ll be good for her, getting a
break.”
I don’t ask if he and Haley are still on a break and on the brink of
divorce, even if Joe, Brent and Pete would be delighted to hear that.
“Great. Look forward to seeing her,” I lie. Spencer knows I’m lying, but
even that is making an effort and he knows that.
The food arrives, the waitress placing a cheeseburger and fries under
my nose with a chocolate milkshake. Spencer looks at me from across the table.
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
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“I was gonna get you scrambled eggs, but then Brendon said that’s what
you’d want,” he mutters, maybe sounding slightly bitter. I glance to Brendon
and William again. William is destroying a napkin and throwing bits of paper at
Brendon, who is drinking coffee and giving William the middle finger.
“That’s what I want,” I say before digging into my food.
Pete only gives us fifteen minutes to eat, then begins to usher us all back
onto the bus for the drive to Phoenix. Joe, however, has disappeared with one of
the waitresses, and Pete curses everyone from Virgin Mary to Joe’s mother as he
realises it. I drink half of my milkshake, add vodka, then drink some more as the
crew leaves the diner and heads back for the bus.
Joe’s still MIA when I step outside. The sun is coming up in the horizon.
It might be a warm day coming ahead, but it doesn’t feel warm yet. I get out a
cigarette and walk to the side of the road. We’re in the middle of nowhere, the
land flat and stretching miles to all directions, rocky and dead. The road leads to
nowhere and everywhere.
I smoke my morning cigarette languidly, watching the only vehicle I
can see, a truck in the distance slowly coming our way. What if I waited here
until it reached us, then stepped in front of it? What if I moved to lie on the
road, waiting for it to get here? I doubt it’d hit me. I’d lie there forever, waiting,
and it’d be coming towards me forever too, but we’d never make impact. Not in
a hundred years.
I hear a click from my left and see Brendon lowering William’s camera.
“Hey,” he says, not walking over but staying the short distance away. I look
over my shoulder to the bus, but most of the crew is on the other side and out of
sight. Still, I appreciate him taking precautions and not standing too close to me.
“Hi,” I say, shielding my eyes against the sunlight and trying to focus
on him. The breeze is ruffling his hair slightly.
“Gorgeous out here, right?”
“Dead.”
“There’s a lot of life out in deserts. You’d be surprised.”
“Grew up in Las Vegas. I’m not surprised.” I lower my hand, still
squinting.
He smiles slightly. “So Las Vegas is dead?”
I nod and tip my cigarette, ash falling to the ground. “Died the day I
left. Crawled into a corner and withered away...” I take in a deep breath.
“Where are we, anyway?”
“Not too far away from Flagstaff, Arizona. I’ve lived there, you know.”
“No shit.” I’m not actually surprised. By now, I’ll believe anything he
says.
“That’s where I ended up after I took off. I spent a week hitch-hiking
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and going in circles. Had to settle down somewhere. Eat. Sleep. Make money to
eat and sleep. Buy new clothes. Clothes would’ve been nice.”
“I don’t know. I think you hitch-hiking naked would have had every
closet case in the country making U-turns,” I note, and he breaks into a smile.
“That didn’t occur to me. I’ll have to keep it in mind.”
He’s joking about it with me. I’m pretty sure it’s therapeutic to be able
to openly talk about the most traumatic experience of his life. It had to be. At
least I don’t see him pulling anything out of his hat that would top it. He had no
one and nothing. He was a kid. And from what I’ve seen, he still hasn’t
managed to get his life properly on track. He doesn’t even have his own place in
San Francisco right now. Years later, and he’s still homeless. Still, he’s getting
there.
“How are things with the guys?” he now asks, and even though the
roadies are around us most of the time, I can see why there’d be an information
block. The guys aren’t talking to him. Even Spencer isn’t. I’ve been too busy
avoiding the stones being thrown at me to feel guilty about the treatment he’s
getting.
“Shit. What do you expect?” I ask, and he shrugs. “You? How are things
with the guys?”
He frowns before his expression lightens up. “Oh. You mean those
guys.” He chuckles slightly. “Well, William thinks I’ve been acting like a slut to
deal with... with, um. You. But it’s not about that. I guess I just took your words
to heart when you told me to have the gayest time ever.”
“And every time you come, it’s a middle finger to your dad,” I note,
letting a sardonic smile emerge on my lips.
He laughs. “Maybe. I guess. Who knew revenge could be so
pleasurable, right? Especially Alma, the blond guy? He had a mouth on him,
you would’ve been amazed.”
I drop my cigarette and step on it. “Thought Alma was a girl’s name?”
“No, it –” he starts before realisation seems to dawn on him. “Audrey.
Or whatever she wants to be called. She told you.”
“About what? Mormon haven? You vanishing? Caught me,” I admit
calmly, mostly expecting him to freak the fuck out because that’s what he does
whenever things hit too close to home.
This time, however, Brendon only lifts an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Should’ve known, really. All this time I thought you were just... observant.
Could read me somehow. It was unnerving, really. Turns out, Alma still loves
gossip. Or Audrey, whatever. Alma’s a guy’s name traditionally, but the
groupie? Audrey? Her parents were radical and gave her a boy’s name.
Everyone else thought it was an abomination. They said they just thought she
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looked like an Alma.”

“Radical? She told me her dad thought Salt Lake City was two steps
away from hell. That’s radical?”
“Oh yeah,” Brendon says with a crooked smile. “Most people thought
the next house over was two steps from hell.”
I shake my head disbelievingly. How could someone as level-headed as
Brendon come out of that mess? Well, not saying that he is. He mostly isn’t. The
more I get to know him, the more I realise he’s trying not to drown. Still, he
knows who he is. That’s more than most people can say.
“Is that it? Any other secret of mine you don’t want to share with its
owner?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Alright. Just... remember what I asked.
My history is private, so... Some things you just want to keep to yourself. It’s
like people asking you who Jackie is, you know?”
“I guess it’s a bit like that,” I agree quietly.
Yelling coming from the distance breaks our conversation. Sounds like
Pete and Joe. “That’s our signal,” I sigh. We both head back for the bus, keeping
a distance between ourselves, Brendon fiddling with the camera. The gravel is
loud as we walk on it. “Only Joe would pull a stunt like this,” I grumble.
“Fucking on the job. Unprofessional if you ask me.”
“What on earth would posses anyone to do such a thing,” he muses,
and when our eyes meet, we both break into slightly twisted smiles.
“Would you say you’re a poet or a lyricist?” the man interviewing Joe and I asks
me thoughtfully.
“Um...” I start, trying to organise my thoughts. A poet would not say
‘um’ and a lyricist wouldn’t say ‘um’ either. This is my third interview today,
and I can’t concentrate. “Pass?”
Joe, who is sharing the couch with me, huffs indignantly.
“Alright. How about... Well, the tour is named Jackie, Me –”
“Pass. God, pass,” I nearly groan, and when the guy looks alarmed, I
sigh. It’s one minor thing, and somehow it’s the one everyone asks. Why are
they so hung up about it? Joe wanted the tour to be called the Sex and Rock tour.
That had a nice ring to it. Should’ve gone with that. “Sorry, I’m a bit tired today.
Ask Joe something.”
Joe turns to look at me in surprise, but he clearly doesn’t object.
“Alright,” the interviewer mutters, giving me a disappointed look. He
must have spent ages trying to come up with his ideal questions. The other half
of the interview passes as I listen to Joe speaking about touring, the album, his
musical vision and personal guitar idols.
Pete comes into the dressing room being used as an interviewing venue
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just as the designated twenty minutes comes up. He ushers the interviewer out
before taking out his notebook, nodding and scratching his head before asking
what we want for lunch.
When the pizzas arrive an hour later, Spencer and Brent are still doing
their own interviews, apparently stuck answering questions that a radio station
let fans call in with. They’re in the building somewhere as the station just sent a
guy over to record the interview, but apparently Pete owes this guy a favour or
two as he’s letting the inexcusable overtime slide. Joe and I have been sitting in
silence since the last interview. I know Pete said that Joe seems to have calmed
down a little, but I really don’t see anything different about him.
I’ve had two slices of pizza when Joe says, “Nice of you.”
I stop chewing and glance at him. “What is?”
“Just earlier, letting me handle the interview. I mean, we know I’m
better at interview situations than you, but...”
“I just couldn’t be bothered.”
“You can never be bothered, but you still try to answer.”
He’s got a point.
It’s all we say to each other before Brent and Spencer arrive. It’s a small
exchange, a lot of nothing, but when it comes to Joe and me, it just might be
everything. Maybe Pete’s talked him into this whole truce idea? I know that’s
far-fetched, but then again, Joe is kind of insane so who knows?
We soundcheck on time probably for the first time this summer. The
crew is on stage with the gear ready, Zack and William taping cables to the
stage floor. Brendon’s fiddling with Brent’s pedals, only giving me a side glance
when I walk on. He knows how to keep his distance when others are around.
We’re not fucking, but we can still chat like we did this morning. That only
applies when we’re in private, though.
His words keep swirling in my head. Some things are private, and some
things you keep to yourself. And even if he didn’t mean to tell me of his past, he
did. He’s dealing with it. I have a feeling even William doesn’t know the story.
And if he can let go of his ghosts by forcing them out into the open, then can the
rest of us do the same?
We get soundcheck over and done with without any hassle. It’s routine
by now, automatic and boring. Once we’re done, Pete says, “Hey, you’ve got
time! Why don’t you play something?”
“We just did,” I note.
“Yeah, but like... jam!” Pete offers hopefully, and I exchange glances
with my bandmates. We don’t jam anymore. Spencer and Brent there? Not
talking to each other. Brent and I? Not talking. Joe and Spencer? Yeah, no
communication there either. And Pete wants us to jam.
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When the suggestion doesn’t gain any support, Pete’s smile fades
slightly. I hand my guitar over to Andy as I head off stage. “You’re trying too
hard,” I tell Pete as I pass him, and he looks like he’s between disappointment
and anger. “Anyone needs me, I’m taking a nap on the bus.”
“Sure,” he mutters. Well, what did he expect? That Haley comes to LA
for the birthday bash, I stop fucking Brendon, and magically it’s all healed and
forgotten? It’s not that easy. The lies are only a sign of things not working,
anyway, and everyone knowing the score doesn’t change what was wrong in
the first place.
The interviews combined with sleep deprivation aren’t making me feel
particularly shiny, so I practically dive back into my bed once I get on the bus. I
don’t even bother taking my shoes off. I close my eyes tiredly, and I see Brendon
and that kid, whatever his name was. Alma. I see the desert and the fans, the
thousands of screaming kids in the audience every night. I see skin, perfect,
tanned skin, a pair of plump lips, guitar picks and strings and venues and
cocaine lines and people people people –
I open my eyes, gulping air. The back lounge is empty except for me,
but it doesn’t feel that way. I suddenly feel too nervous to sleep.
I end up going through my notebook instead, tracing over different
entries from this summer. I come across numbers I can’t decipher at first, but
then realise it’s a tally of the shows. One down, fifty-four to go. I was so focused
on that at first, but I stopped counting at some point. Got used to it. Stopped
caring. Didn’t mind being on tour. We’ve got less than fifteen shows to go now.
Brendon isn’t invited to Europe with us anymore, that’s for certain. Less than
fifteen shows, and it’s all over and done with.
We’ll be back in Los Angeles in two days. I’ll be going back home.
We’re playing seven nights in a row, LA wanting to welcome back its golden
boys. No hotels, no busses – I’ll sleep in my own bed for a week. God, I can’t
wait. Jac will be there, the people we know, our friends... Brendon has nothing
to do with that world, and it’s making me feel uneasy about how tour life will
collide with my actual life. The mixing of the two will hopefully be minimal. I
won’t see Brendon apart from the shows, anyway.
I’m glad I put an end to my fling before LA. It could have gotten messy
otherwise.
Someone knocks on the door of the nest, and I move to sit up on the bed
as I tell them to come in. Brendon opens the door, a duffel bag in his grip. “You
got any laundry?”
“What?”
He lifts the bag. “There’s a laundromat down the street, and I’m stuck
with this glorious chore. You got anything?”
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“Sure.” I get up and start going through the pile of clothes by the bed.
He holds the bag open as I shove in stained shirts for him. “Thanks.”
“It’s my job,” he mumbles, unimpressed with the task allocated to him.
His eyes linger on me, and I try not to look at his mouth, the way he’s got a few
days’ worth of stubble now. “Anyway, I’ll catch you –”
“A dog.”
He frowns. “Come again?”
“Jackie was a dog,” I tell him, not knowing why I answer the question
for him when it’s been asked two hundred times before. It’s not a time that I
think about anymore, but I had to pay tribute somehow, like naming the tour
after a life I once had. Brendon looks curious, so I go on to make him stay a
while longer. “When I was a kid, this old woman lived next door to us, Mrs.
Roscoe. Jackie was a mongrel. Shaggy, grey fur,” I explain, seeing the silly thing
right before my eyes like it was yesterday. “Jackie was old, just like Mrs. Roscoe.
They had this ancient feel to them, and Jackie always understood what Mrs.
Roscoe said. It was like Jackie wasn’t a dog, but human. It was pretty creepy
sometimes.”
“So Jackie’s the dog, the lady is Mrs. Roscoe, and then there’s you,” he
lists slightly disbelievingly before his lips twist upwards at the corners. “God, I
always... thought it was, like. A girl who’d given you good head or something.”
I scoff at his words because I’m not that shallow. When it comes to music,
everything has meaning. “Why did you name the tour after them?”
“I don’t know. Commemoration, maybe. Mrs. Roscoe let me come
around after school, and I did my homework on her living room floor, eating
homemade cookies while she played piano. I’d never really been exposed to
music until her, so... I think I owe this to her. Jackie too. She used to bark and
howl whenever Mrs. Roscoe played the piano. It was like she was singing
along.”
Brendon gives me a genuine, warm smile. “Sounds pretty great.”
“It was,” I admit. “The best... God, the best time of my life was when I
was ten. How sad is that?”
“That’s not sad,” he says softly. “It’s nice that the tour is named after
something good like that, you know?”
“Yeah...” I nod, my voice fading out. I blink and see Jackie lying in the
middle of the street.
Brendon looks hesitant. “It was... good. Wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t real.” Brendon’s brow furrows, and I swallow hard and press
on. If I told him half of it, I can’t omit the rest. “I usually stayed with them until
Dad came back from work. That’s when I snuck back to our house. Dad didn’t
have a clue I went over there. He wouldn’t have let me, anyway, thought Mrs.
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Roscoe was an old hag meddling in other people’s lives. But it was like I had a
family in the afternoons. Had my own dog. Had a grandmother. Mrs. Roscoe
used to sing these old French songs from the twenties. I kept thinking that
maybe she’d adopt me somehow. Stupid, I know.”
“That’s not stupid,” Brendon says quietly.
I glance at him briefly. “It was. Good things never happen. I know that.”
His expression turns serious. “What happened?” His voice is careful,
like he can somehow see it on my face.
I shrug, trying to fight off the sickening feeling in my guts. “Mrs. Roscoe
always kept Jackie loose because it’s not like she would’ve run away. And then
Dad... He was drinking and driving. He always –” My voice dies in my throat,
and my hands curl into fists. I saw it happen. “Jackie didn’t die right away. She
was lying in the middle of the street. I think her spine…” I try to explain, but
only end up shaking my head because I still don’t know. “She was trying to get
up. There was blood, and. You think a dog that size wouldn’t bleed much, but
she... And she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get up anymore. Her eyes.
She was panicking. And I just had to keep soothing her, petting her, saying it
was okay, and Dad was yelling at me to leave her be and come inside, but I- I
couldn’t leave her. She was my dog.”
I stop, a shuddery breath leaving my lips. I blink more than necessary. I
haven’t talked about it since it happened. “It took her a few minutes to die.”
Brendon remains perfectly silent. I clear my throat. “Mrs. Roscoe died a
few weeks later. It was like… after Jackie was gone, she couldn’t exist either.
Like old couples, you know?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, tone cautious like he’s talking to someone
who’s dying. But I’m not. Not yet.
“Anyway, it turned out that Mrs. Roscoe had put me in her will, wanted
me to have the piano. But Dad wouldn’t hear of it, said we had no room for a
fucking piano,” I say, quoting the man himself, the words as bitter on my
tongue as they were when I was eleven. “So I didn’t get it. And after that, when
school finished, I just went straight home. I had nowhere else to go anymore.
But I... I still remember when it was just Jackie, me and this lady.”
“Hey,” he whispers, and I realise I’m shivering. I quickly wipe my
cheeks and try to smile as if to say it’s nothing, no big deal. Brendon’s eyes are
full of sympathy and something deeper. His hand lands on my arm, squeezing
gently. “I think Mrs. Roscoe and Jackie would be damn proud to see that you
made it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Look at you. You’re famous. Everyone knows you,
and you’re a damn talented musician.”
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“So I can write songs and get recognised on the street. Great. Where
does that get me?” I ask angrily. My eyelashes are wet against my cheeks.
I think Brendon realises that I’ve never talked about this to anyone
before. I never even told Spencer about them because I wanted to have
something for myself. My own secret. Now I realise that ‘secret’ is just a word
given for uncomfortable truths we don’t want to share in fear of what they say
about us.
“You’ve done more with your life than I have,” he notes.
“But you’ve lived yours more.”
“Measured by what?” he asks, and I’m not sure. Laughter. Courage.
His hand moves up my arm to my shoulder, fingers brushing against
my neck. “If you honestly think you’re not living, then it’s not like you’ve run
out of time yet,” he whispers quietly.
Somehow, right then, he feels like the only thing in the world that’s ever
made any sense to me.
My hand curls into a fist in the back of his shirt when he moves in to
hug me, and I cling to him, breathing him in. I feel the tension draining out as I
focus on how warm he feels, how solid, by now familiar too. He’s tiny. He’s just
small, but somehow he has more in him than the rest of us combined. The hug
leaves no space between us, and I don’t want to let go. His fingers brush the
nape of my neck, nose pressing to the crook. I can’t remember the last time I got
a hug.
When he pulls back, he brushes curls of hair behind my ear. “You
okay?” he asks quietly, and I nod, trying to pull myself together. He reaches up
to press a kiss on my forehead, short and warm. He could have gone for the lips.
He didn’t, but somehow the kiss is more intimate because of it.
“Laundry,” he says, and I look to our feet where the duffel bag is. He
must’ve dropped it.
“I should go argue about the setlist or something,” I say hoarsely,
fidgeting slightly. I hate how calm and composed he is, nothing from the angry
man I saw a few days before in an alleyway, trying to pick a fight with the wall.
He doesn’t have to tell me that my old man was a drunken asshole. I know that,
anyway. But he keeps smiling at me with his eyes, like he’s seen something I
missed.
“Guess we’re even again. We know each other’s secrets,” he points out.
“And I promise I will be a better secret keeper than Spencer was.”
“Yeah, me too,” I manage to laugh.
He picks up the bag, but somehow his free hand brushes against mine,
and my fingers loop around his wrist for no reason, and then our palms press
together as our fingers entwine. His hand is dry and warm in mine, making my
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heart beat fast. He doesn’t look at our hands, like he’s not even aware, though I
know he is. He is damn aware of it.
We walk through the bunk area and the lounge slowly, coming to a stop
by the driver’s seat. He presses the button on the dashboard that opens the
doors, and only then do our hands separate.
It’s a gorgeous night when we arrive to LA, mostly because the band has
renewed energy. None of the roadies are local so they don’t get to go home. Joe
keeps talking about his purple one piece he forgot to pack and how he will
totally wear it tomorrow, while Brent addresses me for the first time in days to
enquire if Jac will come to the LA shows, and Spencer seems to look forward to
not having to be around us.
It’s also my birthday and has been for the past two hours. Twenty-four
years old. The guys patted my shoulders when the clock turned to midnight,
and there’s a huge party that’s being thrown for Spencer and me in the evening
since his birthday is just two days after mine. We haven’t done presents in
years, but William gave me a mini bottle of vodka that he probably stole from a
hotel. I thought it was surprising coming from him. I’m relatively sure he
should hate my guts.
William is now driving us through the night from San Diego to Los
Angeles. Zack’s not with us since he’s spending the night in San Diego at his
own house, but he will be in LA by the afternoon. We’re all exhausted but
cramped in the lounge and impatiently waiting to get home. Pete is looking at
his papers, saying, “Right, William, Brendon and Andy will be staying in the
hotel near the venue, and –”
“I don’t need to stay there,” Brendon intervenes. “I know a guy in LA
that I’ll be staying with.”
“Oh. That’s excellent! Good, we’ll be saving some money with that!”
Pete says happily. I’m relatively sure we could be swimming in money, and Pete
would still be stingy.
The bus comes to a stop outside Capitol at three in the morning. Joe is
the first to take his suitcases and one of his guitars and disappear into the night,
and we disperse from there. Brent’s got a ride waiting, some friend of his,
maybe dropping him off at Jac’s apartment. He doesn’t have to worry about
beating me to it, and I don’t have to worry about him telling Jac about Brendon.
Pete’s made it very clear that no one is to know about it except for those who
already do. Brent will respect that because, no matter what he thinks is going on
with him and Jac, he knows he needs this band. Just like I do. But he’s also said
that if he catches me and Brendon at it, he will go straight to Jac. Sure. It’s over
with us, so that’s an idle threat. Spencer says that he won’t get any sleep because
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Haley’s flying in early, and he needs to clean up his house before she gets there.
William and Brendon are smoking by the bus when my taxi arrives, and I wave
goodbye before slumping in the backseat.
Even if we have to go back on the road for one last week after the LA
shows, this feels like a homecoming in a lot of ways. We’re an inch away from
being done. The taxi driver recognises me, and I sign the book he’s reading as
it’s the only signable thing he has.
When I step into my apartment, I flick on the lights and stop to take in
the view. The place is like I left it except dustier. I don’t remember the last time I
was here because I was on some heavy shit back then. The mess isn’t too bad,
but I’ve got four guitars lying around the living room and empty beer bottles in
almost every corner. Usually I keep my instruments in place – it’s the only thing
I’m strict about.
I leave my two suitcases by the couch and go to the bedroom, turning
the lights on. At least the bed is made, the sheets looking clean. When I go to the
kitchen, I’m greeted by a pile of dishes in the sink. The fridge is empty like I
knew it’d be, and I go through the cupboards to find something as a four AM
snack. I’m halfway through a can of tuna when there’s a knock on my door.
Fuck. A bit of banging and walking around, and the damn lady next door has
come to complain. Jesus fuck, I will kill her one of these days.
I go to open the door, angry that, after a summer of absence, that witch
instantly wants to bitch about something. I probably give her a sense of
purpose. God, that’s just sad.
I wrench the door open angrily. “Look –” I stop dead when my eyes
land on Brendon, who is standing in the quiet corridor with his bag dangling
from his grip.
“Hi,” he says. I only stare. “So... when I said I know a guy in LA? That’s
you.”
I stare some more, having been rendered speechless. He looks a bit
nervous, though he’s smiling. “Can I come in then?”
I laugh disbelievingly, trying to get over the initial surprise. Him. In this
world. “How do you know where I live?”
“Looked at Pete’s address book.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. Sneaky little thing. “And you’re assuming
that I will let you stay with me?”
“I’m hoping, yeah.”
He gives me a mildly flirtatious smile, which instantly pulls and twists
at my guts, making it hard to focus. “Bren, you know that’s not a good idea.”
“I really don’t,” he counters and pushes past me into the living room.
“So this is the eagle’s nest, huh?” he asks as he shrugs off his jacket, placing it on
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the back of the couch. “I like that armchair. Love the orange.” He puts his bag
down next to my suitcases. “Wow, your guitars. I thought the eight you had on
the road was all you got.”
“No, I’ve got around twenty-five.” I close the door and watch him look
around the living room wonderingly. He seems curious and intrigued.
“Brendon,” I say again, trying to get through to him.
“What?” he asks, having picked up a stack of records off the coffee
table, now flicking through them.
“There’s only one bed.”
He looks up at me, face perfectly neutral. “I’ll take the couch.”
“How do you –” I start before swallowing the rest of the question. How
does he expect me to sleep when he’s that close to me and there’s no one else
around?
He smirks at me. “Don’t assume so much, Ross. I want a place to sleep
and, as much as I love William, I need a break from him or I’ll go insane. That
couch looks comfy enough. Just need to clear away the beer bottles.” He starts
cleaning like he’s lived here forever, asking me if I’ve got extra pillows and
going to my bedroom to get himself the extra duvet as he comments on the
paintings I’ve got on my walls, the lamp and the curtains. “I really like your
place.”
“Jac did most of the decorating.”
He glances at me briefly. “She’s got taste.”
Miraculously, he’s turned the filthy looking couch into a pretty inviting
crash spot within five minutes.
“Just for tonight,” I give in with a sigh. Can’t send him out into the
night, can I? “Jac will be coming here and...”
“Just for tonight. I get it,” he assures me.
When he pulls off his t-shirt, I make a quick exit to my bedroom before
the mental image gets stuck with me. It’s already stuck with me. Now I’m stuck
wondering how to jerk off inconspicuously when he’s just behind the door. This
is not like the bus where everyone can hear, when the bunks have practically
zero soundproofing, and we will get caught.
Now, he’s here. In my home. The one place where I never really
pictured him. And no one could find out what we do or don’t do tonight, and he
knew that walking in. He claims he’s just taking over the couch, but he’s taken
over all of the rooms, every corner and crook, and I lie on my bed in the dark,
listening to my breathing and trying to decide if knowing he is just on the other
side of the door is comforting or terrifying.
***
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In the morning, I slip back into the apartment to find Brendon like I left him: fast
asleep on the couch, eyes shut and mouth parted as he breathes evenly. I stop by
the couch to make sure he’s still there, and if I stay watching him sleep just for a
little while, it’s because my thoughts strayed and I forgot I was even there.
I try to be quiet as I move around the kitchen, frying myself an egg and
reading about the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in the paper, tracing the text with
my forefinger as I alternate between smoking and egg-frying. I have no idea
what’s been happening in the world lately. Touring isn’t in any way connected
to other events, and it’s nice to catch up even if I don’t care about some island
state across the world. It reminds me that there’s more than this.
“Morning,” Brendon’s voice comes from behind me. I turn around,
slightly nervous. He lifts a tired hand as he yawns, bed hair sticking all over and
wearing nothing but a white tank top with grey briefs. He looks at the cooker
behind me. “Shouldn’t I be making you breakfast?”
“No,” I say, confused. “The egg’s for me. I got you Freakies and milk.”
“I meant that it’s your birthday. You should have birthday breakfast
served to you in bed.”
I don’t want to think of Brendon serving me anything in bed. No. Not
having that mental image.
“Can I grab a shower?” he asks, and my mind moves from birthday
blowjobs to him naked with water rolling down his form, past his shoulders,
down his back, over his ass.
“Sure. Was the couch alright?”
“Yeah, it was fine. Have you slept?”
No. I dozed off a few times, but I haven’t actually slept in two or three
days.
“Yeah, I –” A knock on the door interrupts my lying to him because if I
tell him, he will get that half-worried look on his face that I don’t like seeing.
“Give me a sec.”
I turn the cooker off, the fried egg frizzling on the pan as I head to the
door, fully prepared to confront my neighbour and tell her that fucking talking
before nine AM cannot be against the regulations because she does it all the
damn time when she calls her sister in Florida at seven AM and complains
loudly and wall-piercingly about her hip when I’m hungover.
But again it’s not her. Maybe she died? Whatever her condition might
be, I’m more concerned that I’m looking at my girlfriend. “Hey there, stranger,”
Jac beams as she gets on her toes to place a hat on my head. “Happy birthday,”
she purrs and presses our lips together for a brief peck.
“I thought – You didn’t say you were coming over,” I manage when I let
her in because I have to let her in. I take off the hat she put on my head, clearly a
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new design of hers: buttons on the crown. Interesting.

