Page 36
SIXTEEN
I groan as I wake up. My body feels like it got run over by a truck and got dragged behind the vehicle for a couple of miles. Not that I’ve ever experienced that, but shit, all my muscles just hurt.
Especially the ones that shouldn’t.
When I rub my face, my elbow catches on something hard next to me on the sheets, and I turn my head. Missy’s phone.
And I’m in Ashers and Ava’s bedroom.
Shit.
I groan again, louder this time, when it all comes rushing back. I made a complete fucking fool of myself in front of her. For all the years we’ve been besties, she’s never seen me naked. Not like that anyway.
I kinda wish I didn’t remember everything about last night, but my call with Tyler? That was so fucking hot. It’d be a damn shame to forget that happened.
Could’ve gone without the memory of Missy barging in while I was knuckle-deep in my ass, though. Or the part where I held up my dick and asked if she thought it was crooked. Real highlight of my life. Fun times.
It takes me a while to sit up. Limbs stiff, head pounding, cursing under my breath as I nearly topple backward like a sack of potatoes. Shit, I hate drugs.
Thank fuck there’s a bottle of water on the nightstand— thank you, Missy— and I reach for it like it’s the Holy motherfucking Grail. But once I move, my bladder is demanding fucking attention right the fuck now.
I swear some more as I grab the bottle, and hobble— naked— toward the tiny, shitty bathroom on this stupid moving bus. And yeah, it’s fucking moving. Which means every crack in the pavement, every bump and dip in the road, feels like it’s vibrating directly into the marrow of my bones.
This is hell. Tour bus hell. My ass hurts. My brain hurts. My soul hurts.
My mouth is parched, my head’s going bonkers—I keep blinking just to refocus—and my bladder is one more fucking jostle away from bursting.
Needless to say, I’ve felt better.
I do, however, think I’m pretty damn awesome when I manage to relieve myself and hydrate at the same damn time, downing the water bottle like my life depends on it.
Nope. Couldn’t wait. My throat hurts .
Once it’s empty and I can finally swallow without wincing, I wash my hands and peek around the corner, relieved the hallway is still empty.
A foot with pink-painted toenails sticks out from behind the curtain of my bunk, and I wince.
Shit. Ava and Asher must’ve had to crash in there after last night.
As quiet as I can not to wake them up, I quickly snatch a pair of joggers from the cubby where I keep my clothes, hoist them up, and stumble out toward the living area.
Jodie, our manager extraordinaire, is already stationed at the tiny breakfast nook, typing furiously on her laptop and looking way too fucking perky for this hour. She’s got tea. She’s got makeup on. She’s wearing actual clothes. I kind of hate her.
Groaning, I drop face-down onto the couch, wallowing in my misery. “I’m never drinking or doing drugs again,” I grumble into the cushions. “Or eating a damn peach.”
Not like I wanted to use anything. I accidentally grabbed the wrong shot, I remember that much.
I think I can never eat a damn peach again in my life .
The rest of the night’s a blur. Some people use that stuff to take the edge off, have been this entire tour.
It’s not the first time I’ve been near it since we hit the road.
But I’m not a user and I stayed clear of that shit.
Not that any of that matters right now, because my stomach is rumbling, and I need food and more fucking water.
“I’ve heard that before, being on rock tours and all,” Jodie mumbles, not even looking up. like she really is used to this. Then she glances my way and grimaces. “Jesus, Jace. You look just as fresh as the wilted salad I forgot in the fridge last week.”
I drag my face sideways into the cushion so I can send her an evil glare from the depths of hell.
She’s picking at a bowl, and I hope for her it’s the damn salad.
She’s giving me a soft smile full of pity, though.
“Missy told me about last night, and I’m glad that it all turned out fairly okay.
She handled it well. But how are you feeling? ”
“Fuck off,” is all I manage to get out of my mouth. I know it’s not fair to her. I know she only wants to help and check up on me, but I just can’t cope right now. Not with this insistent fucking hangover from hell.
So that’s all I say for the next hours.
I popped some Advil, flopped back down, and spend the rest of the trip groaning and bitching to whoever will listen, since I refuse to crawl back to my bunk.
I need fresh sheets first, don’t wanna know what Ava and Asher did there.
They’re kinky fucks. I’ll probably need a priest. Maybe an exorcism.
