Page 34 of Backstage

He laughs like I’ve made the joke of the century. “I’m sure I can find more than a few people who’d like to have this body, trust me. You have the same problem. Did you see the way Damian looked at you when you said you’d have fun on tour?” He raises an eyebrow in defiance.

I frown and stare at him like he just showed me a math theorem. “How did he look at me?”

Everyone else is laughing, and I’m more puzzled than before.

“As if he doesn’t know whether to put a chastity belt on you or rip your clothes off with his teeth and fuck your brains out,” Taylor explains with his usual finesse.

I look at them like they’re aliens ready to suck my brain with a straw. In the meantime, I can hardly control the hot flashes spreading from the bottom of my belly to my face, making it turn red as a cherry. I have to admit, I’ve thought all too often about what it would be like to be fucked by Damian. Especially after three days alone in his house in Connecticut with an excessive amount of red wine and his semi-hard-on always present.

“You’re completely out of your mind,” I blurt out, pretending to be outraged and trying to deflect attention.

Everyone’s laughing again, and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

“Don’t say you haven’t noticed, please. He’d make you bend over on this table and make you scream his name in fifteen or sixteen languages,” continues our drummer relentlessly, moving his pelvis, simulating a not-subtle-at-all sexual act.

I’m used to their comments, but it embarrasses the hell out of me when they make them about me. “That’s not true!” I scream, this time really horrified because the truth is I can imagine the physical pleasure I would feel being in that position with Damian behind me.

The bus moves and, luckily, I’m with people who have the attention span of a goldfish in an empty bowl.

“We’re moving!” cries Martin.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I tease him with a smile.

The bus pulls into the street, and I find myself parading, without much notice from the others, into the bathroom. Time to try the shower. Cold. As soon as I close the door behind me, the narrow environment makes me miss the air, I feel suffocated, and my hands start shaking. The feeling of nausea grips me, I begin to wheeze, and my head gets light. I open the door and throw myself out of that rat trap and into the arms of Luke, who catches me.

“Take a deep breath,” he whispers and leads me to the sofa at the back of the bus while the others have their noses stuck to the window and don’t notice anything.

“Breathe and look at me, Lilly.” He keeps rubbing my hands and stroking my head while I try not to throw up on him.

“I can’t live in here for months. I’m gonna die in here, Luke. I’m dying,” I whisper with a shaky voice, closing my eyes and forcing myself to focus on Luke’s warm arms that make me feel safe.

“We’ll figure something out, I promise you. We’ll find a solution,” he whispers in my ear as he strokes my head.

“And where the hell am I gonna sleep if I can’t even close the bathroom door without getting anxiety? Have you seen that cubicle bed?”

“You don’t feel suffocated in here, though, right? I mean, sitting on this couch.”

I think about it for a moment, and with the ceiling well away from my head and the door open so I can see all the way to the back of the bus, it doesn’t feel so suffocating.

“No, not really.”

“We just found out who’s going to get all the turns in this part of the bus,” he giggles amusedly.

“Martin and Taylor are gonna kill me.” It makes me laugh to think about telling them.

“Probably,” laughs Luke as he holds me close.

I breathe deeply and almost feel like crying. And here I thought the biggest problem with this tour was going to be the media and that jerk Brad.

*

We enter through the back door with the bags of Chipotle we just picked up from the club next door. Tonight, the Jailbirds will be performing by themselves a charity concert that was planned before the tour. We’ll watch them perform from our prime location at the side of the stage. In the meantime, though, we’ll eat what we just bought, because we’ve discovered that eating on a tour bus is boring and overrated. In other words, we burned the only pan we had, forcing the driver to stop for an hour and a half to ventilate the bus. Blame Luke. He discovered the PlayStation in the back of the bus by the TV, and we all lost track of time while we waited for the eggs to cook. And maybe mine too, that I didn’t set the timer, but essentially it was Luke’s fault.

“What are you guys eating?” Damian asks, standing in the doorway to the room where we holed up backstage with the Jailbirds.

I notice one of the girls from the press office passing by and whispering, “Call me,” to him, before snickering at one of the interns who always accompanies her. Damian answers with a discreet nod of his head and a smile that surely warms her panties. Apparently, he’s already setting the stage for an unforgettable sex-and-fun tour.

“Mostly burritos and tacos. Want some?” Luke asks, showing him the bag in his hand.

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