“Are you kidding? Of course I was coming!” she smiles brightly, then
nods at the hat. “That’s your birthday present. Do you like it? It’s got your
initials in the sweatband,” she explains, passionate about her designs as she
always is. She takes a long look at me. “God, you look like shit, baby.”
“Touring, you know how –” I start, but Jac’s eyes are fixed behind me. I
turn to see Brendon in the kitchen doorway. Right. Great. Fuck. “Jac, you
remember Brendon. He crashed on the couch.” I motion at the pillow and covers
on the couch, thankful for the evidence.
“You’re the gay guy,” Jac says, and she’s not trying to be rude – I
wouldn’t have considered the comment in any way rude at the start of the tour
because Jac is just stating a fact – but she comes across as rude, anyway.
“That’s me,” Brendon says slowly.
“I thought the roadies were staying in a hotel?” Jac now asks me.
“They are. William and Brendon just had a disagreement, thought it
was best to let things cool off,” I explain before adding to Brendon, “If you want
to take that shower, then go ahead. There should be a clean towel somewhere in
there.”
“Merci beaucoup,” he says, his choice of words sarcastic. I’m pretty sure
French is the official language of sarcasm, anyway, and I try to focus on my
girlfriend as he crosses the living room and enters the bathroom.
“So much for loud reunion sex,” Jac pouts at me. Reunion sex. Right. Of
course. How could I forget that tradition? “Can you throw him out?” she asks,
looking at the closed bathroom door.
“He’s taking a shower,” I note as I move to put the hat on the coffee
table.
“I don’t remember you ever being charitable,” she says sourly.
“Feel sorry for him, that’s all. A homeless faggot, fought with the only
friend he has,” I mutter angrily, which seems to throw Jac off. Great. That’s not
what I want either. When did she and I stop getting along? We used to laugh at
people together, relate to each other’s chaos somehow. Now I just feel on edge
and irritated.
“But he will be leaving soon, right? For the venue, I mean.”
“Maybe. Yeah. I guess. I don’t- I mean that I don’t know. I don’t keep
track of his damn timetable,” I snap, and Jac frowns as she approaches me
carefully.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
Everything. This whole scenario of Jac and Brendon both here, sardonic
and mocking. There isn’t enough room in this building or block for both of
them. “Nothing. I’m just stressed, the tour’s been insane. I haven’t slept in days,
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you know how I get. Brendon will probably fuck off in a minute, and then I’ll
just go to bed. Need some sleep. And that’ll bore you, and I don’t mean to bore
you. You should go out, meet your friends and- and we’ll see each other tonight
at the venue. Alright?”
I know I rambled, but she looks sympathetic. She knows. She gets it.
“Alright. But you better sleep and not just scribble lyrics or play around with
guitars because I know you!” she says warningly, pointing a finger at me, and I
break into a genuine smile. She tries to keep me on track sometimes. Most of the
time not, but right now I appreciate her words.
“As you wish,” I give in, walking over and pulling her into my arms
habitually.
She smiles up at me. “Get some sleep.” Her hands press against my
chest. She’s got such small hands. “Old man,” she adds mischievously.
“Hey,” I say warningly and slap her ass. She squeaks and bursts out
laughing, her eyes shining. I grin at her and note, “I’m only twenty-fucking-
four.”
“So old,” she says dramatically before she reaches up to kiss me again.
It lasts longer than the first kiss, and I let our lips move over each other’s, trying
to remember how this works. And it works. For now.
When Jac’s at the door, she glances towards the bathroom where I can
hear the shower running. “You should be careful with that. Sure you don’t want
anyone saying you hang out with homos,” she points out before blowing me a
kiss and leaving.
The second the door closes, I exhale shakily, the smile vanishing from
my lips. Fuck. Fuck, that is not good. It’s coming together, tour life and real life,
mixing when it’s the last thing I ever wanted. Maybe she’s right and I am old.
Too old for this mess, anyway.
The shower stops running, and I look to the closed door, trying not to
picture what’s behind it or who will walk out shortly. I lied. Brendon won’t be
needed at the venue until a few hours from now. I sent away my girlfriend, who
I haven’t seen in weeks, to enjoy a cold fried egg as Brendon munches on
Freakies. Assuming we get back into the kitchen and don’t end up in the
bedroom, the couch, the floor, because I honestly don’t know how much more
restraint I can muster.
I walk towards the bathroom door without meaning to, like I’m
hunting. My fingernails press into my palms as I chew on my bottom lip.
Brendon knew what he was doing when he invited himself over. He knew.
The door opens suddenly, causing me to instantly back away, adrenalin
rushing through my veins. Brendon steps out, a white towel wrapped around
his waist, hair wet, droplets rolling down his neck. He stops at the sight of me,
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confusion on his face. “Where’s Jac?”

“Left,” I manage, eyes roaming over his exposed form, and then I’ve
walked up to him. I push him back and slam him against the wall, one of my
hands moving to the back of his neck and pulling him closer, our lips instantly
attaching. His skin is wet and slick, and he gasps against my mouth before his
tongue meets mine hungrily. His hands land on my hips and he pulls me closer,
pushing his crotch against mine, offering himself. The kiss is messy and full of
saliva, and I’m going insane with how much I want him. He’s soaking my shirt,
Jesus Christ, he could have towelled off properly, but he didn’t know that I’d –
No. He knew. He responds without hesitation, and he knew.
I retreat as abruptly as I dove in. He is panting, lips reddened and
pupils blown.
“Ryan,” he breathes out huskily. It’s a command and a plea and a
question.
“I need a shower.” A fucking cold one. “Don’t... Don’t follow me.”
I push past him into the bathroom as he tries to catch his breath, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m not sure who he can taste.
It’s the first time six thousand people wish me happy birthday. Joe informs the
crowd that it’s time to sing for me, and they all do. It’s not that Joe wants to
celebrate my birth – far from it – but the kids front row have been throwing gifts
on stage throughout the show, Pete’s informed us of the wave of presents sent
to the label, and the fans queuing outside before the opening of the doors spent
an hour chanting birthday wishes.
It doesn’t take the crowd long to sing the song, but it feels like torture,
anyway. All of the focus is on me. I don’t deserve it. I’m not doing this to be
famous. I’d much rather play them a song I wrote than have them glorify me,
but I have to grit my teeth and bear it.
Somehow it feels like I’m being canonised.
When their singing comes to an end, cheering and happy that they can
share this with me, I say, “Thanks, you sound great,” into the microphone,
averting my gaze and stepping on the pedals nervously to get ready for
Alienation. They recognise the riff and just about explode. Singles always get
recognised more.
“Yeeeeeah!” Joe says into his microphone, probably to rally up the
enthusiasm but ruining the start in my opinion. I turn my back to the crowd like
I often do, seeking refuge by the drum kit. It used to be because of the soothing
effect Spencer has on me. Now it’s just habit.
The show is intense. The crowd is crazier than usual, maybe because it’s
a home crowd and they perceive us as belonging to them somehow. Fans have
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tried to get on stage on four separate occasions, and now I see one girl actually
managing it, catching her in my peripheral vision. She climbs on stage between
Joe and me in the middle of the instrumental break, but before the security staff
reaches her, Zack’s floored her, having dashed from the sidelines. I ignore the
way my heart jumped for a second. She was coming right at me.
I focus on picking, trying to ignore the way she kicks and screams as
Zack and one of the security guys drag her away.
When we finish the show, everyone seems to be on a high. “That was
good, right?” Spencer asks when we get off stage, but I’m not sure if he’s asking
only in hopes of impressing Haley, who got a cold and forced reception from
the rest of us when Spencer arrived with her. As far as she’s concerned, we’ve
stolen her husband. As far as we’re concerned, she’s a scheming bitch who
probably got pregnant on purpose and then stole our drummer.
“I forgot how loud these concerts were,” she says, covering her ears.
“I like ‘em loud!” Jac exclaims, and I smirk. Drunk already.
“That was a good show,” Brendon says from behind the girls. Our eyes
meet briefly. Must have been if he says so. He’s seen them all.
The birthday party is bigger than I imagined. It’s not just for me but
Spencer too. I figured Pete would rent a club of some sort, but he seems to have
gone all out and ignored the money factor. Then again, the house fit for a king
amongst the other palaces in Beverly Hills was probably arranged through
connections, and Pete might not even be paying that much for it. The house is
currently for sale, and I wonder who used to live in it.
It’s a warm night and most of the guests are outside, in the pool, on
deck chairs, drinking and dancing and getting fucked as heavy rock blares from
the speakers. It seems like LA’s entire music scene has showed up.
It’s surreal to be back. Suddenly, I know everyone again. After a
summer of not knowing what, who, when or why, it feels dreamlike to pass
through a crowd, lifting my beer and saying forced niceties, a slur of, “Hey,
Frank! Hi, Laurel, how you doing? Dave, good to see you!”
I don’t mean any of it. Frank’s a dick, Laurel’s a slut and Dave’s an
asshole. But they all want to be friends with me eagerly, and it’s one of the rare
times I realise how huge the band has become or is becoming. There’s cake too,
one for me and one for Spencer, and I end up licking whipped cream off my
fingers before going back to the vodka.
It’s not a birthday party if I don’t vomit before two o’clock.
In a few hours I end up talking more than I have all summer, but it
doesn’t relax me. I see how they react differently to me now, having gone from
“that musician” to “the musician”. Spencer would have the right to say that all
of these people want something. Jac’s been by my side for most of the evening,
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but now I seem to have lost her. I see Brent, though, so it can’t be that. Joe’s over
there, so she’s not moved onto him yet either.
“Sorry, I need to get some air,” I tell my audience that is insisting I tell
tour stories. I keep talking about my arrest in Philly since it’s the only remotely
interesting thing I can come up with that I can share. The things I actually find
interesting, like breakdowns in Salt Lake City alleyways, Brendon sinking to his
knees and blowing me on the bus after yet another fight I had with Joe, the first
time that he and I... The things that have actually stuck with me are all things I
can’t share.
I walk back outside and hear someone calling my name. To my surprise,
it’s Brendon, who is standing a bit further off with a guy I don’t recognise. He
motions me over, and I stop to see if there’s any of the band or crew around. No.
Good. I quirk an eyebrow as I approach them, convincing myself that I just
mean to say hello. I haven’t seen Brendon since we got here. The guy with him
has dirty blond hair to his shoulders, framing a youngish and handsome face.
He looks excited and star struck at the sight of me.
“I said I knew you, but he didn’t believe me,” Brendon explains with a
smirk, and it’s just a smirk but it’s so much more than that.
“Ryan Ross!” the kid says, grabbing my hand and shaking it
energetically. He looks around eighteen or nineteen. “I’m such a big fan, so –”
“So’s everyone,” I note because I have heard that exact same phrase fifty
times tonight. “What you up to?” I ask Brendon.
He shrugs. “Trying to find a place to crash.”
“Ah.” I take a look at the guy again before my eyes flicker back to
Brendon. “And how’s that working out for you?”
“It’s working,” he says slyly.
Clearly so.
The kid looks unnerved. Brendon’s practically just outed him as gay in
my presence. I can feel Brendon’s eyes on me, the way they’ve been all day. I
remember the first time he showed me The Look this summer, the way it made
my guts twist. The effect doesn’t wear off.
“Does anyone want something to drink?” the kid asks a bit nervously.
“Beers?”
Brendon and I nod, and he sets out to find some. “Having a good
birthday?” Brendon asks.
“Pretty good, yeah.” For some reason, my words sound dark, like
instead of what I said, I said something different, something that results in him
spread out beneath me. “Seems like you’re doing alright for yourself too.
Keeping busy with...” I motion after the blond guy.
“Kenneth.”
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“Sure.” I take another look around, but still don’t spot anyone who
knows of our affair. “Make sure someone sees you two leaving together.
Preferably Brent.”
Brendon snorts. “I don’t fuck to fix your problems.” It was just a
suggestion. The more people see us not together, the better. Which, really,
means I shouldn’t be talking to him right now either. “You know Kenneth said
he’s always wanted to do you,” he adds casually, not breaking the eye contact
between us.
“Something you two have in common, then. Sure that’ll keep you two
talking for hours.”
“I didn’t always want you.”
“But you do now.”
Brendon smiles, and he somehow manages to make it look innocent
though it’s anything but. “You can’t kiss a boy like you did this morning, Ross,
and not have him horny out of his mind for the rest of the day.”
I’ve figured as much. Spent breakfast wanting to leap across the table,
soundcheck trying not to fuck him in the middle of the stage, and the show
willing myself not to ravish him whenever he hurried on stage to hand me or
Brent the next instrument.
He’s practically undressing me with his eyes. I force myself not to let it
get to me. “We’re still not fucking, you know.”
He smirks. “Yeah, I’m working on that.”
It sounds like a promise to my ears.
Kenneth comes back with beers, and I take the one he offers me before
telling them to have a nice night. Kenneth looks severely disappointed, but I
focus on walking away while I still can. Before I’m in too deep.
But there’s a loophole. There is a huge, gaping loophole that enables me to pull
Kenneth in for a dirty kiss. He tastes like cigarettes as he kisses me back wildly.
My erection is killing me, and I need to fuck before I go insane, have this kid on
my bed on all fours, gasping for breath when I push in without warning.
The loophole isn’t the realisation that I can fuck other men apart from
Brendon while abiding the rules set out by my bandmates. It’s not that I plan to
bury my cock into the sweet, tight ass of this groupie – a male groupie, we get
them sometimes but in the past we’ve laughed them out of the room and called
them fags. I’d classify Kenneth as one, anyway.
No, the loophole is the second pair of lips pressing to the back of my
neck. Kenneth is between me and the wall in my living room, my crotch
pressing against his while another body presses itself to my back.
I drank too much, but I know what I’m doing. I know, I know...
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I turn my head to meet the lips of the man behind me.