I called Tyler, assured him that I was fine, complained to him, thanked him for the wonderful show, before drifting in and out of consciousness, holed up in the couch’s corner under one of Ava’s fluffy-ass blankets. It’s not very comfortable, but it’s better than the demon-sex den down the hall.
When the bus finally parks at the venue in San Francisco, I force myself upright, rubbing at my face and my head, which, like a damn miracle, is finally pounding a little less .
Still, I fucking hate this bus right now.
Hate this tour. I know I should be angrier than I am right now about the drugs, or upset, but I just don’t have the energy.
There were so many drugs at that party and I should’ve paid better attention.
Christ, we all know you shouldn’t touch the orange ones, unless you want to have a fun night.
And fuck me, did I have a fun night.
Thanks to Missy, Bowie, and Ava, everything turned out fine, I’m so fucking grateful for that. But right now, all I care about is getting back to myself, and surviving the second-to-last show of the tour in a bit.
Ugh . I need Tyler.
At least it’s an early show, so it should be over around eight, and then I can fucking go to bed.
And when I wake up? Then we go to LA, and after LA, I’m going home .
Back to Summerset University, to live with my babe and his roommates for the next couple of months. Lamar’s mom owns the house, and she was kind enough to let me stay.
I should probably send her fucking flowers or something. Or a fruit basket. Maybe both.
I’m still half-sunk into the couch, staring at the window and still cursing peaches, when I hear soft footsteps.
Missy appears beside me, already in her stage outfit. She sits down on the edge of the couch and holds out a fresh bottle of water, a banana, and some more Advil.
“Thought you might need this,” she says. “We need to go soon…”
I take the pills and water with a grateful grunt but skip the banana, reaching instead for a half-crushed bag of sour cream and onion chips from the mess on the salon table. My stomach’s really fucking rumbling now, and I need greasy shit.
Missy rolls her eyes on a sigh.
“Why do you always eat like you’re a kid whose parents are away for the night?”
“Because I like it. Thanks anyway,” I mutter, popping the Advil and chasing it down with a big gulp of water.
“You’re welcome, baby boy.” She pats my knee as I swallow the pills. “Are you really doing okay? We need to be on stage in an hour.”
I shrug as I tear open the chips. “I can handle it. I’ve felt worse.”
“Okay, glad to hear that.”
I groan through a mouthful of chips, and some crumbs fall out. “God, this is so good.”
“Sometimes you’re fucking gross,” she mutters, nose wrinkling.
I shrug again, still chewing. “Gotta keep my brand alive.”
But then her tone softens. “But for real… Do you want to talk about it? Do we need to do something?”
Jodie comes over and, with her nose also scrunched in distaste, shoves some of the mess aside before sitting down on the edge of the table.
“Missy’s right,” she says. “She explained what happened and it’s up to you if you want us to pursue this.
I know these party shots are a regular occurrence with the crew, but just say the word, and we’ll see if we can find out who exactly spiked the drinks.
Get some footage from the club or something. Kick the culprit off this tour.”
“What’s the point?” I sigh. “It’s probably already out of my system, that shit works fast .
And you’re right, I should’ve recognized the shots for what they are.
Shit, I’ve seen people use them before on this tour.
I don’t think we need to do anything. Besides…
it’s only a couple more days before the tour is over. ”
“Yes, we’ll go to LA, prepare for our own tour, without Six of Hearts,” Jodie agrees. “Pick our own crew members.”
“Yeah… That’s true,” Missy says, almost sounding sad.
I wince. Shit … Bowie. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry—”
She nudges me gently with her shoulder. “No worries. We knew it was temporary.”
“Lamar will be there in LA…”
She sighs, quiet and tired. “I know…”
“You gonna be okay?”
She gives me a classic roll of her eyes. “Christ. Of course. I’m a big girl. I can handle Lam.”
I snort softly, but there’s a beat of silence between us. Oh, I know she can handle him . It’s the other way around that has me worried.
“Okay,” Jodie goes on when we stay silent. “So… I’m glad you’re doing okay, as good as can be in this situation. I did talk to the label, though. They’ll understand that if you’re not feeling well and if you don’t want to do the duet tonight—”
I wave her off before she can finish. “Nah. I’ll do it. It’ll be fine. I can handle one extra song. I’ve been doing it for months already.”
She nods. “I know you can. But I have to warn you… The crowd can get rowdier than usual, there are pictures again of you and Mick.”
Of course there fucking are.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36 (Reading here)
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49