Page 2 of Electric Wounds
The echoes of the night’s concert buzz in my ears as Dylan leads me out of the backstage room and toward their tour bus. I watched their entire show with my heart pounding, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through me, knowing afterward my entire life would change.
Now, just two hours later, the change is here. I’m being thrown into the world of rock and roll with Electric Wounds. It feels surreal. I got the call from the label only three days ago, offering me the job to tour with an internationally recognized band. I packed my meager belongings into a duffle bag, asked my roommate to sublet my room, and hopped on the first flight out of town.
My attention returns to the present as we step outside into the slightly chilled air. The tour bus is parked in the dimly lit, fenced lot behind the venue, a hulking metal beast that serves as the band’s home on the road. Its black exterior is covered in scratches and dents, each one telling a story of countless miles traveled and wild nights survived. I almost want to run my hands over them, to know the stories of their trips and their time together.
Electric Wounds has been playing music together for almost a decade. I started listening to them in high school. They were known for their high-energy rock, or at least they were... until the incident last year. Now they’re on tour, trying to recover their reputation, or so the label says. Jax’s words backstage echo in my mind. If they’ve truly had several sold-out shows, my presence feels less about helping their reputation and more about babysitting.
My thoughts keep me occupied, but the band doesn’t seem bothered by my silence. No one talks as I take in the sight of the bus, letting the silence linger. It’s surprisingly comfortable, despite the niggling feeling in the back of my mind that this is part of the band testing me. They’re in for a surprise if they think a few sharp words or long silences will be enough to run me off.
Marcus is the first to get on the bus, silently separating from the group as he climbs inside. His chiseled arms, inked with Japanese-style art, flex as he moves, drawing my eye to the intricate designs. His blond hair is tousled like someone just ran their hands through it intimately, and his piercing blue eyes seem to see right through me. With his square jaw and the dark slashes of his brows, he’s the quintessential rock god—confident and ruggedly handsome.
Dylan follows, releasing me from his grip. His muscular frame is covered in ink, the most intricate designs I’ve seen, with endless lines that make me dizzy as I try to follow them. A playful grin spreads across his face, and his green eyes sparkle with mischief. He shoots me a wink as he leaps up the stairs two at a time. The boyish charm in his eyes contrasts with the hardness of his tattoos.
Enzo is next. His dark, brooding eyes glance in my direction, full of an anger lightly masked by the jet-black hair falling over his face. When he pushes it aside, the displeasure is clear. His tattoos are a chaotic blend of skulls and roses, reflecting theglimpses of his tumultuous personality I’ve seen so far. There’s an intensity about him, a smoldering allure that makes it hard to look away. So, I don’t try. I watch him until he disappears inside.
Then it’s just me and Jax left standing outside. I give in to the urge and step forward to touch a dent on the side of the bus, almost reverently. Jax waits for me, his gaze heavy, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“It’ll fade away quickly,” his husky voice startles me.
His presence is too magnetic to forget, but I wasn’t expecting him to acknowledge me after the cold welcome backstage. “What will?” I ask quietly after a moment.
“The charm of living with a rock band. The idea that life on the road is anything other than miserable.”
I frown at his words, sensing that he might hate being part of the band, those aren’t the words of someone that loves what they do, after all. I scan his features, trying to read him, but his face remains hard and unreadable. He steps forward, extending a hand to help me up the steps. His fingers are rough and calloused, a stark contrast to my own.
Hesitating, I resist his slight tug, my eyes roaming over the dark brown hair that frames his face perfectly. He has a strong nose, a square jaw, pouty lips, and his eyes are a deep shade of green. “The Heartthrob,” or so the gossip magazines call him, and I can see why. Up close, his allure is hard to ignore, even when I know my presence is unwanted. I still find myself drawn to him, wanting to be closer.
With a soft exhale, I relent and follow Jax inside the bus. “Welcome to our humble abode,” he says with a sardonic half-smile as we enter.
The interior of the bus is comfort draped in chaos. A long, plush leather sectional lines the side to the right, with a full kitchen layout on the opposite side. Miscellaneous kitchen gadgets litter the countertops, but they’re clean of garbage anddirty dishes. Past the kitchen is a small seating area shaped like a “U” with a table in the center. Behind the table is a wall that blocks off the driver’s portion of the bus. Signed band posters, likely from opening acts, photographs, and random notes cover the limited wall space. The air is thick with the scent of cologne, sweat, and the lingering tang of stale smoke.
I absorb it all, my eyes wide as they flit around the interior. “This is... nice,” I say, though my tone suggests I’m still processing it all. And I am. I feel like an intruder in this surprisingly personal space.
“It grows on you,” Dylan says, plopping down on one of the seats and cracking open a beer.
“Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping,” Jax mutters, his fingers still holding mine like he doesn’t even realize it. We walk toward the back of the bus, past a small, cramped bathroom, opposite another closed closet-like door. This end is lined with bunks carved into the walls, stacked two high, six in total, with dark curtains for privacy. Each bunk is cluttered with personal items—books, headphones, bits of memorabilia—that make it feel like home on the road. I resist the urge to peek closer and guess which bed belongs to which man.
“Here’s your spot,” Jax says, pulling back a curtain to reveal an empty top bunk. “It’s not much, but it’s clean.”
I peer inside, nodding slowly. “I think I can make it work.”
Jax walks past the bunks to a set of bifold doors. He yanks them open, ignoring their creaking protest. “Shared closet,” he says. “We’ll make some space for you in the drawers.”
I nod, sensing another band member moving closer. I turn to find Marcus leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He speaks as soon as our eyes meet. “Touring isn’t glamorous. It’s long days and even longer nights. We’re on the road a lot, playing in different cities almost every night. It’s hectic, but it’s what we live for.”
I nod again, starting to feel like a bobblehead, unsure how to respond. The label warned me about life on the road. The pay is high, but considering it’s a 24/7 job, it makes sense. For the next seven months, I’ll spend every day with the band—no time for friends, family, or a personal life. Not that I had much of one before this.
“You’ll be right in the thick of it,” Enzo adds, moving toward us. “You’ll manage schedules, deal with the press for us sometimes, make sure we’re where we need to be when we need to be there. It’s a lot of work, but it’s important. If you can’t handle it, it’s best you hop off the bus now.” He tips his head toward the door.
I take a deep breath, ignoring the prickle of annoyance, and meet his intense gaze. “I’m ready. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
Enzo grins, but it’s not a friendly expression. “That’s the spirit. Just remember to take it easy on us sometimes. We may be rock stars, but we’re not machines. Sometimes we just need to relax.”
My eyes narrow. Enzo’s basically warning me not to expect him to do anything that I ask, making it known that he doesn’t plan to make my job easy for me. “I’ll do what I can,” I mutter.
Dylan nods in agreement, raising his beer in a mock toast. “To being rock stars, not robots.”
Everyone laughs, and I feel the tension ease slightly. Marcus and Enzo back off, returning to the front of the bus. As they settle into their nighttime routine, I leave the guys briefly to grab my duffle from the venue.