“Brendon,” I manage, and Brendon responds with a groan as our
mouths press together, one of his hands snaking to my front and firmly cupping
my erection. Kenneth is sucking on my neck, unbuttoning my shirt.
That’s the loophole.
I’m not fucking Brendon – I’m fucking this kid, and if Brendon’s here
too, then okay. If Brendon’s here for me to touch and kiss, then alright. That’s a
coincidence, really, and we’re not fucking each other. We’ve stopped doing that.
The last time I was inside him was states ago – I’ve been a good boy, it’s my
birthday, and I deserve this.
I don’t deserve the thousand-headed sing-along, but I deserve two men
in my bed.
I step back from between them, and they instantly move towards each
other. Brendon kisses Kenneth hungrily.
I back further into the apartment, unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the
way and keeping my eyes on them. Kenneth laughs against Brendon’s mouth,
and Brendon looks so good like that, smirking as he deepens the kiss. Their
attention quickly moves back to me as I’m standing by the door of the bedroom,
watching them, one hand inside my underwear and rubbing my aching cock.
“Fuck, Ryan Ross,” Kenneth practically whimpers. He makes his way
over, dropping onto his knees in front of me, hands trembling as they land on
my hips. He starts to lick the skin around my navel, heading south, moaning to
himself.
My hands move to his long hair, trying not to grin at how fucking eager
he is to have me. Brendon walks over to us, pulling his shirt over his head.
Deep down, I knew that it was a matter of time. We’ve spent days
circling each other, doing anything but actually letting the situation turn into a
fuck fest, and then all it takes is one party, one drink too many, an opportunity
to take off without being noticed, and we end up here. But I am not breaking
any rules. I’m not.
Brendon stares at me wantonly as Kenneth takes my cock into his
mouth. I hiss at the sensation, and the kid groans, wanting more.
Brendon stops in front of us, and I reach for his arm, keeping my other
hand firmly in Kenneth’s messy, blond hair. Brendon lets me pull him in, our
lips meeting again. The kiss is deep and passionate, his hand on my chin
keeping me in place as he controls the kiss. Maybe this is his birthday present.
Maybe he got Kenneth for me.
We pull back for air, and Brendon’s teeth are scraping my earlobe, his
breathing hot against my skin. Kenneth takes my cock in all the way, relaxing
his jaw like a pro despite his age, and I groan as I slip into his throat. I fist his
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hair, turning my head to meet Brendon’s gaze. He whispers, “What took you so
long?” before leaning in for a dirty kiss.
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CHAPTER 8: STOP
The mattress I’m lying on bounces, followed by hushed voices, but I pay no
attention to them. The first seconds of consciousness make me wholly
preoccupied with the way my head is pounding and the way my limbs feel tired
and sore. I stretch slightly, feeling content in the warmth of the bed and
ignoring the sounds of doors opening and closing before it gets quiet again.
The mattress dips, the covers shifting, and then legs brush against my
own. They’re not slender or shaven. They’re not a woman’s legs. I force one
tired eye open.
Brendon’s under the covers with me, having propped himself on one
elbow. He’s gazing down at me, brown hair sticking out everywhere, looking
warm and soft even if he’s got angry bite marks on his neck. He looks well
fucked, and it looks fucking good on him. “You should sleep more,” he
whispers, reaching out and pushing hair from my forehead.
“Hmm,” I manage, turning to lie on my back, grabbing his hand and
pulling, and he gets the hint and lies down, pressing against my side. God, he’s
so gloriously naked.
I’m not shocked he’s here. Even as I slept, I was aware of him, knowing
what I had done.
Weak morning light is coming in through the windows. From what I
can see, we’ve made a mess of the room. He seems content nuzzling my
collarbone, and I’m too tired to move.
Huh. This is nice.
“Did we fuck?” I ask groggily. I know what we did, but there are gaps
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in my memory. Brendon lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow at me like the
answer to my question is pretty obvious. “I mean, did I fuck you?” I say with a
slight roll of my eyes.
“No.”
I didn’t fuck him. Well done me.
I rub my face with one hand, trying to get the sleep out of my system,
but it’s hard when he’s warm and solid against me. My stomach churns
uncomfortably, alcohol welling in it and burning. God, since when have I had
hangovers like this? I need to get back into the habit of drinking to stop feeling
like this the morning after.
“Where’s the other one?” I ask, realising the kid’s absence only now.
“I sent him home.”
“That’s good,” I sigh. I can smell the guy on my skin. I can smell
Brendon too. Memories start flooding my mind – hands, mouths, groans,
touches.
He looks at me incredulously. “You don’t think we had sex last night?”
“Not if we didn’t fuck each other,” I note, ignoring how this, the two of
us in bed right now, pushed together, touching, feels a lot more significant than
fucking.
He presses closer to me, and I let my fingers skim over his left
collarbone before focusing on the bruises on his neck. Probably the kid. Kids like
doing that, marking the people they fuck. God, he better not have marked me.
My neck doesn’t feel sore, though.
Brendon asks, “What about when he was on his hands and knees,
sucking me off as you took him from behind?” I instantly get the full visual in
my head. I remember that. “That wasn’t us having sex?”
“Not like we made each other come,” I manage to reply, trying to
control the wave of want that now competes with the slight nausea. I told the
guys I was done with Brendon, I told him as much, and most of all I told it to
myself. And then I do this and don’t regret it. I can’t even bring myself to
pretend that I do.
“What about when he fucked me and you jerked me off? The way we
kissed?” he goes on, and there is no way he can describe the events of last night
without making me aroused. He studies my face intently. “You’ve never jerked
me off before, you know.”
“That still doesn’t qualify,” I say, remembering what he felt like leaking
onto my palm, and god, he was so fucking hard.
“But what if watching you get blown pushed me over the edge?” he
now asks slowly, voice predatory. I feel him getting hard against me. His hand
slides over my chest, warm and smooth, moving down to my stomach under the
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covers. “Seeing your long, thick dick slipping between his swollen lips...” His
fingertips brush over my pubic hair, but he doesn’t move his hand lower.
I try to keep my head on, recalling how he fucked the kid while I got my
cock sucked. “There’s no way you could’ve actually seen that from where you
were.”
He gives me a dirty smile. “I’ve got a vivid imagination. Some things I
didn’t have to imagine, though, like your mouth all slack, fisting his hair,
pushing his head further down...”
“You are horny in the mornings,” I say breathlessly.
“Happens if you’re in the bed with me,” he counters, sounding so
fucking sexy as he leans in.
“Brendon,” I say warningly, but he seems happy to ignore me. His lips
brush over mine, our noses bumping together. His hand has moved to the base
of my cock and clearly intends to go further. “I’m telling you to stop,” I whisper
against his lips.
“You’re always telling me to stop. We both know it’s not what you
want.”
My lips part as we make contact, and my fingers tangle in his hair as I
pull him down, deepening the kiss instantly. He’s hard against me, and there’s
not a single thing I don’t want to do to him right now, lock the door, ignore the
world, and just keep him here, secret and hidden. I will myself to forget that
there are consequences. There are always consequences.
His hand moves lower, grabbing my cock. The lack of hesitance in his
movements suggests that it’s something he’s used to doing by now, but then he
exhales shakily against my mouth, and it’s like he’s driven as insane by it as he
was the first time. His kisses are deep and slow, and I push my tongue to meet
his. He is slowly fisting my cock, more like saying hello than actually intent on
jerking me off. It’s nice, in a way, and it’s doing wonders for my hangover. Lazy
morning kisses, unrushed sex, kind of like something you might do with a
person you care about.
I let my mouth travel to his neck, kissing over the bruises there. “You
looked so hot fucking that kid, you know,” I tell him, enjoying the way he gasps
when I suck on bruised skin. God, he really did, his hips snapping forwards as
he got close...
“So did you,” he groans.
“Though,” I say, pulling back and relaxing on the bed, “watching him
fuck you...” I trail off, not having the words for what it did to me.
Brendon pulls the covers off of us and moves to straddle me. My mind
blanks out as I look at him: perfect, tanned skin with a few bruises that might be
my hands, or someone else’s hands, smooth chest, flat stomach, muscular
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enough just for it to show, protruding hipbones, a flushed, hard cock proudly in
view. His hands roam over my skin lazily, fingers circling my nipples and then
dancing over my ribs. There’s no rush, and I reach down to touch his cock,
fingers skimming over his length and then below to cup his balls. He bites on
his lower lip and moves against my hand, eyes fixed on my erection with what
looks like curiosity. I’m wholly focused on him, and he seems to be lost in
studying me. My hand moves further, over his perineum until my index finger
presses against his hole. He feels a little wet from last night, and he chokes
down a whimper.
He doesn’t seem to let me distract him, though, as he keeps his pensive
eyes on my erection. I give up and pull my hand back, arching an eyebrow at
the way he’s looking at my dick. “What you doing there?”
“Exploring,” he replies, rubbing his palm against my shaft. “Your cock
kinda curves to the left a little. Just noticed.”
“Fascinating,” I note, and when he grins at me, I pull him down from
his wrist and roll us over on the bed. Hair falls over his eyes, and I brush it off,
taking in the features of his face, his perfectly shaped mouth and plump lips.
“Hi.”
“Hey yourself,” he returns, voice irresistible. “Are we fucking now?”
“Just a little bit,” I amend, diving in for a kiss.
To my surprise, he instantly takes control. He rolls us over, looming
over me and placing wet, open kisses on my skin wherever he can. I expose my
neck for him, and when he bites down, I don’t even tell him not to. His mouth
on my neck is distracting the hell out of me, hot and warm and dominating. I tilt
my head to catch his lips, and he kisses back hungrily. “God, I want to,” he says
huskily.
“What?”
Really, we’ve got no one to piss off here, no Brent, Spencer or Joe behind
the wall, no confined back of the nest. My neighbours hate me, anyway, so it
doesn’t matter if we’re loud enough to wake them. He has to tell me what he
wants, and I’ll do it. He’s right, anyway; we did have sex last night. And if
we’ve already broken the rules, then this morning I want to try and keep us
under the spell as long as I can.
He groans against my mouth, pushing me against the mattress. “Want
to fuck you.”
I instantly freeze, my eyes opening wide. Brendon pulls back, lips
swollen and red. His breath hovers over my lips. “You should let me.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I retort, feeling fucking breathless. No, no way am I
letting him to do that to me.
“I’d make you feel so good,” he whispers, wet lips brushing over mine.
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My eyes flutter shut as he moves to lie on me, his weight pushing me down.
“You ever fingered yourself?”
“No, why would I?” I ask a bit defensively, feeling my cheeks burning
up. He keeps placing kisses on my lips, the corner of my mouth, languid, hot,
not going anywhere. I try to chase his lips, feeling intoxicated. His erection is
pressing against me, and for some reason, his dick suddenly feels bigger than it
is, and no way would that fit.
“I feel so crazy when you finger me,” he says huskily, causing my
stomach to drop. “Your fingers – God, just thinking about doing that to you
makes me so hard.”
I swallow audibly as his lips travel over my Adam’s apple, tongue
swiping over the skin. He’s got one hand between us, cupping my hard cock. I
might’ve gotten harder as he’s talked. He rubs me, and I groan involuntarily.
“Brendon.”
“You know how much I love it, how good it feels for me.”
“Well yeah, but –” I stop to catch my breath, mind spinning. But
he’s gay. I’m not.
Before I can manage to tell him that, he kisses me, sucking my bottom
lip into his mouth. I can’t think when he touches me and kisses me like this,
when he –
He pulls back and stares into my eyes, his pupils blown and darkened
with want. “I want to be inside you.”
My entire body fucking melts, an insane burn taking over. I pull him
down for a starving kiss. Fucking hell. It feels good for him when I do it, if his
moans are anything to go by. If he wants that. If he...
Our noses brush together as I kiss him frantically, squirming beneath
his weight. “Okay?” he asks in between kisses, and I mumble, “Sure, yeah.”
God, anything, don’t care, we just need to be closer, doesn’t matter what
happens because we always manage to get off and feel good. I just need him to
stop teasing me.
He smiles wide against my mouth, breaking the kiss with a wet pop.
“Okay. Well.” Suddenly, he’s all business-like, as if we just held a negotiation of
some kind and he got what he wanted. He sits up straight on the bed, and I lift
myself to rest on my elbows. “I’ll fix us something to drink. You should
shower.”
Wait. Did I just agree to let him fuck me?
He’s already out of bed and stretching languidly, not at all bothered
that he’s naked and hard. “Whisky works for you, right?”
I nod feebly, trying to catch my breath or think when all the blood in my
body is not in my brain.
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“Far out,” he grins, leaning back down. He places one hand to the back
of my head, holding me in place as he kisses me, tongue greedily brushing over
mine. My fingers clutch his shoulder, returning the kiss. “I’ll go see what you’ve
got,” he murmurs against my – by now – swollen lips.
I watch him go, and he winks at me from the doorway. I’m still on the
bed, his taste in my mouth, my cock hard. My mind is foggy and clouded by his
touch, but I’m slowly pulling the bits and pieces together.
Wait.
Did I just agree to let him fuck me?
I thought standing on stage and singing my songs every night made me feel
exposed. I was wrong. This, sitting here, waiting for Brendon, shower fresh and
in my underwear, wondering what the fuck I agreed to, is making me feel
exposed. I should get dressed and leave or at least wait by the bedroom door,
launch on him the second he comes back from his own shower, bend him over
and take him there. Not sit here. Waiting. Waiting for him to come back and
fuck me.
“Fuck,” I swear and take another long sip of the whisky. I hear the
bathroom door open, and I instantly sit up straighter on the bed, senses
electrified. Brendon walks in casually like he lives here, towelling his hair but
naked otherwise, kicking the door closed behind him habitually.
“Hey,” he smiles, eyes washing over me. I did as I was told. I showered,
got ready – I actually took steps to get fucked by him, which is insane. This is
not a good idea. We shouldn’t do this.
I’m taller than him, and even if I’m skinnier, I still feel big around him.
Like he’s the one that might break somehow, he’s the one I can push into a
corner and hover over. But right now, I feel shorter and smaller. God, this is a
stupid idea.
I nervously lift my glass again and take a sip. Brendon drops the towel
on the floor when he’s done with his hair, walking over and laughing. “Don’t
drink too much.”
“Isn’t that the point? Getting intoxicated?”
He shakes his head. “Just want you to relax a little.”
He’s not hard. Neither am I, but my skin feels so fucking electrified,
anyway. He eyes my boxers a little, like he’s confused as to why I put clothes
on. Well, I clearly need to protect my ass from him somehow. Jesus Christ, I’m
not really going to –
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning down and lifting my chin. “Relax.” His
eyes look so damn deep into me.
He leans down like he’s going to kiss me, but when we kiss, we touch,
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and when we touch, we fuck. And for once, I don’t want that.
Instead, I pull back and offer him my glass of whisky. He takes it and
sits down next to me, and I reach for the entire bottle on the nightstand,
unscrewing the cork and going back to taking slugs of it. We drink silently, and
my eyes keep darting from my drink to him, to the walls, the window. It’s so
quiet that I can hear the sheets rustling, the occasional honk echoing from the
street outside three stories below.
The whisky burns my throat, and as I am about to bring the bottle to my
lips again, Brendon catches my wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point.
When I meet his gaze, he puts his drink down, taking the bottle from me and
doing the same. Then, without saying anything, he closes the distance between
us, pushing me back down on the bed.
I’m pretty good at sex. I know what I’m doing, where it’s heading, and I
certainly don’t need to think about it. And even when I didn’t know what the
hell I was doing, I covered it up and pretended I knew. I told the first girl I ever
slept with that I had done it plenty. She never seemed to notice I hadn’t.
But right now, as I place an uncertain kiss on Brendon’s lips, I realise
this has got to be the first time I am actually out of my league. Brendon returns
the kiss softly but firmly, coaxing my mouth open until I give in. We both taste
like alcohol.
He soon moves to kissing my neck and chest, hands running over me.
I’m the centre of attention, and he’s clearly not expecting me to do anything
except lie back and get inevitably lost in his touch. I let out a chuckle when his
tongue dips in my belly button. “That tickles,” I say a bit breathlessly, and he
smiles against my skin, constantly heading south. I try to relax and get into it.
The kisses turn less innocent when he reaches my crotch. I’m getting
hard, which is a good thing, because if I’m hard and Brendon’s here, I will get
off. Eventually. Maybe not from what he wants us to do, but there’s got to be an
orgasm somewhere in the near future, and that’s good.
He inches my boxers down, kissing the V of my hips that gets further
exposed. I lift my hips to help him out, and he tugs the underwear off me,
exposing me fully. He’s hard by now, and again I consider flipping us around
and just taking him. Then he starts mouthing at my cock slowly, and I sigh
restlessly, letting my eyelids close and hands tangle in his short, damp hair.
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, gasping a little when he licks over the slit
of my cock. He’s managing to get me hard really damn fast.
“Define a lot,” he says, the words muffled against my shaft. His mouth
travels down to my balls, and I spread my legs a little to give him access. His
mouth is so fucking talented.
I muffle a groan as I take a tighter hold of his hair, though I’m not
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controlling his movements. “I don’t know, I just –” I stop to suck in a breath

