Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I expect absolute chaos on the bus, but I walk in to find Matt lounging in one of the leather recliners with the seat out and his arms crossed behind his head. Luke and Jameson are at the table eating ice cream sandwiches and laughing quietly about a video they’re watching on Jameson’s phone.
No one looks concerned.
Jameson turns around on the bench seat, phone in one hand, ice cream sandwich in the other. He’s a drummer, so he’s used to being heavily coordinated. “Hey, Carissa. You should check this out. Someone made a video of their dog pooping in reverse.”
“It really is great,” Luke adds.
“You guys are fucking nasty,” Matt argues. “I need to bleach my eyes out after one watch, and they’ve seen it multiple times now. While eating.”
“What needs bleach is that bunk,” Luke fires back before he shoves half the ice cream sandwich into his mouth. “Jack ruined his favorite bwankie.”
First of all, only the people closest to Wilder call him Jackson, and there are three people on this earth who can call him Jack. Hearing his beautiful name, with all the trust implied to even be allowed to say it, abused in that sarcastic tone, makes me want to march straight up to Luke and press his chipmunk cheeks together so the ice cream sandwich fires out onto the table.
Second? What the fuck? I knew the band was splintering. I might be a pretty useless member of their team, but since I’ve been around for so long, even on the periphery, I can see it. The rest of the world, including the band’s label, has no idea there’s any turmoil.
Those tiny fractures? They’re turning into straight-up breaks that can’t be healed. Tomorrow’s show is the last one of an almost year-long world tour. For the past three months, the band has been playing North America, but just because they’re mostly in the States doesn’t mean they’ve had any chance to be at home.
This isn’t a case of “They’ve been around each other too long and the company is wearing thin, so give them a few weeks, and they’ll be right and tight again”.
The problems run much, much deeper.
When the break happens, it may be permanent.
I can’t be the only one dreading what’s coming, but I haven’t heard so much as a whisper from anyone else. Everyone is scared to talk about it. No one wants to put it out there.
“Shut the fuck up, Luke,” Matt snaps, and not playfully.
Luke rolls his eyes. “Why bother defending him? It’s not like he’s done you any favors lately.”
“Where is Wilder?” I ask, crossing my arms around myself, but this time not to block out the wind.
I have my college hoodie on and my jeans from yesterday. They were the first clothes I found, and they’re not fresh or unwrinkled. I’m not really a makeup person, but I’m currently sporting zero and probably am trending way further to the side of total bedhead mess than I am an astute and capable medical professional.
“Same place he always is. Stealing the thunder and the spotlight.” Jameson flicks the video back on. Unfortunately, I catch the last part, where the poor dog is indeed pooping in reverse.
I stand with Matt on the bleaching his eyes comment.
“He’s in the bathroom,” Matt supplies with a shrug that is far colder than it should be. “He woke us all up when he puked all over his bunk. I helped him get to the toilet, but that’s all I’m doing tonight. Word to the wise… that bunk doesn’t need cleaning. It needs an exorcism. I told him not to eat that fucking gas station chicken at the last stop. Get ice cream, I said. Don’t be a dumbass, I said. That chicken looks like it’s eight years old. Did he listen? Yeah, no. He didn’t.”
“He has food poisoning?” I gape at all three of them in turn. “You have a show tomorrow evening! You’ve never, ever canceled one before.”
I get three blank stares and a whole lot of it’s not our problem vibes.
I knew things were bad, but I had no idea this level of spite could exist between men who used to be the closest of friends.
Matt and Wilder have known each other since they were ten years old.
“I’ll deal with the bunk,” Benny drawls in his slow, practiced speech, coming up behind Matt.
I startle. When the heck did he get back onto the bus?
He flashes me a bright smile from under his handlebar mustache. I’m not a fan of facial hair, and definitely not that kind, but it suits Benny just fine. He’s just about bald and never wears hats to cover it up. He once told me that they interfere with his driving, even when he’s not driving. He has a great sense of humor like that. He makes up for not doing the western hat thing by wearing a collared shirt that is just about always western themed, a tight pair of jeans, and scuffed-up old cowboy boots.