Page 8 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

SEVEN

W e gather in a commercial parking lot outside of the city. This isn’t one of those moments you see on TV, where wives come and drop their husbands off, and everyone is in tears. Despite this, I look around and wait for Nola to show up, even though I know she won’t.

Groupies know, though. They’ll follow buses out of the venue in hopes we’re stopping at a hotel for the night, a bar, or a rest stop.

They want that coveted photo or video for their TikTok or Instagram.

It’s no longer about the autograph. It’s all about the pictures.

That’s the real proof you met someone these days.

Unless, of course, it’s a video of someone famous signing a body part.

Elle had warned us multiple times to never, ever sign body parts.

I listen.

Hendrix does not. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve heard, “Oh my god, I’m going to go get this tattooed immediately,” after a meet-and-greet session.

Whether I like Elle’s form of advertising or not, I’m not one to argue. She’s why we’re such a sensation and heading out on tour. I trust her implicitly. If she says I’m going to perform in a banana costume, then I’ll do it.

The other bus is black with silver accents, and I contemplate boarding that one, thinking I can hide. Thinking this one could be my safe space, away from everyone who may or may not ask questions about where Nola is.

“What are you doing?” my sister asks as she comes near me with her clipboard.

“Contemplating my life choices.”

She looks at me oddly. I haven’t told her, Peyton, or anyone else that Nola left my sorry ass three days ago. I don’t want to hear how I’m better off or have them take my side simply because we’re family. Clearly, I don’t know the first thing about keeping a relationship.

Mostly because I’m going to do everything I can to make this break temporary.

“The only life choice I need you to make right now is getting your ass on the bus so we can leave on time.”

“Why this one?” I point to the one with the band’s logo on it. “Versus that one?”

Elle sighs heavily, obviously exasperated by me already. “Let’s see,” she says as she holds up her hand, which is holding a pen that she’s pointing at me, like she’s going to stab me. If given the chance, she just might.

“You happen to be the lead singer of said band, whose logo is blasted all over the place. You happen to be writing and working on a song with Justine, who is the lead singer of another one of my bands, and I thought, hell, I don’t know, you could work with her while this thing is moving down the road.

Furthermore, one of the guys from Talking Til Dawn brought his baby on tour, and I didn’t think you’d want to listen to the crying. ”

Many valid points. This is why she’s the manager and I’m the talent.

“Where’s Nola? Is she really not coming on tour?”

I could make some excuse, like she’d been doing for so long now about school, but I don’t. “Nah.”

Elle doesn’t push, and I appreciate it.

“Where’s Ben?” I look around for my brother-in-law, wondering if he’s coming on tour.

“In Beaumont. He’ll meet up with us later. He’s got some work to do.”

I really like my brothers-in-law. I think my sisters chose well.

They’re both amazing guys who treat my sisters like they walk on water.

Even though all of us know Elle can be a pain in the ass, Ben worships her.

Noah and Peyton are a different story. They are so connected, none of us can even begin to peel away the layers of their relationship.

But I look at them and know this is what I want; I just don’t know what I did wrong—and clearly still doing wrong—in order to achieve it.

Resigned, I sigh heavily, pick my duffel bag up, and sling it over my shoulder.

“Is that all you brought for clothes?”

“Uh . . .”

Elle says something under her breath, which sounds like “I’m not your wife” or something to that effect.

I want to laugh because she should’ve absolutely expected this from me.

This isn’t our first tour, and while yes, for the last tour Nola packed for me and made sure I had enough underwear to last until we had a day to get our laundry done.

This time, I threw some shit into a bag and called it good.

“I’ll have stuff sent to the hotel.”

“Do you know my size?”

Elle rolls her eyes. “Get on the bus, Quinn.”

I hesitate.

“Or I’m calling Mom,” she threatens. “And I’ll have her come down here, tears and all, showing everyone how you’re the baby of the family even though you’re older than me and Peyton.

I’ll tell Mom to baby the shit out of you and make a big deal about how you’re an adult and still need Mommy to pack your shit.

And I’ll video every bit of it, send it to every ragtag media agency, and post it all over social media with whiny emojis. Get. On. The. Bus. Quinn!”

My face falls. “You’re meaner now that you’re pregnant.”

Elle says nothing and points to the bus.

I board the bus because I am obedient. Always have been. In fact, I can’t recall a single time I’ve ever done anything wrong. I never missed curfew, defied my parents, hit my sisters in the way siblings fight, or backtalked a teacher.

Did I miss out on a rebellious side?

Elle had hers.

Peyton almost did, but her near-death experience changed everything for her. More so, it changed Noah, and he finally said fuck it and told the world he loved my sister.

Me, I’ve done nothing, except fall in love with a woman who can’t be with me right now.

Right now, I tell myself. Nola didn’t say forever; she said she needed space. In my mind, there’s a distinct difference.

As my foot touches the first step, my hand presses to my chest, feeling the heaviness of Nola’s ring under my shirt.

I didn’t know what else to do with it. Leaving it home, in an empty house, didn’t seem right.

My hand then goes to my pocket, feeling for the tattered edges of a folded note I’ve read so many times I have the words memorized, etched permanently in my mind.