when he gives the underside of my cock a broad lick. By now, I’m as hard as I’ll
get. “Thought you liked getting fucked.”
“I do,” he says huskily, and I can sense him looking at me so I open my
eyes. His shiny lower lip is pressed against the head of my cock, and I’ve
managed to make a mess of his hair. “I just really want to fuck you,” he says,
almost laughing like he can’t believe how much he wants to do it. “Sometimes,
us fucking is all I can think about,” he then adds, voice hoarse, and he places a
hungry kiss to the head of my cock, causing me to moan. I’m glad he’s got the
same problem I do.
He moves back over me, and I assume it’s to exchange saliva, but I
realise he’s reaching out to go through the drawer of the nightstand. He still
kisses me, but then he frowns a little and pulls back. “I swear we didn’t use it all
up,” he says, sliding to half-lie on me as he reaches for the drawer. I try to catch
my breath, my chest rising and falling irregularly. God, it feels so hot in the
room.
“Ah,” he says eventually, retrieving the lube victoriously. He pecks my
lips, the tube in his hand. I must be fucking insane. “It’ll be good, trust me.”
“I bet you say that to all the boys,” I note, and he grins a little, leaning
down to kiss me again and again until I feel like I’m going insane, my mouth
raw as he doesn’t give me a second to compose myself. He nudges my legs
further apart with his own, and I comply without thinking. “God, you’re gonna
look so hot,” he groans against my lips, and he starts heading down my body,
sucking on a nipple and leaving a trace of saliva. His hand reaches between my
ass cheeks, fingers wet and sticky. He presses a finger against my hole and
leaves it there, applying just a bit of pressure.
“This is a bad idea,” I gasp breathlessly, ignoring how overwhelmed I
feel. He only hums against my skin and then takes my cock into his mouth, like
he’s not really paying attention to my words. “Fuck,” I groan, instantly taking a
hold of his hair again. His finger is moving in circles, spreading lube on me. The
way I do to him. The tip of his index finger slips inside.
I groan without meaning to. That’s weird. That doesn’t feel very
natural. Doesn’t hurt but it’s weird.
Brendon’s acting like he doesn’t have a finger in my ass at all, like he’s
simply sucking me off and is oblivious to the actions of his hand, even if I can
feel his other fingers pressed against my flesh, keeping me open as his index
finger probes at my hole. His other hand is at the base of my cock, helping him
blow me. His finger slides in further, all the way, and it stings slightly. God, it’s
so intrusive.
He crooks his finger a little, pushing against the muscles. I’m not sure
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what he’s trying to do, but his finger is in me, and it’s moving. I can’t even
breathe properly. He pulls back from sucking my cock, his hand taking over and
stroking steadily. “Want your mouth,” I say slightly incoherently, wanting his
lips back on me. I need some kind of a reward for this. And if he thinks
fingering will get me off, then he’s wrong.
“Patience,” he says huskily. His finger pulls out almost all the way and
then pushes back into me; there is a moment of clear penetration that feels
surreal. My body tenses up, pulse accelerating. His finger crooks inside me with
more force now. “Say when.”
“When what?” I ask, not comprehending. He twists his finger, and I jerk
in surprise, cutting off a surprised moan. “Oh,” I breathe out. Fuck. That felt
good. It actually felt good, and I’m not even gay. Fuck, who knew?
He is breathing heavily, and I don’t understand why. His cock is leaking
already too. We’ve just started.
“Feels good, right?” he asks, voice low. I have the sense to feel
embarrassed when I nod. God, no one can ever find out about this.
He starts a repeated motion with his finger, pushing the digit into me at
the right angle. I start getting used to it, biting on my lip and trying not to groan.
He lowers his mouth back onto my cock, thank god. It’s twice the pleasure
somehow, his swollen and wet lips on me, and at the same time, he’s got a
finger working me open, and it doesn’t feel half-bad. There’s something
intoxicating about the constant slide.
“More,” I breathe out, not meaning to say it. Can’t believe I’m asking it.
He pushes in a second finger alongside the first. “Shit,” I rasp, hips snapping
spontaneously. I’m wet and slick where his fingers are in me, and there’s a
definite stretch now that’s not comfortable. Half of me wants him to stop, but
the other half is ignoring the pain and is drunk on the flashes of heat.
He suckles the head of my cock slowly. He’s not even trying to get me
off. He’s trying to distract me, but it doesn’t work – two fingers feels fucking
huge, but he keeps them moving constantly, stretching me further. And just
when I’ve decided that no, this isn’t happening, my body shudders noticeably
from the push of his fingers, the pleasure undeniable.
“Brendon,” I manage, warning him. Of what, not sure. That it’s weird as
fuck. That it feels good. His mouth wanders from my cock and attaches itself to
my inner thigh, tongue flicking over the skin.
“You’re so fucking hot, Ryan,” he breathes. “Can’t believe how tight
you are.”
There’s a compliment I never thought I’d hear.
“It kind of stings,” I manage, licking my lips slightly.
“That’s one of the things I love about it,” he says and bites on my inner
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thigh, mouth attaching itself hungrily. His fingers still keep pressing against
that spot inside me, and when I get used to the stretch, it starts feeling good
again. “I should prep you with three,” he says when he pulls back, and the skin
he latched onto feels sore, and fuck me if there won’t be a bruise there
tomorrow. His hair is in disarray, his skin flushed. I can see that he’s watching
his fingers steadily appearing and disappearing into me. God, I feel it, all of it,
the way he’s inside.
“You should?” I ask, having caught that word with the little common
sense I have left.
“Should,” he confirms, and then his fingers have slipped out of me.
“Don’t have the fucking patience to,” he rushes out, and then he’s back on me,
his mouth covering mine. I groan against his lips, our erections brushing
together. He props himself on one elbow, supporting himself above me, and his
other hand lands on my hip. “Turn around,” he whispers.
Onto my stomach? So that I can’t even see him?
“It’ll be so good for you,” he promises, and I’ve got nothing inside me,
and it feels empty now. The anticipation is killing me as I try to chase the
pleasure that he was giving me just a second ago. I’m so hard I can’t think, and
now it’s just empty, and I feel desperate to change that.
When he nudges my hip again, I let myself roll over on the bed. My
erection presses against the mattress, and I breathe in the pillow, eyes closing.
He presses against my back, practically lying on me. His cock is trapped
between us, and I feel the wet tip of his erection against my lower back. He uses
his legs to push my own apart. I was wrong earlier, when waiting for him to
come out of the shower was making me feel exposed. This is making me feel
exposed.
His mouth travels down my spine, both hands on my ass, rubbing and
then pulling my ass cheeks apart as his cock slips between, brushing over my
entrance. I almost panic for a second, but then he retreats, his mouth now on my
lower back. I feel his breath on my skin, moving lower, his tongue licking
lower... and lower... And he is really going to stop going lower any second now,
he –
I jerk without meaning to because his tongue just licked over my hole.
There’s a line, there’s a fucking line, and he’s crossing it.
I mean to ask what the fuck he’s doing, but then his tongue brushes
over me again where I’m already wet and open for him, and his mouth is
overwhelming. He groans a little, spreading my cheeks with his hands, and then
his tongue pushes inside. I muffle my moans against the pillow. Jesus fuck, I did
not see this coming. And his tongue feels so hot, that really feels –
Then his mouth is gone, like he just wanted to scar me for life with the
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small newsflash that someone’s tongue in your ass feels fucking amazing. My
cock’s throbbing agreeingly.
“I should’ve done that before the lube,” he comments, and really, that’s
what he’s thinking right now? That lube doesn’t taste good?
“Fuck,” I manage to say, hoping it doesn’t come across as too turned on.
I’ve had his fingers, had his tongue, and I just need him to do something
because fuck, it feels hot. It’s like how Jac squirms and gets desperate if I’m
teasing her, which I usually can’t be bothered to do, but she says that she
needs something in her or she’ll go insane. I always thought it was her being
dramatic. Now I suddenly relate. Funny how that probably won’t save our
relationship in the long run.
Brendon’s hands are on my hips, guiding, and I oblige, getting on my
hands and knees. It makes the feeling of exposure even more obvious, like I’m
offering myself to him, and my cheeks feel hot from the embarrassment. Thank
god a part of me has the sense to acknowledge who I am and what I’m doing.
Tonight, I’ll walk in front of thousands of fans screaming at me, a god-like
figure who has all the answers, but now, I’m on all fours, unable to catch up
with what’s going on. For him.
His hips press against my ass, his cock sliding over my left ass cheek. I
can hear the lube being popped open again, his mouth on the small of my back,
biting and licking, and my mind pictures him rubbing lube onto himself. This is
actually happening.
“You ready?” he asks, and I stay still, not wanting to crane my neck to
see him like I want to see him right now, which I do, but it’s stupid that I do, so I
don’t.
“Just go for it,” I tell him, holding my breath, eyes screwing shut. Go on.
Just sodomise me. Jesus Christ, what’s that in the list of fucking stupid shit I’ve
done in my life?
I feel his cock pressing against me, and he’s rubbing himself over me a
little. It only gives me a better understanding of the differences in size, how his
cock will force me open even more. My god, what am I doing?
“Jesus,” he pants, sounding barely in control. I bite back the joke of my
name being Ryan, actually, since there’s nothing funny about this, and then he’s
grabbing my hips and pushing forwards.
“Holy fuck,” I cry out, biting on my tongue before my mouth just drops
open and I groan into the pillow. He’s pushing into me steadily. It burns,
though the movement is fluid, and he has to force his way in regardless of how
much he stretched me.
I lose my breath entirely, fisting the sheets. I feel like I’ve been pushed
wide open and filled up, and I can feel every single inch of him in me. Inside me,
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so fucking deep. He comes to a stop, buried in all the way, and it stings, the
intrusion making me bite the pillow. Fuck, how does he do this? How does
anyone do this?
“Ryan?” His voice is husky and almost a moan in itself, slightly
disbelieving. “Fucking hell...”
I feel his moist lips on my shoulder blade, moving over my skin
aimlessly as his forehead presses against my back. His hands are gripping my
hips and keeping me still, not letting me follow my instinct of inching forwards
to make him slip out.
“I think we should stop,” I say through ragged breathing. I can’t take it.
Fuck, it’s too much of everything, it –
He keeps perfectly still, but I feel him, so hard and hot. “I think we
should keep going,” he says like he’s settling the debate.
And, just like that, he starts moving. I drop onto my elbows, cursing
into the pillow. I feel how he’s pressing against me inside where everything’s so
sensitive, but the stretch, and how huge he feels, and my cock is bigger than his
but he always takes me so well, fuck, sometimes it’s like my cock isn’t enough
for him, like he’d want more, and I can’t even deal with this.
Amateurs and professionals.
His thrusts are shallow, but I feel like nothing makes sense anymore.
The world’s dissolving, and then there’s just me biting on my tongue, and it’s
senseless that it hurts but I’m still so fucking hard. The constant, fluid slide fills
me up again, and somewhere beneath the painful throb is a ghost of pleasure.
And then there’s him, the way he sounds, the way he’s now saying that I feel
good, that I feel so fucking good.
I’m getting fucked.
Once I’ve wrapped my mind around the idea, I tell myself to man the
fuck up. I smile against the pillow crookedly because that’s ironic, hissing at the
burn as Brendon pushes into me again, clearly trying not to overdo it. He buries
himself in all the way, and I reach for my cock, groaning as I touch myself. He
retreats, leaving me feeling empty, and then he pushes back. I’m ready this time.
When he slams into me, I thrust back against him just to see if I can make him
gasp. I can.
“Ryan,” he groans a bit warningly, like if I’m not careful he’ll lose it. He
pushes in again a bit more forcefully. My chest feels constricted, and I force
myself to move with him. It makes him sound that much further gone. The
friction is unbearable, but at the same time, he slides in effortlessly, my muscles
gripping onto him. He’s trying to control the speed. I can tell it’s taking him
effort.
“Just do it,” I order, mind clouded. I feel empty when he pulls back, my
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cock throbbing when he pushes in. “Bren,” I groan. “If you’re gonna fuck me,
just –”
He readjusts his grip of my hips and starts a faster rhythm, thrusts no
longer slow at all. It’s deep and hard, and I chase something, pleasure, pain,
both. My back arches to get more of his cock, and he’s really fucking me now.
None of that slow and careful crap. We’ve never been either of those things with
anything.
His other hand moves to the back of my neck, taking a firm hold of me
there. I try to bite on my lip to keep quiet, telling myself to take him. I fist my
cock, and though I’m fucking hard, I don’t feel on the edge of orgasm. It’s a
different kind of pleasure.
Just as I think I’m used to it, Brendon pulls out all the way, and I groan
in protest. Shit, that stings.
“Hang on, just –” he says, panting, and then his cock is on my hole
again, after he’s readjusted himself. His hand on the back of my neck keeps firm
pressure on me, somehow comforting that he’s here, there, all fucking over. His
nails dig into my skin. He pushes back in, slow and deliberate, and I feel my
muscles give way, accommodating him, but at the same time, he’s pressing
against me from all angles, and I know what it feels like, to be inside him and
feel all his muscles squeezing around my cock just because he’s that tight.
I groan out of nowhere when his cock brushes against the spot he was
rubbing with his fingers earlier. It feels even better when his cock makes contact
with it. My muscles tighten around him, which only intensifies the sensation.
“That okay?” he asks, voice raspy.
“Yeah,” I say breathlessly. My cock is fucking leaking.
He starts fucking me again, and it’s insane how I suddenly crave the
feeling of him pushing into me, the angle just right, causing flashes of heat on
my skin. I push back to meet him, and he puts more force behind his thrusts,
pushing deeper into me. God, he sounds dirty, like he did last night when he
fucked the kid. I remember the concentration on his face, the flashes of pleasure,
but at the same time he sounds so much louder now.
I let my eyes close as our bodies move together, stroking my cock and
hoping to get myself off. The more he fucks me, the more I’m getting used to it,
the surreal feeling fading away and replacing itself with a burning sensation of
more. More speed, more depth, more force. I hear the sound of our bodies
slamming together, like we’re both desperate to get there.
“God, I’m not gonna last,” he groans, and that’s good because I can’t
take this for long. But I’m not there yet, the intrusion and the fact of penetration
still too new for me to have let go of all inhibitions. But at least he’ll be done and
out of me and this will be over and – But no, god, I want him inside, every inch
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of his hard cock, his hips slamming against my ass and us both coming and
trembling. I’ve never felt this goddamn violated in my life, but somehow it’s
turning me on.
His rushed out “ah” sounds are muffled against my skin with each hard
thrust, and he fucks so deep into me and so frantically, and I recognise the
sound, anyway; I know that he’s coming before I feel it. And I do feel it, him
coming inside me, and it’s the most surreal feeling that leaves me hot all over.
He never told me how possessive it feels, how it’s like claiming property.
His groans are deep and masculine, and he rides it out, small thrusts
until he’s done, filling me up with his come. I feel well fucked right now, even if
I haven’t climaxed yet, and I grip my cock tighter, trying to get off.
He pulls out of me without warning, and I curse. Fuck, I’m sore, and my
muscles try to grip onto something that’s not there anymore.
“Turn around, fuck,” he rushes out, and I instantly move to lie on my
back, letting myself crash against the mattress. I see him now, and he’s covered
in sweat, his softening cock in view. I’m still painfully hard, the adrenalin rush
making my limbs weak. He grabs my ankles, pulling me down the bed, and
then he’s lowered his mouth onto my cock.
“Brendon,” I groan, fisting his hair. He moves one hand between my
legs and instantly pushes two fingers back in me. My hips buck up, and it’s not
enough anymore, two fingers don’t seem to do the job. He crooks them, though,
and pleasure spreads through me. He sucks my cock like he doesn’t need to
breathe, mouth wet and hot, and his fingers fuck me roughly. “Harder,” I
command frantically, head hitting back against the pillow. “Harder, fuck.”
He complies, and then he pushes in with three fingers. My body tenses
up, my breaths erratic. “Shi –”
I come hard, hips lifting off the mattress. My muscles clench around his
fingers, which he keeps still except for the very tips that are hooking inside me,
rubbing me where I can’t fucking take it. He swallows as my orgasm hits me.
When he pulls back, some of my come dribbles onto my lower stomach from the
corner of his mouth. He catches his breath, wiping white, milky substance from
his lower lip.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, slowly coming down. He leans over me, licking
my come off my skin as he carefully pulls his fingers out. I wince despite myself.
He moves back up on the bed, crashing next to me and pressing to my
side. My muscles feel stiff when I finally have the sense to bring my legs
together. Fuck, I’m sore. So much for sitting on anything. Ever.
“How was it?” he asks after a while, sounding genuinely curious. His
voice is raw like he’s moaned too much.
“It was...”
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He watches me intently. It wasn’t bad. It was good. It hurt, but then it

