Page 9 of Loved Out Loud
The bus comes to a stop in traffic, and I take the opportunity to grab my notebook and head to the lounge in the back. We could have had a bedroom put in the back, but we decided a space dedicated to writing music would be a better use of space. The goal is to have music written for our next album by the time the tour wraps, so we can get right back into the studio and record.
I pull one of the acoustic guitars off the wall and sit down. I have exactly zero ideas for this upcoming album. I write most of the lyrics, and I have a few ideas jotted down but nothing that speaks to me, at least not enough to create a story. When I write, I want to bring the listeners along with us. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a personal thing; one of the albums was filled with commentary on current events.
The label is pushing for my addiction. Fuck knows I could let that angst drive me to write, but I’m not ready. I’ve got a solid grip on the addiction. I don’t have a hold on the shame and guilt I still harbor. It’s why I don’t talk about it to anyone. I’ve brought enough pain and worry to the people I love. I’m not going to add more by using them as a sounding board when I have a hard day.
And I sure as fuck am not going to lie down on a stranger’s couch and let them dissect my psyche. Fuck. That.
Pushing all those thoughts to the back of my mind, I pick up the guitar and get it tuned properly. I go through a few chords and play with a couple melodies. Nothing comes to me. The longer I sit and stew, the harder my mind rebels.
My thoughts drift to Hazel. Is she at her signing right now? What are book signings even like? Just a bunch of women clutching paperbacks to their chests, I assume. Probably pretty low key.
Not that I don’t think she’s talented. I was thoroughly engrossed by her book. In fact, I doubt I’ve ever read an entire book just for fun. I didn’t even read them in school, rather relying on girls to do the work for me.
Before I know it, I’m pulling out my phone and opening my fake Instagram profile. I put her name in and go to the tagged photos. She’s at an indie bookstore in Boston, and the place is packed. There are so many photos. I scroll through all of them, eating up the sight of her.
She’s gorgeous in an unassuming type of way. She’s wearing a long-sleeve tee tucked into a short, plaid skirt. I can’t see her shoes, but I’d guess she’s wearing flats as everyone seems to be taller than her.
The attraction I feel for her is probably not a good thing. I don’t want Darren to think I’m doing as he asked and faking a PR relationship because that was the most fucked up idea I’ve ever heard. Even if she was in on it, which I assume she wouldn’t be, it wouldn’t work.
Mainly because I actually would fuck her given the opportunity and that could only lead to disaster.
By the time we pull into Boston, both opening acts have already finished their sound checks. The crew gets us set up while a few label execs stand in front of the stage with Darren and Jade to watch us rehearse. It’s been a few years since we’ve toured, and we’ve only performed live a few times at various music festivals and award shows in the interim.
Luckily for us, everything comes right back. Just like riding a bike, our fingers never forget where they need to go or what they need to do. I argued and pleaded for an acoustic set at the end of our performance, followed by our biggest recent hit. We couldn’t come to an agreement for the acoustic songs, so we decided on each of us picking one song a night. It could be the same one every night or a completely different choice.
Sweat pours off me as we finish our rehearsal. The execs have all gone, and as the final note fades into the empty space around us, Jade and Darren clap excitedly.
“You sound amazing.” Jade smiles up at us.
“Take off your shirt,” Darren yells with his hands cupped around his mouth.
Tobias stands and rips his over his head, chucking it out to Darren with a whoop.
“God, put it back on,” Xan whines into the mic.
Fuck, it feels good to be back on stage. I can’t wait to hear the crowd chanting our name and singing our songs again. This is what we’re here for. To perform. To make people feel through our art.
But just as that excitement comes, it goes just as quickly. In its place is a well of oily anxiety coating my insides.
Fuck.
I hand my guitar off to one of the crew and haul ass to the closest trash can. Saliva pools in the back of my mouth as panic courses through me. My fingers dig into the edges of the rim asI drag a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can tour without getting high, without relying on prescription meds. Everyone is counting on me.I’mcounting on me.
Sweat drips from my temple down onto the refuse below. After a few more deep breaths, I pull myself fully upright and wipe my face dry with the bottom of my t-shirt.
A hand lands on my shoulder.
“You good, man?” Tobias asks.
“Yeah.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I’m so fucking far from good, it’s laughable.
“You know we’re here, me and Xan, for anything you need, right? We have your back, even if it pisses off the label.”