I’m going to give her the space she asked for. I won’t text or call her. I may write her notes about this tour, the bus trip, and everything else happening in my life, but I’ll hold onto those until I see her.

Our stop in South Carolina isn’t that far off when I count tour stops and forget the travel in between. Before long, she’ll be on this bus with me, and everything will be the way . . . the way I want it but she doesn’t.

I groan internally as it hits me square in the chest. The ache pushing her diamond into my heart, reminding me that she gave it back even though she wants me to call her when the tour stops in South Carolina.

Our life together has been about me, and while she knew this going into the relationship, I didn’t allow her to grow as a person.

Or did I?

Fuck if I know. My head’s twisted around with what’s right and wrong, and if it wasn’t for this tour, I’d be home right now with my head under the pillow, ignoring the world.

I climb the three steps, smiling at the driver who will undoubtedly become our best friend for the duration of the tour.

We’ll learn about his life, whether he has a family or not, and bring him into the fold.

The bottom line is, we’ll take care of him because it’s his job to get us where we need to go in one piece.

There’s an immediate rush of cool air coming from the air conditioning and the subtle sound of the engine, idling under my feet.

I pass through the front lounge area with its plush leather couches, small built-in tables, and big flat-screen TV mounted in the corner, along with Bluetooth speakers for added surround sound and to drown out road noises.

I say hi to Justine, Priscilla, and Wynonna.

From what Elle has said, they’re excited for the tour.

The mini kitchen tucks into one side with a sink, microwave, and full-sized refrigerator, which, if I had to guess, is stuffed with beer, energy drinks, soda, an assortment of snacks like cheese, fruit, meat slices, and whatever else people eat.

Knowing my sister, the cabinets are fully stocked as well, and if I remember correctly, she sent out an email asking for items we’d like on the bus—an email I didn’t respond to.

The espresso machine catches my eye. I’m grateful it’s there because caffeine is my religion.

Continuing down the narrow hallway is a small bathroom with just a toilet, a tiny sink, and a mirror with a light above it. The sign on the door, which is meant for Hendrix, reads: Don’t shit here.

At the end of the hall, there’s a narrow, winding staircase leading to the second level known as bunk alley.

There are two rows of coffin-sized beds, stacked three high, running the length of the corridor.

Each bunk is marked with our names and has a privacy curtain, which surprisingly keeps the sound muffled.

In each space, we have USB ports, a reading light, and a small screen to watch TV on.

The last bus we had, the mattresses were soft, and I realize as I look at my bed that I’m going to miss sleeping this tightly with Nola.

At the very end of the row is another lounge.

This one is more stylish and accommodating, with a wraparound couch, another TV, and a place to set up our gear.

We can jam here without bothering the driver.

This is where we’ll play video games, write music and get loud, and watch the scenery pass by without cars and trucks being in our line of sight.

The bus shifts and begins rolling. I don’t bother to look out the window of my bunk or open it to wave goodbye to anyone. The only person I want to see already left.

As I unpack and put my clothes in the shared closet and drawer with my name on it, I try to pinpoint where everything went wrong.

One minute we’re golden, heading toward a future, and then we’re not.

I wish she’d tell me what I did wrong so I could fix it.

I know I asked, but maybe I didn’t push, and I should’ve.

One by one, my bandmates and the ladies from Plum come upstairs. Everyone’s chatting away, happy and excited.

Dana, Justine, Priscilla, Wynonna, and Chandler are in the first section of bunks, with the guys occupying the back half, with the bathroom, complete with a stand-up shower, separating us.

“Who created the sleeping chart?” Hendrix asks as he looks at Dana. I wish they’d figure things out. More so, I wish Hendrix would take a damn hint.

“I did,” Dana says. “Girls here, boys there.”

“Works for me,” Keane adds, knowing full well Chandler will be at the other end of the bus.

“And me,” Ajay adds.

“Doesn’t work for me,” Hendrix says.

“Why not?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

“What if I want to be at the back of the bus?” Hendrix says.

“Then we’ll swap,” Dana says. “All of us.”

“That’s stupid. We’re adults. We can mix together.”

“Leave it be,” I say, wanting them to shut the fuck up already. “Who gives a shit where you fucking sleep?”

“I fucking do, and it’s not your band,” Hendrix says as he steps up to me.

I scoff. “Right. I’ll walk if that’s what you want.”

Keane steps in between us. “Come on, man,” he says to Hendrix. “It’s just a sleeping arrangement. I’m sure in a week we’ll all be moving around, switching buses, and all that. Let’s just be cool. We have a long tour ahead of us, and we need this to go well.”

I don’t say anything or even look at Hendrix.

I’m not about to play his dumb game. I do look at Dana and give her a pointed look.

She needs to tell this guy how she feels, once and for all, so we can have some damn peace.

I’m not about to spend months on the road with these two pussyfooting around their feelings. I have those problems on my own.

Excusing myself, I brush past everyone who is standing around, afraid to say or do anything because of Hendrix’s attitude. Right now, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t put up with it.

Downstairs, I make myself a cup of espresso and go sit by the driver. I’d rather talk to him, since the guy probably doesn’t know shit about my life, than deal with my bandmates right now.