didn’t hurt, until it did again, and then it just felt fucking good, and it was weird.
It was definitely weird.
Instead of answering, I turn to my side to reach for the nightstand. I
rummage the drawer that Brendon left open, and my hand finds what I was
looking for. I settle back on the bed, getting a cigarette out of the pack and
fiddling with the lighter.
“That good, huh?” he asks when I manage to light a cigarette and inhale
deep. I flip him off, and he laughs. I smile despite myself, almost laughing when
I drop the lighter onto the bed and offer him the cigarette. He takes it, taking a
languid drag. I don’t want to talk about it. It happened, he knows what we did,
how I reacted. He knows.
When he hands the cigarette back, pressing into my side, all warm and
post-coital, he adds, “I cried the first time. Well, not during but after. It hurt like
a bitch.”
“I’m not gonna fucking cry,” I note disbelievingly. Jesus, I’m not some
chick, and it wasn’t that painful.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he jokes, causing me to roll my eyes. His
expression turns more serious. “I was fifteen myself. Didn’t know the guy. He’d
given me a ride, and it just happened. He was in his mid-thirties, I think.
Married. He got us a gritty motel room. Damn squeaky bed,” he lists, eyes
slightly glassy as he thinks back to it. “He didn’t last long, thankfully.” He
doesn’t look at me, like maybe he’s embarrassed. Like I’d judge him at this
point.
“Yeah, about that,” I say thoughtfully. “Feeling someone come inside
you. How messed up is that?”
He laughs, his expression lightening up as he looks at me with
sparkling eyes. “I’ve always thought it’s fucking hot.”
“You would think that,” I note. I take the half-burnt cigarette from my
lips and reach out to stub it against the nightstand. It seems like he’s waiting for
something, so I place one hand to the back of his neck, rubbing gently. He
arches into the touch a little, reminiscent of a cat somehow. “C’mere,” I whisper,
seeing the tension in his shoulders vanish gradually.
We kiss slowly, legs entwining. He’s got his eyes closed when I pull
back but keep our foreheads touching. “At least the sex’s gotten better, right?”
He laughs. “Definitely.” His fingers circle my chest idly. “Can you... still
feel me? In you?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“That’s what I love the most. Feeling so...”
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence as my mind is supplying different
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alternatives. “Claimed” comes to mind. “Fucked” too. It’s making my chest

constrict, a sense of panic that I try and not let him see. It was good, but I took it
too far. The sex was good. Maybe I wouldn’t mind doing that again sometime.
Maybe I could get used to waking up with him in my bed. The second that
realisation dawns on me, it’s harder to breathe. The second you want
something, you risk losing it. I’ve stopped wanting anything. The second you let
yourself have something. Someone. I can’t do that.
He captures my lips. The kiss is soft and sweet, more like a seal than
anything else. When he pulls back, he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” eyes focused
on my cheek meekly. His voice sounds somehow different when he says it. Like
he means it.
Fuck, what if he means it?
“Course you did,” I chuckle. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”
“Famished.”
God, I’m relieved he let me get away with that one. “Breakfast it is,” I
conclude.
I get out of bed and focus on walking normally. Here’s hoping he
doesn’t notice.
Brent, Jac and I sit in the dressing room in perfect silence.

Well, this is awkward.
Jac’s going through a magazine, clearly bored, and I’m biting on my
fingernails, trying to smooth sharp edges. Brent’s eyes flicker from me to Jac on
the adjacent couch, like it’s as close to each other as he’d let us sit, anyway.
“God, must be the first time I’m too early for anything,” Jac notes as she
flips to another page. It’s a first for me too. The second first this week. Even Pete
can fuck up – yesterday he said we’d have to soundcheck early, which is why
Jac and I got here half an hour ago, only to find Brent wandering around and
asking where the hell everyone is. The support band is getting their own gear
ready, and we’re the only ones of our crew around. We must have missed a
memo or another. Pete probably tried calling, but Jac and I spent the entire night
at a friend of ours, smoking pot, eating pizza and talking bullshit.
I’m not sure if I was hoping to see Brendon here. I haven’t seen him
since last night when he, William and Andy decided to go out. I think William
knows we’re at it again. He must know, the way he looked at me. I mean, I think
I can hide it pretty well. Act nonchalant, ignore Brendon’s existence. We’ve
fucked a few times since I... Since we did what we did. But it’s been nothing like
that time since. A few rushed backstage fucks, limited kissing, barely any
intimacy, just me fucking him quick and hard when the tension gets too much.
That’s how it should be. He’s not staying with me anymore either because Jac
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would have noticed. He seemed okay with leaving. It felt empty after he left,
showing that it’s good he took off when he did. I don’t want to get used to
something like that.
The lame excuses I tell Jac feel more transparent by the day, but she
hasn’t caught on so far.
The difference is that we’ve learned our lesson, so maybe it will work
this time. I need to focus on what it’s all about, ignore that Brendon’s got a few
on me, that I’ve got a few on him. And it’s not that we share anything. No, all
we’ve got is ammunition we stupidly shared after orgasms, when you let things
slip a little. I’ll fuck him because I want to. But that’s it. That’s all it is. Just need
to make sure I don’t fabricate lies I can’t back up. Really, how could I possibly
get caught when –
“So when Brendon was staying with you, what did he and that William
fight about?” Jac now asks, her tone like she’s only asking out of extreme
boredom.
“Um,” I manage. Brent’s frozen by the side table where he was enjoying
the crackers laid out for us. “I didn’t ask.”
“They seemed cuddly enough last night,” she comments, putting the
magazine away and sighing. “Are they dating? Do gay guys date?”
“No,” Brent supplies. “They just fuck.” Brent is looking at me when he
says it.
“Huh,” Jac hums. “William looks like a homo to me.”
“I think he is,” I now say. “They’re not dating, but I’m pretty sure Will’s
a fag.”
“You’d know, right?” Brent asks pointedly, and I shoot him a warning
glare. He better keep his fucking mouth shut. Jac doesn’t seem to have picked
up on the comment. Brent’s looking victorious as I tense up. “So Brendon
crashed at your place. You never said, Ryan.”
“Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” I ask sharply, standing up and
glaring. Jac is staring at us, looking puzzled. Brent quirks a challenging eyebrow
at me, and together we exit the dressing room and step out to the narrow
corridor that’s deserted except for us.
Brent’s a pretty well-built guy, not skinny like I am. He’s got broad
shoulders and strong arms, and I’m only half an inch taller than him. When he
stares me down, however, I feel shorter than him. I stand my ground firmly.
“You got something to say to me?”
“No. I really don’t. You know why?” he demands. “Because I don’t
socialise with fags.”
It shouldn’t really surprise me he calls me a fag. Brent’s got issues. He
generally hates everyone. Really, normally I couldn’t be bothered getting
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offended. He’s a fag, I’m a fag, we’re all fags in his books. Fag, fag, fag. But now
it hits home, the memory of me on my hands and knees for a man, letting myself
be fucked, taking a cock up my ass. And I liked it.
“Sure,” I scoff, trying to act like he’s not getting to me. He’s been acting
like a cunt ever since we got to LA. Can’t stand it, can he? That Jac’s fussing
over me constantly?
He certainly looks like he’s about to murder me. “You’re still at it, aren’t
you?” he seethes. “William and Brendon haven’t been fighting.”
“Like you’d notice!”
“I’ve been keeping my eyes on you two so, yeah, I would! I fucking told
you that I’d tell Jac if you ever did that again, and you know what? You’ve lost
your chance. Never should’ve given you one, you fucked up prick.”
I’m just about to launch on him and fucking beat him up when Zack’s
voice says, “What’s going on?” His booming voice breaks the spell, but it does
nothing to appease the fury bubbling in my guts. Zack is heading down the
corridor with slightly hurried steps, like he is anticipating having to step in
between.
“Nothing,” I spit.
“Nothing?” Brent hisses. “Jac deserves to know what her precious
boyfriend has been up to.”
“And you think that will make her love you?” I ask, and I am not at all
ready when Brent takes a swing at me. He misses, though, because Zack’s
reached us and pulls Brent back just in time.
“What the hell’s going on?” Zack barks, now standing between Brent
and me, looking back and forth between us in astonishment. And Brent’s lucky
Zack is because, otherwise, I swear I’d –
“He’s still sleeping with Brendon!” Brent declares furiously.
“You’re fucking my girlfriend!” I bite back, and Brent looks surprised
for a second, the anger dissolving as he realises that I know. I’ve known half of
the fucking summer. Zack looks like he would much rather not be here right
now, like he’s torn between disbelief and desperation.
“Okay, so maybe I am fucking Jac. Someone’s gotta give it to her. God
knows you’re not.”
“Yeah, it’s so considerate for you and half of the city to step in.”
Brent tries to come at me again, but Zack pushes him back. “Okay, you
two shut up right now!” he barks angrily. “You’re grown men, both of you!”
Brent takes a few steps back, but he keeps looking at me with hatred in
his eyes. I try to stare him down. That asshole, that little piece of –
“Where’s Pete when you need him?” Zack sighs exasperatedly. If he’s
hoping for Pete to miraculously emerge and save the day, he’s wrong. Zack
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looks at us with pleading eyes. “We’re almost done with the tour, we’ve only
got two more LA shows and then a handful further north, so please, for god’s
sake, refrain from beating each other up until then, alright? I don’t care who’s
fucking who, you’re supposed to be professionals.”
“You expect me to work with the likes of him?” Brent snaps and points
at me. If he dares to call me a fag again, I’ll pull out his windpipe and shove it
up his ass. Let’s see how gay that makes him feel.
The dressing room door opens, and Jac peeks out, clearly having heard
the commotion. “What’s going on?”
We all look at each other, a surprised silence on us. Brent and I have
always argued, even when we were friends. Now he gives me a cruel smile. “I
told you I’d do this.”
“Don’t you –”
“Ryan’s been fucking Brendon all summer,” Brent declares, and Zack
groans like he can’t believe this is happening again. Neither can I. To my
surprise, Brent looks a bit sorry. Not because of me. Not out of any sympathy or
feeling bad about backstabbing me, but for her. He glances at Jac like he’s in
slight pain himself. “Your boyfriend’s a faggot, Jac. Time you know it too.”
Jac’s eyes are impossibly wide. It makes her look pretty. She opens her
mouth, but I say, “No. No, I am not doing this. Fuck you, Brent, and thanks for
nothing! I’m not fucking Brendon. I’ve told you that I put an end to that. And
yes, for the record, I did fuck him,” I add to Jac.
Jac seems speechless. Let’s keep it that way.
“I was experimenting, horny, and he was conveniently there. I’m not
the first guy to try it out. I can own up to that.” But only that. Everything else,
switching roles, laughing at the same stupid jokes, half a minute of holding his
hand, all of that I cannot own up to. “But this is not about me. This is about you
two and your stupid little affair, like you think I’d fucking care, and it’s just so
sad seeing you so lovesick, Brent. Did you think that she’d, what? Leave me for
you? Are you kidding?”
“You think she’s gonna be with you now?” Brent shoots back pointedly,
and Jac looks more shocked by the second, either by Brendon and me or that I
know about her and Brent. Zack doesn’t look amused anymore. He’s still
standing between us, making sure to keep us away from each other, but I think
he’s just too disappointed in everyone involved to actually try and tell us to
stop.
“You’ve been sleeping with that guy?” Jac asks slowly, only now
catching on. She looks appalled.
“For months,” Brent supplies.
“Shut up! For once in your life, shut up!” I bark at him. “You know
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nothing about that.” I look at my girlfriend. “And don’t you – Oh god,” I groan
when I see that her eyes are glistening.
“You’ve made her cry!” Brent snaps angrily like I didn’t see that myself.
Resorting to the waterworks. That’s cheap. It doesn’t work on me. If she thinks
that will make me feel even remotely guilty about my actions as of late, she’s
wrong.
“You don’t get to be upset, Jac. You’ve been fucking one of my
bandmates, so you don’t –”
“It makes sense now!” she exclaims with wide eyes. “You don’t touch
me anymore! All week, we’ve not even – I thought you’d lost interest, but
it’s him! It’s not me. It’s him!”
“And it’s not me either, it’s him!” I snap and point at Brent.
She pales further. “Baby, you know that doesn’t mean anything. I was
just feeling lonely and –”
“She’s been feeling lonely at least twice a week since April,” Brent notes.
Even longer than I thought. That fucking –
“Brent, would you keep quiet?!” Jac requests angrily, wiping her
cheeks, but Brent doesn’t back down.
“What are you doing with him? I’ve been asking you that all summer!
He treats you like crap! He’s been sleeping with a man behind your back! He
doesn’t love you! He’s a conceited, perverted, arrogant lowlife, and he doesn’t
love you!”
It’s true. Our entire relationship is based on us not loving each other.
That’s why it’s worked until now. Until she started screwing Brent, and Brent
fell for her, and then Brendon happened. Not that he... Brendon didn’t happen in
the sense that it’s changed anything. We’ve been having fun, doing whatever
makes me feel good. It’s not sick. Not until they remind me that it is.
Jac’s still tearing up, and I take steps away from them. “You don’t get to
tell me what I can do. Fucking Brendon was goddamn innocent compared to
what you’ve been up to. You two think that, what? You’ve found love? Fucking
sickens me,” I snarl before turning around and walking away.
“At least I know what hole to stick it into!” Brent calls after me, and
when I don’t react, he adds, “Fucking faggot!”
“I think he’s got the point,” Zack’s voice says, and I slam my open palm
against the wall angrily as I try to get as far away from them as I can.
I don’t actually get far. I can’t go far because I will still have to soundcheck. I
can’t quit this band. Maybe we can fire Brent? I might be able to talk Spencer
into it – he doesn’t take infidelity lightly. He spent the entire summer not
cheating on his wife. I’m amazed. And he never liked Jac anyway, so he won’t
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care that I cheated on her. I can totally get rid of Brent.

Or maybe I could have him killed. Do I know anyone who might know
someone who does that?
I don’t.
Fuck.
I ran out of cigarettes half an hour ago and they’re not selling any at the
bar. The place is dead. I picked the first bar I could find, and this place is
thankfully quiet and poorly lit. The bartender is supplying me with beer as he
mainly focuses on cleaning the bar area for the evening when things
presumably will liven up. I keep eyeing the all access pass hanging around my
neck. It’s not shiny like it was when we started this tour. It’s bent and scratchy,
much like its owner.
“Hey,” a timid voice comes over my shoulder, but I don’t turn to look at
Jac. Instead I sigh heavily, staring at my beer bottle. The green O of the mouth.
Definitely not the gateway to salvation, but maybe to oblivion for an hour or
two. I knew she’d find me. If I had wanted to avoid her, I would not have
headed to the nearest sleazy bar. She takes a seat on the stool next to me. “Could
I get a beer?” she calls out to the bartender, digging through her purse and
getting out cigarettes. Thank god for that.
She’s clearly composed herself a little. That’s good.
We sit in silence, drinking our beers, and I smoke the cigarette she gives
me without me having to ask.
“What a pair we make,” she finally comments. We’re both sleeping with
men instead of each other. She’s certainly got a point. After a while, she quietly
adds, “You know the thing with Brent doesn’t mean anything.” She sounds
sorry.
“Brendon neither,” I point out, wanting to make that distinction clear.
It’s not like I’m with him in any way. The little relationships that I have are with
women, not men. “I fucked the guy a few times, alright?” I emphasise
nervously, giving her a side glance.
“Okay,” she says, nodding, taking it in and trying to accept it.
“You know that I... When we’re touring. I meet a lot of people. I do
things.” We’ve never actually talked about it, but I’ve assumed that she knows
tour rules. I assume that she assumes that I fuck around.
“I know. I meet people too.”
And I’ve always known that. Monogamy has never been for us.
She bites on her lower lip uncertainly. “Are you in love with him?”
“Jac, come on,” I say with a roll of my eyes. My throat closes up, making
it harder to breathe.
She shifts restlessly, at least smiling like she knows it’s a stupid
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question. It’s a fucking stupid question. No one’s asked me that before. Even I
haven’t. “It’s just... You’ve spent the entire summer with him.”
“Brent exaggerates. It’s not been all summer, just a few times over the
past month or so.” Well, that’s a blatant lie. “It was like... I knew I shouldn’t do
it, so I did. The guys found out and got pissed, so I stopped. They didn’t get that
it was just sex. But you get that, right?”
I finally look her in the eye. She looks dead serious, but gives no
indication that she does understand where I’m coming from. Instead, she sighs.
“Maybe I should’ve known. I mean, you wanted to... you know. Do that when I
came to New York.”
When I fucked her ass. Great.
“And you enjoyed it, so...?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow. We both got off.
“You’re not a fag, are you?”
“God,” I groan and shake my head. “If that’s honestly what you think,
then I’m not going to have this conversation with you.” I slide off the bar stool,
grabbing my beer with me.
She’s quick to follow me. “I’m serious! Are you?” she persists. The bar is
still empty except for a few guys who now come in, and then the bartender
who’s still behind the bar, and it’s not much of an audience but I hope to god
they can’t hear this conversation. Jac grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around.
“I need to know the truth!”
“Well, what do you think?” I snap. “You’ve known me for what?
Almost a year and a half now?”
“But you’ve slept with him,” she insists. “I mean, he’s a guy. I don’t
know any other straight men who’ve done that!”
I do. A few. Apart from the gay people I’ve now met, I know one or two
guys who’ve been known to fuck a guy. Those guys aren’t people I’d classify as
my friends. They’re the weird ones no one really wants to socialise with. The
misfits. The ones that feel off somehow. The fucked up freaks.
“It’s a kink, Jac. Was a kink,” I say, feeling more and more frustrated by
the second. Brendon might want to do his Gay Freedom Marches, but I’m not
joining in on that charade just because I’ve gotten off with him.
“Men don’t sleep with men,” she says quietly.
I take in a calming breath, trying to ignore how she’s right. I know that.
Fags all have something wrong in their heads, Brendon included. I’m not a part
of that lot, even I can single-handedly say that I am the only guy in my circle of
friends who’s slept with a man, but what’s worse, I’ve also gotten fucked by
one. The thought instantly makes my cheeks feel hot, and I hope to god Jac can’t
read it on my face somehow. I’m fucked if she can.
“How about we just conclude that we’ve both fucked people we
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shouldn’t have?” I offer, needing this conversation to end. She’s making me

think about things I don’t want to acknowledge are there. “And then –”
“Ryan,” comes a male voice, and I look up to see one of the guys who
came in smiling at me nervously. He looks dazed. A fan. He can piss off.
Then I take another look at him. Oh. Oh fuck.
“How you been?” the kid asks shyly, giving Jac a brief glance before his
hopeful eyes land on me again. The wistful puppy love on his face is so obvious
that I can hardly stand it.
“Great, Kevin, if you –”
“Kenneth.”
“Right. Sure,” I say with the little patience I have.
And I’ve slept with this kid. Classy, Ross. Good move. He looks even
younger now than he did that night – still good-looking, sure, but instead of
being able to visualise him on his knees for me, I can see him sitting in a high
school class room, bored out of his mind and amazed that he managed to crash
that party and get fucked by guys in their twenties. One of them was even a
rock star.
“I’ve been hoping to catch you, but man, they’re strict about who they
let backstage!” he says, and he’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he’s
seen me out of these clothes. “I’ve been to every show!” I am honestly
speechless at this point. “So. Um. Are you busy tonight or...?” He brushes blond
hair behind his year. “If you want to hang out. Or something.”
Or something. The most blatant euphemism for sex since human beings
developed language.
“Who’s he?” Jac now asks sharply, her eyes thinning.
“A fan, what the hell does he look like?”
Kenneth’s eyes widen a little, and thank god he has the sense to be
embarrassed. “Um, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Um. I’m sorry. Um.”
Jac takes another look at him and then turns her scandalised eyes to me.
“You’ve fucked him.”
“My god, you’re paranoid,” I bite back, but it’s useless because she’s
made up her mind.
“Fucking keep him then!” she snaps at Kenneth and heads out of the
bar, and Kenneth looks severely alarmed, even if his eyes are still slightly
hopeful like he can keep me.
So I fucked him a little. I was drunk. Why do kids these days fail to
understand the concept of casual sex? My god, every groupie or fan just wants
to meet up again. I am not interested.
He says, “I’m really sorry if –”
“Look,” I bark at the kid. “Get a reality check. I don’t give a crap about
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what happened that night, alright? You don’t matter. I’d already forgotten you
even existed, so why don’t you just go back home to your mom and dad and
never mention it to anyone ever again? Am I making myself clear?!”
Kenneth takes a step back. He looks slightly heartbroken. Fucking idiot.
“Fuck!” I swear angrily and storm out of the bar, actually having to run
to catch up with Jac, who’s made it half a block already. “Jac, come on!” I say,
but she frees herself the second I manage to get a hand on her shoulder. She
swirls around, expression furious.
“You are gay!”
“I –”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t fuck that kid because I know you did! How
many more are there?! I mean, Brendon I can maybe understand! He’s
gorgeous! He was convenient! Maybe I can get that if I try hard enough, but
there’ve been others too!”
“Brendon and that kid, okay, fine, but I swear –”
“Why would I believe you?” she asks, backing away as she keeps her
eyes on me.
“Jac, for the love of god, you’re making too big a deal out of this!”
“Brent was right.”
“He wasn’t!” I persist and take a firm hold of her. She tries to fight me
off, but she’s tiny, always has been, and I push her against the wall of the
building next to us and kiss her. She mumbles an angry “Get off!” against my
mouth, but I only take the opportunity to push my tongue into her mouth,
muffling further protests. She doesn’t respond, but I don’t care, keeping her
trapped between the wall and me. When I pull back for air, she’s panting too.
“Would I do that if I wasn’t into women? Huh?” I ask demandingly and then
lean right back in to kiss her again. She breathes against my mouth unevenly,
and I’ve got her. She’s always had a weakness for being bossed around.
“Ryan, what are you –” she starts to ask when I break the kiss, but she
ends up moaning when I move to her neck, sucking on the skin, and my hands
are pulling her skirt up, piling it around her waist. “We’re in the middle of the
street!” she exclaims, but that’s the point. It’s quiet, but someone could easily see
or walk by, and she’s always had a kink for that. I’ve got a hand inside her
panties within seconds, slipping into her warmth. Her breathing hitches when
my forefinger presses against her clit.
I attack her mouth again, feeling so fucking desperate, but not to get off,
not to fuck her, but just to make this nightmare stop. I like women. I like fucking
Jac. I’ve just forgotten that, and I need reminding that I don’t get on my hands
and knees for anyone. For other men. God, I’m not like that.
“You believe me now?” I ask against her lips.
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“Maybe,” she groans, pushing her hips forwards, and my fingers move
from her clit and slip further. She’s starting to get wet already. I’m half-hard. Of
course I am. I’m not fucking relieved by it, for god’s sake. She asks, “You gonna
fuck me here?”
“Maybe,” I counter and capture her bottom lip, sucking on it. I can
make her come in ways Brent can only dream of.
“Prove it,” she breathes, and I hum in question, letting myself suck on
her earlobe. She smells of perfume, fruity and sweet. “Prove that – Ryan,” she
adds helplessly as I push a finger in her. I don’t give a fuck that cars are driving
by just behind us. I don’t care anymore, about anything. Her hands get tangled
in my hair, and she brings her mouth to my ear, her words urgent. “Prove that
there’s nothing going on with you and him.”
I pull my hand back a little, going back to rubbing her clit, but now
without focusing on it.
“Ryan,” she whines slightly, her cheeks flushed. I pull my hand out of
her underwear, the tips of my fingers wet.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” I ask, my voice husky.
She tries to catch her breath, her blonde hair messy and covering half of
her face. “Show me.”
Brendon doesn’t notice me at first as he’s halfway into his bunk, on the tips of
his toes as he leans inside. I watch from the doorway, staring at the way his red,
tight t-shirt is too short for him, the way his jeans cup his ass. He knows what
his best features are and shows them off. I’m reminded of the first time I saw
him. Pretty much this exact same spot.
“Hey,” I say eventually, and a loud thump follows as Brendon hits his
head to the bunk ceiling.
He retreats instantly, rubbing his head and forcing a half-smile as he
looks at me. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” I try to sound smooth. Not nervous. Not wrecked. “Looking for
something?”
“My Jack Daniel’s t-shirt. William’s probably stolen it, and his limbs are
all long and if he pulls it out of shape, I’ll...” he mutters, but his eyes are on me
and he’s smiling. “Anyway. How are you?”
I shrug nonchalantly as he walks over, and he doesn’t stop where, say,
Spencer would, but he steps right into my space, and I meet him halfway, our
lips brushing together as a greeting. He places a hand on my hip, fingers
absently playing with the fabric of the dress shirt that disappears into my pants.
He doesn’t stand as close as he could, and there’s an awareness about him that
says he is processing where to place his hands, what to do, what not to do. He’s
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been spending the past few days waiting for me to give him the okay. It couldn’t
be more different from him inviting himself to my home when we first got to
LA.
He smiles at me warmly. “So what did you do last night?”
“Jac and I went to a friend’s house, and we all got high,” I sum up, voice
flat as it really wasn’t anything worth getting excited about. “You?”
“We got drunk and danced all night. Andy passed out, we called Zack
at the hotel, and then he came to pick us up. He was kind of pissed about that,”
he chuckles. I try to smile but can’t. Everything feels heavy right now, the same
kind of nausea settling in that I experienced when Jac asked me if I was in love
with Brendon. He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I nod, and that’s a lie. I lie too much. I’m not sure if I always
have, but it’s become second nature so I no longer notice it. And I’m not okay
either and can’t remember the last time I was. When I was younger, I wanted to
prove that I could make a name for myself, and then when I did, I never felt any
different. Brendon clearly doesn’t buy my words, so I try and get to the point. “I
was talking to Jac about... the fact that I’ve been sleeping with you.”
His eyes widen, and he steps back. “You told her?”
“Brent told her.” Brendon opens his mouth, but I cut him off with, “I
know, an asshole move. And they know that I know about them and, really, we
all know now, but Jac and I, we get each other. She’s a smart girl. I’m lucky to
have her, really.”
“You call that lucky?” he asks, and I give him a glare. He better not have
a go at her. He doesn’t even know her. “So what are... I mean.” He looks
confused. “What did she say? Did you two break up?” He might sound just the
tiniest bit hopeful. If he is, he covers it up with forced neutrality.
“No.”
He frowns. “But she’s been sleeping with Brent.”
“Like I’ve been doing that much better,” I note, and he looks a bit like
I’ve just slapped him. I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not him exactly. It’s
what he inevitably is – a man – and it’s not like he can help that. “Look, we were
talking and then I- Well, I got an idea, and I mean that- I think we should have a
threesome. Jac, you and me.”
He blinks. He stares. He takes a further two steps back, expression one
of complete confusion. “What?”
“She thinks you’re hot. She liked the idea. You fuck her, I fuck you, we
can do loads of things. It’ll be fun.” I ignore how I’m trying to sell the idea, how
crude it sounds when I actually voice it.
“You... want me to fuck your girlfriend?”
I nod, because really, that sums it up. I’ll be there too, and Jac will see
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how it’s just a kink. She will see how we can share that kink and how Brendon
and I don’t have a thing. Brendon goes from looking confused to downright
pissed. “I’m gay, Ryan.”
“So?”
“So?!” he repeats angrily. “How is that hard to get? I don’t sleep with
women! I’m not attracted to women! And even if tomorrow I woke up with a
craving for pussy, Jac would not be the first on my list!”
“Hey!”
“She’s sleazy! Come on, you fucking know she is,” he barks angrily.
That’s not even true; Jac is classy in her own way. “I can’t believe you’re asking
me to do that,” he says, and Jesus Christ, he’s being a prude now? He sleeps
around plenty. What a hypocrite.
“Come on, not like it’d be our first threesome,” I say with a roll of my
eyes.
“But I’m gay!”
“And I’m straight, but I’m still fucking you, aren’t I?!” I snap at him,
letting my volume rise up the way he’s doing.
“Oh, right, you’re straight. I almost forgot for a minute! How many
heterosexual men do you know who fuck other men? I’m just asking out of
curiosity,” he notes, voice heavy with sarcasm, and I don’t like what he’s
implying. “I mean, can you even admit the possibility that you just might be –”
“You better not go there,” I say sharply, my hands curling into fists.
He keeps his lips pursed and drops his gaze from my face, and I can
sense his disappointment and anger. He doesn’t see where I’m coming from
with this. It’s my own fault, really, for getting into this mess. You would think
that he would be open to the idea of a straight man who just likes fucking men.
Likes fucking him. Hell, he sure loves getting fucked, so why the hell is he
complaining? The guys don’t get it, Jac doesn’t get it, and right now even I don’t
get it. But I thought that he at least would.
“You work for me,” I then note, even if it’s not true. He works for Pete.
“You should do what I say.”
“But I will never do that!” he snaps, voice sad and anguished. He looks
at me like I’m someone he doesn’t even know. Most of the time, it’s exactly how
I feel, looking into the mirror and realising I’m someone I’ve never met. But I’m
not a fag. I have a girlfriend. And I’m offering Brendon a chance to be a part of
that arrangement, and he better fucking take it. He can’t be as stupid as not to
take it. If he doesn’t, then that’s it. That’s the end. I’ve exhausted my brain
trying to make the puzzle pieces fit, and this is the only way that I can.
“This is about the other night, isn’t it?” he now asks quietly, voice sad
somehow, and I feel my guts burn from the memory. “You’ve been acting weird
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ever since we- But you don’t have to. Ryan, you don’t have to prove anything,”
he rushes out, now stepping closer to me again. “They’re just labels, and you
don’t have to say you’re one thing or the next. I’m fine with that. Really, I won’t
care if you just don’t make me do this, if you –”
His voice has sounded increasingly more anguished, and I can’t stand it,
not coming from him, and I grab his wrist and pull him in for a kiss. He kisses
me back instantly, hands on the sides of my face, and it’s desperate, the kiss, me,
him, and he tastes good. I just like how he tastes and smells and feels, how
insane he makes me feel. And that has got to stop.
“Ryan, please,” he whispers against my lips. I shake my head, hands on
his hips and holding onto him tight, my eyes closed. “You’re panicking, that’s
all. I didn’t mean to push you too far, I thought you – I just wanted you so bad,
I’m sorry if I –”
“It’s not about that,” I force myself to say. And it’s not. He talked me
into it, but I wanted it. I wanted him in any way I could get. And that’s the
problem. That need. I take steps back, letting him slip from my grip. “I’m
practically inviting you to bed with me and Jac. Don’t be stupid, Bren.”
He stares at me in astonishment. “But I won’t do it.”
“What do you mean you won’t do it?” I snap.
“You’re honestly going to choose her over me?”
Choose? Is there a choice? What exactly does he think is going on here?
I was never going to choose him. There was never any choice – it’s a damn tour
fling, if even that. And Jac’s not perfect; she’s made some bad decisions just like
I have. And now Brendon is assuming things, based on what? That I let him
fuck me once? Please.
“Choose?” I repeat incredulously, almost amused, focusing on that
rather than the pain in my chest. And when I think about it rationally, I realise
how laughable this situation is. Who the hell even is this guy?
His jaw sets tight. “Forget it.”
“No, let’s not. Let’s talk about this bit where you think for some
ridiculous reason that I’d leave Jac for you. It’s like Brent thinking she’d leave
me. She and Brent have nothing mutual there, that’s for sure, and you and I? We
have sex. That’s all we fucking do. We –”
“Okay. Great. I get your point,” he says.
“Do you? Because –”
“Stop! Just – stop talking!” he snaps at me, but he’s not upset like he
was a minute ago. His hands hang by his sides as he seems to take my words in.
When he looks up, there’s cruelty to his features, but I’m not sure if he plans on
being cruel to me or himself. “You’ve made your point.”
I take in a deep breath. “Good. And the offer still stands.” God, I need a
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drink right about now too. But I did this. Did what I was meant to do. “How’s
tonight for you?”
“For what?”
“The sex.”
“There’ll be no sex,” he says, and now is my turn to feel confused. “I’m
sorry, did I not make my point?” he asks in faux surprise. “Let me break it down
for you! Never in a million fucking years would I join you and your girlfriend as
some kind of a fucked up sex toy. Alright? Is that clear enough?”
“God, fags are dramatic,” I groan with a roll of my eyes.
“Did you just –” he starts snapping before he must realise that he’s
proving my point. “I can’t do this,” he then says, sounding like he’s speaking to
himself rather than at me. He swallows hard, shaking his head. “No, I- I quit.”
I laugh involuntarily, amused by his idle threats. Someone’s a bit touchy
today. “Is this like when I quit the band?” I ask as he now removes the all access
pass around his neck.
“No, this is not like one of your mood swings,” he says, and I try not to
feel offended by his comment. I don’t have fucking mood swings. He passes me
the pass, which I automatically take. “Unlike you, I can actually quit. And I just
did.”
He pushes past me into the bus lounge, and I follow him, feeling angrier
with every second that passes. “Brendon, stop messing around.” He doesn’t
listen to me, but I grab his arm, forcing him to turn around.
“Don’t touch me!” he snaps and pulls himself free.
“Well, that’s a first.”
“Fuck you!” he spits venomously and keeps going, now reaching the
driver’s seat.
“Would you just wait?!” I bark at him angrily. We still have a handful of
shows left. He can’t quit. For fuck’s sake, he’s pissed off and I can see that, but
now he’s just being fucking childish.
He turns to face me, and I’ve never seen him like this. He’s been angry,
pissed off, sad, reserved, but this is all of those things at once, like there’s chaos
inside him that he’s trying to contain but is barely managing it. “What do you
want from me?” he asks. It comes out broken.
“I –”
I can’t finish the sentence. I want him to do as I say, and I want him not
to be so goddamn stubborn. I want him to see how this is the only solution there
is. I want things he won’t give because he’s too damn inflexible, too sure of
himself, completely unwilling to compromise. And I envy that.
“You can’t fucking quit,” I snarl instead.
“Give me one good reason not to,” he challenges me, eyes angry. I open
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my mouth, mind racing. I can’t think of one half-truthful thing to say. He scoffs.
“That’s what I thought.”
His pass is still in my hand, and I clutch it violently, feeling it
materialise in my hand as something else entirely, the absence of him if he goes,
that feeling of –
“If you do this, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”
He laughs. “What could you possibly do?” He’s right. There’s nothing I
can do. Write an angry song at most, but he doesn’t deserve that much. I feel
even angrier because of it. “Tell Pete I left,” he adds, pressing one of the
dashboard’s buttons, and the bus’s doors open.
“Brendon!” I say, like repeating his name will make him change his
mind. The panic has set in now as I realise that he’s not kidding. He’s angry,
overreacting, being irrational. But if I know one thing, it’s leaving, and
Brendon’s standing in front of me, and I can tell that he’s packed his bags, set
his course, his sails are now flapping in the wind, and he looks at me with hurt
and anger, and I never wanted him to look at me like that. I thought he’d be the
one person not to see me like they do.
He’s made up his mind. He’s ready to just leave me. God, he’s no
different from the rest of them. “Okay, then go!” I snap, motioning at the
opened doors. “Go on then! Fucking go! You think we can’t replace you in an
hour? You think I can’t fucking replace you in ten minutes?”
“I know you can,” he says, and I don’t like how he sounds. It was
supposed to piss him off, but this acceptance is even worse.
“Then what are you still doing here?”
“Don’t worry. I’m fucking gone,” he swears and gets off the bus.
And, just like that, he is.
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CHAPTER 9: A DECENT HUMAN BEING
“I was talking to Brent,” Spencer says, and it’s good to know that those two are
still talking at least, though that’s a lie and it’s not good at all, and I can’t even
begin to emphasise how many dozen sarcastic comebacks I’d have for that if I
cared enough to say them. I wonder if I ever cared, even when things were
good. “Ryan,” Spencer says impatiently, and I move my gaze from the patch of
grey backstage wall to him. I should be doing interviews right now. Seventy-six
interviews. Two million to the exponent of pi. It’s early afternoon, the venue full
of rushed voices as the techs get everything ready for yet another show. We’re
waiting around like nothing ever changes. But it has to.
“God, what are you on?” Spencer sighs restlessly.
“This and that,” I reply truthfully. Whatever I managed to find, all in
moderation. When have I ever done anything in excess?
“Listen. I didn’t know about Jac and Brent. You know I would’ve told
you, right? If I had known. I mean, she left him, so maybe you two can just
forget about it. We shouldn’t let her be that thing.”
That thing that breaks us apart. No, I was never going to let her be that
person. Not for the band and especially not for me.
“She’s still my girl,” I say, not knowing what I mean by it. She still has
the spare key to my place. She’s cried plenty and apologised more, saying if she
can live with my disgusting little episode with a roadie, I can surely live with
her digressions. I don’t know if I’ve said I’m sorry. Did I say it at some point?
Did I mean it? She said that it’s good now. That he’s left and gone. Said I feel
distant. Not to do with him, is it? Of course not. I fucked her to prove it. “A new
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page for us,” I tell Spencer, repeating Jac’s words. She said something about us
maybe trying to take the next step together. The only step I can see us taking is
over the ledge.
Brent’s heart’s been broken. I feel sorry for some reason.
“You want to talk about it?” Spencer offers, and he doesn’t actually
want me to talk about it. I shake my head. “What about Brendon? You want to
talk about him?”
I hear Andy and Joe singing back in the dressing room, the sound
resonating along the corridor and to us. Joe’s over the moon that the fag’s gone.
I’m fine with it. So he left. See who cares. Not me.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask Spencer instead. He’s clutching at
straws. He’s always been the guy trying to keep us together, but he knows we’re
a joke. He goes back and forth between Haley and this band like he can’t decide
which one he should choose. But if there’s something he’s not, it’s a quitter. He
can’t admit defeat. Can’t walk away. Doesn’t have it in him.
I lost. They all won. I can admit my loss.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” he now asks, ignoring my question,
and what is this? Why the third degree? “God, get some fucking sleep, Ryan,
and don’t take anything.” Spencer steps forward and snatches the flask from my
grip, and I protest and try to get it back, but he pockets it. “Brendon quit. Deal
with it, alright? Don’t- Don’t do this pathetic booze and drugs routine because
it’s not a solution! What is it about him that riles you up? Why do you let him
get to you?”
“I don’t.”
“Then pull yourself together,” Spencer says, disappointment clear in his
voice.
He heads to the dressing room, and anger bubbles in me. Everyone just
fucking leaves. Spencer, Brendon. Like I’m that easy to leave behind. Like
anyone has the right. I call out, “You and Haley still on a break? How’s that
working for you? When you get back to fucking Cincinnati, you think Suzie will
recognise you? Because I doubt it. I think she’ll fucking cry.” I sigh and close my
eyes, listening to the bangs and shouts echoing around the corridors and rooms.
God, Suzie will bawl her small eyes out.
Suddenly, a weight hits my side and I crash to the floor, and then it’s a
mess of hands and poorly aimed kicks and a struggle for glory, followed by
loud, aggressive swearing, and then Brent and Pete show up, and Zack’s pulled
Spencer off of me and is shoving Spencer away as he curses that I better never as
much as say the name of his wife or daughter again when I don’t even fucking
know or he will –
My lower lip feels sore, the taste of iron in my mouth. “I don’t know
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what to do with you!” Pete exclaims, hands up in the air as he stares at me on

the floor and then after Spencer and Zack. “Don’t know what to do anymore!”
“He hit me,” I note.
“Good that someone did!” Pete barks. “Go sleep it the fuck off!” He
slams the wall as he goes, but Brent is still here, and maybe he’s pleased.
Probably is.
“And she chose you,” he says disbelievingly, an angered look in his
eyes as I get back to my feet. Why wouldn’t she choose me? I’m a catch. Rich.
Famous. Got a nice ass. “Are you honestly moping after Brendon? Fuck, that’s
so sick.”
“Trying to forget Jac, actually. Is it just me or has she put on some
weight? Disgusting, really.”
“You’d love for me to punch your lights out, huh?” he asks, and I’m not
sure. Maybe. No. That’d hurt. No, that wouldn’t be nice at all. “All summer
you’ve only gotten drunk and fucked around, but now you’ve added insults to
your repertoire. Fucking well done. Even Spencer hates you now. I knew it
wouldn’t be good to have a fag on the crew, but fuck, I didn’t realise it’d be
because you’d get involved with him. Fuck! I told Nate that I didn’t want a
cocksucker on the bus, and I ended up with one in the band instead.” He scoffs.
“Still, at least I’ve seen both of you sissies take a punch. Makes me feel a bit
better.”
“Nate who?” I ask tiredly, trying to follow his train of thought and
failing, though I fully grasp the overall message of ‘I hate you’. “Oh,” I then
add. I know when I’ve seen Brendon get punched. St. Louis. He took it like a
man. He looked fucking gorgeous, even with the blood on his face. A melody
starts ringing in my head, a low, soft voice, and I think of Jon Walker and how
he had a damn nice voice. I should’ve known he never ratted out Brendon. That
would have mattered so much a month ago. Even two days ago. That would
have made a difference, might have been a defining moment in my life. But now
it doesn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter,” I tell Brent. “None of it matters. All missed
chances. That’s all life is. Jon was just a fucking random guy, anyway. Would
have gotten sick of me quickly.”
“Jon who?” he now returns, and we miss each other, his thoughts there,
mine here, and we’ll never meet again, Brent and I. “Another boyfriend of
yours?”
I grit my teeth. Brendon wasn’t my –
“Out of curiosity, then, do you give or take, Ross?” My guts twist on
their own accord. Brendon’s lips on my back, hushed encouragements as he
pushes into me, and I tremble and come, loving every second of it.
“Leave,” I finally say, feeling sick to my stomach. “Fucking go.”
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He gives me the onceover, shaking his head. “Sleep it off. We’ve got a
show in a few hours. Even fags like you have to do their jobs.”
“Funny how I’m still fucking the girl of your dreams,” I note, and he
looks murderous before he storms down the corridor. I check my pockets
frantically, only then remembering that Spencer took my flask. The fucker.
There’s something sad about emptied venues after shows. The stench of people
pressed against each other lingers in the air, and then all that’s left is a void and
paper cups and torn fliers and gig tickets and maybe a broken necklace
somewhere in the mess of either a huge, empty hall now ringing with its
nothingness or dancing amongst rows of emptied seats, like trampled bodies left
on a battlefield. All proof that something happened here and is now over.
Maybe a boy and a girl laid eyes on each other in the crowd tonight. Maybe
someone found the person they are destined to be with. But not me. Not anyone
who was on stage.
The more we bring people together, the more we fall apart. The more
people disappear.
I shouldn’t be surprised. People have always assumed they can just
leave me. Even my mother. Really, should have known already then that I was
doomed when she defied nature and didn’t give a fuck.
“Mister Ross?”
I tear my eyes off of the now empty stage and look to my side where the
venue manager is staring at me apprehensively, holding a clipboard. He’s older
than me but treats me like I am far superior. It’s dispiriting somehow, an
inversion of the world.
“I’m about to lock the doors. You have to leave.”
I take in a deep breath, fighting the nausea inside. Maybe it’s something
in me, something integrated I can’t get rid of. Like I’m cursed. And all this, the
success and the fame, are just more ways that the world is trying to tell me that I
can have anything except what I want.
“I’m the only one left?” I ask.
“You are.”
He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already.
He asks, “Are you feeling alright?”
I’m hungover and coming down, not really remembering much of the
past twenty or so hours. He quit. We played a show. Jac and I went to her place.
Couldn’t sleep. She tasted... Couldn’t stand my thoughts. Went home. Popped
some pills.
Instead of answering, I pick up the guitar gig bag that’s been lying on
the floor next to me, hauling it on one shoulder, and the man escorts us out of
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the backstage maze and into the night. It’s raining a little, drizzling more like,
and the man makes small talk, saying how they’ve promised rain all next week
and that it’s been a pleasure having us and that he hopes to see us again and
goodnight. I manage to stop a taxi after standing in the rain for too long,
climbing in, wiping water off my face and shrinking into the backseat
unceremoniously. My body feels weak, my skin sweaty and clammy, but not
from the show or the rain, just withdrawal.
When I get home, my suitcase blocks the way to the bedroom, open and
half-empty. A gaping hole, a devouring mouth. I only need a few shirts to last
the next week or so until we’re done with the tour. I need to pack. I should be
efficient for once, get everything ready.
I don’t.
I walk to the bedroom and undress myself, letting the clothes drop into
a pile at my feet until I am bare. Two girls fainted tonight. I can’t understand
what for. This body? It’s just a shell.
I slip between the covers of my bed, eyes closing. The sheets have come
stains on them and have that lingering smell of sweat in them. I need to wash
them. Burn them. Throw them out entirely. They’ll always smell like him.
He didn’t show up tonight. William said that he’s gone back to San
Francisco, but I thought it was just more theatrics. It wasn’t. We went on stage,
played the last LA show, walked off stage, and he never arrived.
He’ll come around, though, when we get to San Francisco. He’ll come
crawling back.
Brendon used to work at the Winterland Ballroom with William, and he told me
he was looking forward to our two shows there, but now he isn’t with us at all.
Even the prospect of meeting old friends isn’t enough to make him grit his teeth
and bear my company. He couldn’t stand the sight of me in the end. William,
who hates me as much as everyone else if not more, is hanging out with the
venue staff when I get off of the bus late afternoon. Sleep finally caught up with
me after two nights of persistent insomnia, but I don’t feel rested. Instead, I
wake up and realise that this is reality and not a dream, and I fight off the bitter
taste in my mouth.
Brendon will be here tonight. He’s in San Francisco, anyway, so he will
come. He’s realised that he made a mistake, that he doesn’t get to say no to me. I
make the rules. He obeys. I half-expect him to be somewhere backstage already,
talking to Zack, setting up gear, restringing a guitar, giving me an apologetic
look, and I’ll accept. Of course I will if I see him repent as he should. I’ll tell him
how wrong he was to leave like that, and he’ll say he’s sorry, eyes full of regret,
and I’ll tell him to just forget about it, my hand on the back of his neck, pulling
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him closer. He’ll close the gap between our lips.

But he’s nowhere to be found.
Pete is making notes of the merchandise boxes that have been piled up
by the stage, and I walk over, trying to focus on the matter at hand. “When’s
soundcheck?” I ask, and he looks up as if mildly surprised to see me up and
about.
“It’s done. We did it without you. It’s fine, really. You on something?”
“No.” I don’t even bother trying to sound defensive. I rub my nose, a
shiver running through me. I don’t need a mirror to know how I look, pale and
tired, like some random junkie. I can handle the drugs and alcohol. I can too.
“Brendon here yet?”
He looks at me incredulously. “He quit. Remember?”
“He’s still got stuff on the bus.”
Pete scratches the side of his head, nodding, like trying to distract
himself from something unpleasant. “William said he’s taking that to Brendon
later.” He sighs. “Shitty on the other guys, them having to do Brendon’s job. It’s
only for a few shows, though. We’ll manage.”
“I guess.”
Pete quickly escorts me to the dressing room where food is waiting, and
I sit on the couch, stuffing my face with tasteless mini sandwiches. I keep
waiting for Brendon to show up. Maybe he’s just scared, knowing how badly he
fucked up. I can be merciful.
The venue opens its doors, and he’s not here. I start smoking to do
something with my hands, knees bouncing, palms sweating, eyes darting to the
door every few seconds. Sitting still eventually becomes too much so I wander
around the backstage area instead, making sure I’m informed the second he
arrives. The support band is getting ready, its members coming over to talk to
me and tell me how much they appreciate the opportunity of opening for us, for
me especially, for Ryan Ross, how amazing they think I am, how my dedication
is inspiring, the way I lay myself bare, and I try to smile, knowing I look
hungover and disinterested. They leave me alone quickly.
“Well?” I ask Andy when he passes me, and he gives me a blank look,
so I assume there is no news.
Brendon’s not here when we go on. The crowd is jumping and cheering,
and Brent and Spencer walk on stage first, and Joe waits for a few seconds
before he follows, increasing the volume of the yelling and whistling and
clapping, and then finally I walk on. I feel like a ghost. The only way I know I
exist is because they react to me.
“Beautiful San Francisco!” Joe is already yelling into his microphone
when I get to my mic stand. “How you doing tonight?”
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Not well.
The hall is huge. Hundreds upon hundreds of people blur together into
a sea of heads, and when I look up, I see the people up on the balcony that
encircles the centre, and they’re all standing and clapping too. Thousands of
them. Four of us. I used to be fucking terrified of these situations, but now I
don’t even care.
We’re three songs in when Andy hurries to hand me my next guitar.
The kids are cheering and stomping, and Joe is talking bullshit into his
microphone about how much we appreciate them coming out and supporting
us, that it’s been one heck of a summer and that we’re keeping it real. I grab
Andy’s arm as he’s about to turn away. “Brendon here?”
“No!” he says, having to shout it over the noise. “He’s not coming back,
man.” He might even look sympathetic for a second before his expression goes
blank, like he remembers things he doesn’t want to. I’ve always liked Andy for
his objectivity, the way he sees himself as an outsider observing his
surroundings, smoking up every day, lost in his thoughts. But even he can’t
retain that objectivity now, after finding out what two men were doing on that
bus while he was on it. I’d be ashamed if I could. Instead I only feel fucking
broken.
A girl front row is screaming for me to marry her.
William comes over to hand me my twelve-string guitar when we’re
about to kick into Miranda’s Dream. “Do you know where Brendon is?” I ask
him, not giving a fuck I’m on stage, that they want me to sing and jump for
them like a marionette. I might sing stories, I might sing facts or sins or
tragedies, but that doesn’t mean that they have a right to me. And if I choose to
question William in the middle of our show, then I will.
“Look –” William starts, and I know he’s planning on lying, so I say,
“Don’t fuck with me. You know where he is, so don’t start with me. Where is
he?”
“Ry,” Joe says, having walked over to us, guitar hanging around him,
and he glares at me and nods at the crowd. William takes the opportunity to
rush off stage, and I stare after him angrily. I plug in the guitar, marching to the
mic stand, stepping on the right pedals. Let’s play these fucking songs then.
When we finish the show and get off stage, William tries to hide behind
Zack to no avail. I take a hold of his arm and drag him away from the rest,
glaring. “You tell me where he is.”
William pulls himself to his fullest height, and he’s taller than me,
trying to look decisive and impenetrable. “Not happening.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” I say venomously, and his eyes widen a little
as he takes a cautious step back.
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***
Castro Street, San Francisco. Fag central. I should’ve known. It’s after midnight,
but the street is not deserted. Not at all. In fact, I think I’ve been eyefucked more
in the past five minutes than I have been all summer, and that’s saying
something. It sickens me.
I keep carrying the small cardboard box that was used for Followers t-
shirts at some point but is now filled with Brendon’s leftover belongings. I went
through them in the taxi. A few books. Socks. Shirts I recognise. Meaningless
shit that somehow amounts to one man’s life, but Brendon should have more
than this. It’s like Brendon could disappear if he wanted to. He has before.
I finally spot the dry cleaners William told me about. At least he didn’t
lie about that. I stop outside the darkened windows, feeling out of place and
angered by it, that he’s reducing me to this, and I glare at the guy who walks
past me, eyeing me up and down. “You fucking want something?” I snap
angrily, and when he doesn’t reply but keeps his eyes on me, I audibly mutter,
“Fag.”
The guy scoffs loudly but walks faster, and I quickly knock on the door
of the shop. To my surprise, a light gets switched on almost instantly, though I
was convinced that this was a hoax and William just said something to get me
off his back.
The light from the backroom illuminates a counter and behind it clothes
racks, and I see the silhouette of a large man make his way over to the door.
He’s around forty, balding and large-built, a ball shaped head with two
knowing eyes. I expect a man like him to have a low, booming voice, but when
he opens the door and says, “Well, sweetheart, you’re certainly not Billy,” his
voice is feminine and decorated with a lisp.
“No kidding.”
“Feisty,” he now adds, grinning.
“Is –”
“I know why you’re here, honey,” he cuts me off, leaning against the
doorframe. He’s studying me intensely with obvious curiosity, and he manages
to stare me down. I notice that under the cuffs of his bell jeans, he’s wearing
high heels. High heels. “I’ve seen you in magazines. Saw you on TV once too.
They play that one song constantly on AM radio.”
“So they do.”
“What does that make you then? The new Bob Dylan?” he asks, and
when I remain silent, he goes on. “I don’t like Bob Dylan much. Too depressing.
Maybe you’re the new John Lennon or Lou Reed or one of those guys. Twenty
years from now, your name will be on that list, which is pretty funny if you ask
me. I only see a very confused looking young man myself.”
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“I’m not confused,” I object.

He laughs a little. “Well, aren’t you precious.”
“Is Brendon here?”
“You got a cigarette?” he counters, and I go through my pockets and
find a half-full pack. He takes the entire thing, getting one out and pocketing the
rest. “He’s upstairs.” He lights up the cigarette and sucks on the end greedily. “I
think I’ll go drop by the bar, see if I can get laid. Give you kids some privacy.”
“That’s not –”
“Really, don’t worry about me interrupting anything. I’ll be out all
night.”
“I’m not here for that,” I snap angrily. Or maybe I am. Maybe I intend to
do just that. Find him, not say anything, just push him on the nearest available
bed and kiss every single inch of him before fucking him all night. Tell him to
forget about it. It was just a stupid fight. Doesn’t have to change anything. We
can go back to what we had.
Please let it be that easy.
“Sure, darling. Whatever you say.” He steps out, leaving me to hold the
door open. He instantly starts walking away, but he looks over his shoulder to
add, “It means something, you know. That you came.” And then he walks on,
high heels clicking against the concrete under his feet, a small sway to his hips.
“What the fuck?” I ask myself quietly before stepping inside. What kind
of people does Brendon associate himself with?
I quickly get to the backroom, following the light that’s on, and sure
enough there are stairs going up. A door blocks the way at the top, but it’s
unlocked, and so I step into someone’s apartment, presumably the guy’s. I stand
in a small, unlit hallway, hearing the radio crackling in one of the rooms but not
knowing which one.
I walk on quietly before hearing guitar from the room to my left. A
song. One of ours. One of mine.
I readjust my hold of the box under my arm before pushing the door
open, and it gives way, creaking. It’s a small bedroom if I choose to ignore how
there’s no actual bed, just a mattress and a chest of drawers, and on the mattress
is a man sitting with his back to me, facing the window, and he’s got a guitar
that he’s playing, humming along quietly. A green curtain covers the window,
but the fabric isn’t thick and red neon lights of the bar opposite flash through, a
constant and sickening ‘Open’. And this is where he’s hiding. This is the
kingdom he chose instead of me.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I step in, and Brendon asks, “So
did they get back to you about that job, Terry?”
I pause, holding my breath. “I might have a job for you.”
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Brendon’s up on his feet faster than humanly possible, holding the

guitar by the neck and staring at me with wide eyes. He looks much like his
brain is stuck processing what I struggled to do in LA: him. In this world. “What
are you doing here?” he asks, speaking too fast.
“Brought you your stuff,” I explain, now going to the chest of drawers
and placing the box on top. Brendon’s bag is on the floor by the mattress, clothes
in two messy piles next to it, but that’s it. Is this all the stuff he owns?
“William was supposed to bring me that.”
“Guess you’ll have to settle with me,” I say, and he puts the guitar
away, carefully placing it to lean against the wall. He seems to be in shock, and I
try not to yell at him like I want to. Brendon has got to be the only person in this
world who’d choose a dump like this over me. They all want me. The fans. The
press. The world. I’m important. I matter. Fuck what my band says – they’re all
jealous. It’s like the guy said, that I’m a legend in the making. And Brendon
dares to claim he’s not interested. “So Terry, did you say? He’s a character.”
He smiles uneasily. “He... Well, yeah. But he’s a good guy. He helps
people out. Usually kids that are new around here.” He’s not new but clearly
doesn’t have much to show for that. The shock seems to be fading, and instead
he looks angered and hurt. It makes the fear in me that much more obvious, the
one that hasn’t gone away since he left. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” I counter, staring him down.
“Last time I checked it was to fuck your girlfriend.”
“Already took care of that.”
His eyes thin dangerously. “Good for you.”
I bite on my tongue, trying to keep my remarks to myself. Instead, I say,
“We just played a show. Will, Andy and Zack are stuck doing your job.”
“Oh, so you’re here on behalf of the road crew?” he asks disbelievingly.
“Maybe.” Another lie. The band’s happy he’s gone, Zack and Andy are
pissed off at me and him alike, Pete’s just furious with Brendon, and William
thinks I’m a cunt and that Brendon’s better off leaving. No one else wants him
there except for me. I stare at his bare toes and see the way the neon light
illuminates them every four or so seconds. “God, I’m fucking pissed off at you,”
I then sigh without any venom at all.
“You’re not on my good list either, you know.”
I look up at him, feeling my insides knotting tight. Of course I’m not. He
despises me as much as I despise him, but I have the right to act the way I do. I
have excuses. The pressure. The expectations. I’m just human. I can’t be that
mythic figure that they are trying to carve out of me. He doesn’t have any of
those excuses. “Brendon, I’m asking you. I’ve come to this... I don’t even know
what to call this place,” I scoff, looking around in disdain. “But I’m here.
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Alright? You won. So stop being a bitch and do as I say.”

“I won?” he repeats disbelievingly. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything!
I’m not – You think I’m testing you? I quit, Ryan. What the hell is unclear about
that?”
“You didn’t actually quit.”
“Uh, I did.”
“You don’t get to leave me!” I snap angrily.
“Where do you get off?” he asks quietly but with obvious rage in his
tone, his eyes dark but not with want like they’ve so often been. The opposite of
want. Repulsion. “You think you can control other people? Me? Fuck you! I do
whatever I want, and I certainly quit whenever I want! And if that’s all you
came to say, then there’s the fucking door. Have a nice life, you asshole.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then I guess I’ll do the honour,” he snaps and walks to the door, but
I’m quick to block the way, slamming the door shut when he tries to open it. His
eyes are full of defiance, and it’s amazing how all the small moments slip away
somehow. The light touches. Hushed words. The warmth of his skin. And I’m
so full of anger that I don’t know what to do. I can bend anyone in this world to
my will. Anyone, except him. He has nothing to show for himself, but he acts
like he’s in a position to choose. It’s fucking arrogant.
“Brendon, I’m telling you.”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking. You don’t know how to
treat people, you –”
“I was fine before you came along! I was fucking fine, and now I’m not!
I’m a fucking mess! And it’s your fault, all your fault, so you don’t get to walk
away from me!”
He swallows hard but seems resigned, and maybe where my anger
turns me into a wreck, his brings him clarity. “I think it’s time you leave.”
“Stop fighting me on this!” I tell him angrily. I ignore the way my heart
is hammering inside my chest. Fuck, I can’t give him more than this. He has to
accept that. Has to. “I need you on that bus,” I say roughly.
He shakes his head and steps further away, backing away, from me, out
of all people, like I’m a time bomb about to explode. I lean against the door,
feeling stupid and desperate and bitter.
He looks a little sorry. Maybe. Or maybe I just hope that he is, that this
is hurting him too. That the past few days have been as torturous for him as
they’ve been for me. That he missed me. All of it. That sometimes it’s all he can
think of, and the loss hangs over him, pushing him down.
There’s solemn determination on his face. “I’ve gone through too much
to be someone’s dirty little secret.”
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“Don’t think so goddamn highly of yourself.” When he narrows his

eyes at me, I press on. “So your dad smacked you around and broke your arm.
Am I, what? Expected to kneel at your feet because you had a rough time
growing up? Join your fucking generation.” Mentioning his past works
flawlessly: his eyes flash dangerously and his hands curl into fists. Maybe he
will try and take a swing at me. Spencer already did, so why not him too? It’d be
easier. We beat each other up, and it’s closure. I won’t have to think of him
anymore. Don’t have to miss him. “You’d be fucking lucky to be my dirty
secret,” I tell him.
He looks continually more disbelieving. “God, you – You waltz in here
and try to tell me what to do! Like you own me, like you get to say this shit to
me! You don’t even want me,” he snarls. “You want things you don’t have.
Right now, that’s me. Other times, it’s the band. When you have it, you resent it,
and then the second it starts to slip away, you run back to them. You’re just a
confused little boy.”
“Don’t fucking belittle me!” I snap angrily. And I’m not confused. Terry
said it, now Brendon’s saying it, like I’m having an identity crisis of some kind.
“You have no idea how much I’ve put on the line for you, you ungrateful fag!”
“That’s it! Get the fuck out!” he barks, grabbing a hold of my arm,
fingers digging in painfully, but it’s soothing somehow. If I feel the pain, I still
exist. He wrenches the door open and pulls us both out of the room and into the
dark hallway. When I can’t free myself from his hold, I shove him backwards.
His hold of me loosens and his back slams against the wall loudly.
I see the outlines of his features in the dark, finding myself standing in
the beam of light that comes from his room. “You’re a fag but get offended
when someone calls you that,” I remark.
“Right back at you.”
The fury in me bubbles over, a blinding rage from his insolence. “Don’t
you ever call me a fag, you –”
“I don’t care anymore! You come to my home –”
“Your home?!”
“Whatever it is! You come here and you think you’ve got the right, but
you don’t!” he barks, but his voice is anguished and self-deprecating somehow.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I fucking told myself early on to remember
that you were just a selfish prick, but I forgot. I let myself- Just get the hell out,
Ryan.”
“I know what you were thinking! You got off on getting fucked by a
rock star. Made you feel good. Got a rush out of it. Someone fucking famous! A
nice step up from letting dirty, married, middle-aged men fuck your underage
ass in motels! You’re just like the rest of them! You use me, and then when I
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offend your stupid fucking feelings, you take off!”

“Fuck you!” he snaps fervently. “I never cared one fucking bit how
famous you are! Fuck, you’re not... you’re not even a decent human being.
You’re cruel, and you’re vile. I can’t believe I was letting myself fall in love with
you.”
My response is automatic, rolling off my tongue instantly. “God, that
would have been too pathetic even for me to bear.”
My words hang in the air between us, ugly and hurtful.
“Get out,” he whispers. There’s an edge to his words, something painful
that cuts through my skin like sharp glass. It’s only then that his actual words
reach my brain, and I feel breathless and hollow and panicked, like the entire
world opens up somehow, the universe aligning in perfect sequence, and then
it’s gone as suddenly, deteriorating back into confusion and chaos.
“My pleasure,” I return.
I find the door easily, banging it closed behind me, and I stomp down
the stairs, feeling dirty and needing to leave that apartment, the building, the
street, get away from him before this sickening feeling gets into my bones.
I sit on the steps of the gas station that’s closed for the night, watching the
cigarette smoke spiral up and into the dark. Andy’s still taking a piss by the
roadside though the night has swallowed him up, and I can’t see him. The bus is
parked in front of me, illuminated by the blinking light above my head. The
door’s open, and the driver’s seat is empty, the radio quietly playing and
reaching my ears. Spencer’s sitting on the steps of the bus, smoking like I am.
He hasn’t said a word yet. I haven’t said a word either. Last time we spoke he
managed to punch me.
He’s flying straight to Cincinnati from Vancouver. Well, through
Chicago. I heard him talking to Pete since our manager needs to know where we
are. I remember when we were younger and spent entire nights listening to the
radio together, making bets which one of us could sing ‘how do you do what
you do to me, I wish I knew, if I knew how you do what you do to me, I’d do it
to you’ faster. It was innocent. Now it’s this – barely out of Portland but far
enough to be in the middle of nowhere, not near enough to be in Seattle yet. I
didn’t give a fuck about tonight’s crowd and neither did he. Our performances
are automatic. We don’t have the heart.
Andy wanders back, readjusting the glasses on his nose. “You got a
cigarette?” he asks me, and I go through my pockets and hand him one. He
lights it himself, staring at us cautiously, like maybe worried Spencer and I will
start exchanging punches again. They all act so carefully around me now, or at
least the roadies do. Even William, though he can’t actually know what
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happened. What I said. What Brendon said.

But they know where I went and that I came back by myself. I’m not
thinking about it anymore. Can’t think about it.
My fingers have twisted around the cigarette I’m holding, snapping it in
two.
The horror of continuity almost gets to me then. No break. No lull.
Nothing. Back on the bus, back on the road, like it made no difference, like
nothing ever happened or changed, and now we’re driving to a new state,
getting further and further away from California, San Francisco, Castro Street, a
dry cleaners, a room in the apartment above it, watching the place become more
and more miniscule and sinking into oblivion, vanishing off the map. And him
with it.
The sensation of rising terror settles heavy in my chest, not accelerating
but not fading away either.
“Is that a cat?” Andy asks, breaking the spell. I look up and follow his
gaze to two glowing embers at the corner of the bus before they’re gone. Andy
walks off to investigate, and I lean against the gas station door behind my back,
knees raised.
I know it’s over, like it should have been before it even started. I could
see it in the way he looked at me. Hate. Shame. Shame that he had been
involved at all. Vile. Cruel. That’s what he said. That’s what I can’t forget. That’s
what makes me feel pathetic. That I feel so much.
Spencer clears his throat. “I don’t know how long we can keep doing
this.”
I look at him, but he’s focused on his shoes. He smokes languidly like he
didn’t just say what he did.
“The band?” I clarify, and he nods.
The rest of the guys are inside, fast asleep. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to, but
when I close my eyes, I see things, when it’s too quiet, I hear things, and I
twisted in the sheets, pulling them aside, and hidden in the crack between the
mattress and the wall was a black t-shirt, soft and worn, white text on the front.
Old No. 7. Tennessee Whiskey. Smelled like him.
“It’s not working,” Spencer says, and he doesn’t have to tell me that. It
used to work. I used to call Brent and Joe both my best friends. Him too. I used
to do a lot of things I no longer do. “There’s too much shit we can’t solve.
Brent’s a... He’s a mess about the Jac thing, and when Joe found out about
Brent?”
“Yeah.”
Joe went on a rampage, slamming doors and breaking one guitar as he
yelled that he was done playing with such an amateur band, that he fucked
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around but never the wrong people. Like Brent and Jac. Spencer and Haley. Me
and.
Spencer sighs loudly, dropping the cigarette on the ground where it lies,
emitting smoke into the air with a burning red tip. “I’m not your friend
anymore, Ry.”
The night’s humid, endless black above our heads. No stars. No
moonlight. Heavy, pregnant clouds just waiting for the right moment to start
raining.
“I know that.” It’s a lie.
“Pete keeps saying that we just need a break, but I don’t see us ever
getting back from this. He still thinks we’ll go to Europe, but I just...” He sounds
pained. At least he cares. Cared. I know he did. I know it must have been bad
for it to come to this, worse than I ever realised.
We made a blood oath once. I had no siblings. He didn’t have a brother.
We must have been twelve.
So much for that.
If the two remaining shows are the last Followers concerts ever, then
what was it all for?
Andy returns, still smoking his cigarette. “The cat didn’t want to play.
Shame that.” He rolls his shoulders. “Should we get back on the road?”
Spencer stands up, readjusting his shirt slightly. Light catches the
wedding ring on his finger. He’s started wearing it now despite Pete’s fierce
objections. He’s made his choice. He’s got his girls. What does he need an
adopted brother for now?
He looks at me with calm blue eyes, and it’s not a scrutinising gaze at all
but I feel myself shrinking from it, anyway. “I hope you get over him soon.”
I look up at him in half-surprise, half-guilt. Andy clears his throat and
pretends he didn’t hear, and Spencer disappears back onto the bus. Andy
follows him, but I stay on the single step, feeling sick to my stomach.
It feels like something’s been ripped in two inside me.
I look to the back half of the bus. I don’t want to go back there, to that
small gritty space, that bed where Brendon’s slept, that place where we kissed
for the first time since the first time, not that I kept count of the times after that. I
lost count of the kisses. Of everything.
“You coming?” Andy calls out from the driver’s seat. My legs feel weak
as I stand up. The first drop of water lands on me as I walk over and climb the
steps up. The doors close behind me, and Andy fiddles with the radio.
The thought of going back to the memories feels suffocating. Lying
there and having to think of the bunk that’s empty, how he’s gone, how he’s
never coming back. His words. What he said. The look in his eyes. How he
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VOLUME 1
couldn’t believe that he was letting himself fall in love with me. He was falling
in love. Fuck, I can’t even breathe.
“Can I drive?”
Andy looks at me in surprise. I used to drive every now and then on our
previous tour. Andy was there so he knows that. Not on this tour. Not anymore.
I’m too important now.
“I’ve got it.”
“We’re a fucking hour away from Seattle. I can drive,” I say angrily.
“You hate driving.” He does. He constantly complains about it.
“Yeah, but you’ve never driven this bus.”
“It’s a bus. The road’s straight. I can do it.”
“You been drinking?”
“Nothing all day.”
He looks sceptical but stands up, motioning me to sit down. I do, my
fingers landing on the cool steering wheel as my feet find the pedals.
“Seatbelt.”
“You serious?”
He nods, so I roll my eyes and oblige before switching the engine on.
The bus jerks and inches forward, and I get us back on the road, the headlights
sweeping across the asphalt of the highway, the yellow centrelines appearing
and disappearing. It’s raining now, the road glistening black. “Alright,” Andy
says after a few minutes. “Wake me up when we get there.”
He disappears from my peripheral vision, and I lean back against the
seat, letting the solitude engulf me. The radio is playing the newest hits, and
when I hear the first three notes of Less Than Graceful, I switch stations, not
wanting to hear my own voice. Classical music crackles through the speakers, a
melodic and calm up and down of a piano. Chopin.
The rain keeps beating against the windshield, the wipers sliding across
the glass swiftly. The sound of it mixes with the B flat minor key of the music.
Brendon could do that too. Play any note at all, and he’d know which one it
was. He was more talented than he let on, saying he had no interest in trying to
be a musician. We certainly provided him with a warning example.
The second I let my thoughts stray to him, I feel nauseous. It’s a
sickening burn, and I know that I wasn’t quick enough. He found a way in. Got
into my bones.
I swear under my breath and lift my ass off the seat slightly, retrieving
the flask from my back pocket. I had to steal it back from Spencer behind his
back. I keep one hand on the wheel as I unscrew the cork, bringing the mouth to
my lips quickly. Vodka pours down my throat effortlessly.
And then I realise there is no solution or escape. It doesn’t matter if I’m
332
somewhere that’s infested with memories of him or whether I’m on stage at a

venue I’ve never been to. I can’t shake it off. The feeling. The memories. And I
want to tell him I’m so fucking sorry, but then I don’t. I want to tell him to go
fuck himself.
He didn’t care about the hype. He didn’t care that I froze up in
interviews or that the only way I could get on stage was for him to whisper
reassurances into my ear, fleeting kisses in a bathroom, something, anything for
me to hold onto. To stop me from slipping in too deep. He knew all the things I
never wanted anyone to know, and he was falling in love with me anyway. Me.
Out of all the people in the world. And not that artificial me that the fans adore
– that person doesn’t even exist – but the actual me, and I don’t even know who
that is half the time, but he seemed to.
I turn the radio louder, my hands trembling and my heart beating like
I’m running to my defeat, falling into something I can’t climb out of. I bring the
flask to my lips again; it’s like water and has no effect that I can notice. I still feel
the pain.
The rain is so hard that it’s hammering the bus roof, hundreds of
droplets beating against it, drumming and pounding into my brain. I’ve been
driving faster since Andy left, flying along the pitch black road, and I feel weak
and sick and tired.
I wanted him to love me.
I take in a shuddering breath and wipe my cheeks, shaking it off,
shaking it off, but it’s not going anywhere. The yellow centrelines aren’t where
they should be. They are right ahead of me, and the bus is in the middle of the
road now, and I see headlights ahead that aren’t ours. But it’s like that morning
in Arizona, when I smoked a cigarette by the side of the road and Brendon came
over to talk to me, snapping my picture, telling me of his travels and smiling at
me, and I could see a truck coming in the distance, knowing that it would never
reach me. Reach us. That one moment stretched to infinity.
I want to remember that morning. I want to remember that feeling, that
spark deep inside my chest whenever I looked at him.
Now he’s gone.
It’s just a Buick, the car that’s honking and flashing its lights in the rain,
and the highway almost seems flooded, like we’re driving on a lake or a sea or
an ocean.
Just a car.
But then we make impact out of nowhere, the infinity getting cut short.
It’s loud, the crash, and I get thrown forwards and then slammed backwards.
The entire world tilts, balance and gravity ceasing to exist. The bus crashes to its
side but doesn’t come to a stop, sliding along, and the screech of metal is loud
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VOLUME 1
and sparks burn my skin. Blood and glass fill my mouth, but the radio keeps
playing.
The radio keeps playing.
End of Volume 1
334

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The Heart Rate of a Mouse

if it was on purpose or not. I didn’t mean to do it, but maybe I subconsciously

"It must be love-gone-astray, or just plain perverse,

CHAPTER 1: THE APOCALYPSE AND TAKE IT FROM THERE

fly up to meet us in Detroit if you want.”

blame. Money is to blame. I don’t want to become another Ziggy.

I give replies to his awkward questions.

bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

“Right.” I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as William

Play. Just play. You know how to.

doesn’t love him enough to care, and he knows that.”

“I am God. To them,” I amend.

“Another beer, come on!”

Spencer joins in with, “Jac and Zack, sitting in a tree...”

I am relatively sure there is too many “or”s in the question. William

something as they all proceed to ignore me.

In Chicago, we are playing three sold out shows in a row so we temporarily

I can hear bells ringing in my head. And the winner is –

“Sure,” I mutter, giving another suspicious look at Brendon, who only

chested and shouldered with actual muscle where I have bones.

“Tom? You mean Tom?”

that what she wants? Alright. I’ll chase her.

“Know anything of its history?”

“Is that all?!” William demands angrily.

Brendon to acknowledge my presence. He is holding his nose, fingers in blood,

I’ve seen during my astounding career.

have an is-she-even-twenty groupie admiring his biceps. “Everybody on

“Yes, you are,” he states as he compares one of my floral-patterned

together back there.”

already. “Well, what kind of things do you know about?”

“That is disgusting, you know that, right?” I deadpan, genuinely

you. The three of us. Going back to your bus.”

“Oh, I can, that’s no problem. They always praise us, anyway.”

And that. That was. That –

A distancing click-click-click and her friendly voice chattering, and

star hotel, top floor suite, complimentary beer.

is there. He offers his hand cordially.

I’m flattered, so thanks. Or merci, really.”

“You did nothing?”

on automatic, the after-gig high-fives on automatic, decline the after-party invite

quiet down instantly.

smiles against my mouth wickedly. “Good.”

“Okay.” If he says so. Okay.

room,” he suggests. “Just like to hang out or whatever.”

“Ryan! Would you just wait up?!”

sorry too, but it’s not good enough.

“And the wedding?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he informs me and pushes past me into the room

He’s rock hard.

“Try-” He stops to groan. “Try aiming up when you – Fucking hell,

Brendon smiles to himself, a hint of a smirk in it. “I knew it.”

Brendon’s room felt different. It felt lived in.

My eyes land on the TV screen. The anchorwoman is talking about a

obviously. “We’re flying home now.”

“We’ve got enough band members vanishing without having to worry

Jesus Christ, could he just get over it?

CHAPTER 2: IN THEM AND NOT IN ME

with that. I doubt Brent is.

He sits up straighter on the counter. I can see myself reflected in the

I snatch his earlobe between my teeth, sucking on it briefly. “Lean

with toilet paper.

I grin even wider, unable to take my eyes off of him.

of music. Joe! Joe, she wants to interview you!”