#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (7 page)

Chapter 16

We cross a bridge into a city called Chattanooga. Goofy laughter ensues with the various mispronunciations of the word.

Niko says, "I think we should do a pop up secret show for the fine people of this town for stumping us. Chatanoo—" His beautiful tongue trips over the letters.

"And apparently you can see seven states from this one bluff," Mitty adds, pointing out a scenic vista listed in a pamphlet he picked up at the last gas station. "And get this, it's called Rock City."

"Rock city!" Niko cheers. "Perfect."

Jill pipes up, "I hear they have great whisky."

"Slade, make it happen. Secure a venue," Niko orders.

Slade scratches his head. "We'll have to make up some time; can't be late for the fest. You also have interviews booked once we get there." He creeps around excuses and disinclination.

"Are you saying having a secret show for our fans is a bad idea?" Niko asks, his lips quirking with rebellion. Niko does not like to be told no.

Slade clears his throat.

"I prefer my bad ideas to your good ones," Niko says. "We aren't topping the charts because of your charisma or talent. If I have to get it figured out myself, I will. It's one of the things I excel at, making music happen. And Chatta-whatever-the-fuck is going to see the Halos."

There's a social media shit storm with contests and eager fans parsing out clues the four band members leave on their various platforms.

The night culminates in a dive bar called the Pour House. Actual peanut shells litter the floor. The room is a sweaty, heaving mass and that's before the music starts.

While Niko tunes his guitar, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth in an iconic money shot for posterity and paparazzi, I push to the front of the crowd.

When he starts singing the chorus to the song
Rock and Roll Rebellion
, I go mad, out of control, flailing, and dancing, living wild. It could also have to do with the whisky from the distillery we toured earlier. I needed this release after the long days on the bus. The music flows through me, making me drunker than the booze.

By the time they play
Show us your Tits
everyone's practically torn their clothes off with the fever of the Halo's music. It penetrates the layer of reality we convince ourselves we dwell in and carries us into a frenzy, into wondrous fury, transcending the point of doubt that begs us, every morning, when we fight to waking, to ask
is this all there is?

With music, there is always more. And it's always better. It's better than believing we're alone, invisible, living in tortured silence even when our lips form words and sound, yet fall on deaf ears. I know this experience intimately.

After the set and despite our general dislike for each other, Jill and I find common ground with a bottle of whisky generously provided by the barman. Fortunately, there's plenty of it at the Pour House: malts, ryes, American, Canadian, English, Finnish, Bourbon, and blended.

We sit on the bar, passing the bottle back and forth. Someone coaxes the two of us into playing a game called
Slip it in
. We take turns inserting various phrases tossed out from the crowd into sentences. I'm not sure if the point is for them to make sense or to get a laugh. We swap shots of increasingly higher proof whisky as the crowd urges us on.

The game morphs into something beyond ridiculous or maybe that's me, slipping from sobriety and into mischief. "Let's up the ante," I say when Jill loses, taking three shots in a row. The crowd serves as the judging body and so far, they declare me the winner.

I slide across the bar, swinging my legs underneath me to land on the other side. I survey the distilled potions in glass bottles and whisper to the bartender, "Can you make a fireball?"

With a smile as wide as Tennessee, he says, "You're dangerous."

I reply with a laugh that I'm sure can be heard throughout the state.

He mixes up whisky, rum, soda water, and some kind of schnapps. With a showman's flare, he lights the surface of the liquid on fire, and sets it on the lacquered bar between Jill and me. Blue flame flickers like a distant, giant star. The room hushes. Maybe we all make wishes. Mine is that I don't implode.

A commanding voice from the gathered crowd shouts, "Flaming beaver."

Game back on. Apparently, that's the phrase we have to
slip in
.

Without hesitating Jill says, "The flaming beaver jumped over the log and into the pond." Only it sounds more like, "Da faming diver jumped over god into the pod."

"The flaming beaver went home to her boyfriend to get laid." I wink at the crowd. "That was for you redheads."

They roar with laughter. Inserting sex into sexual innuendo works every time, at least with this group.

Instead of Jill taking the shot, everyone chants, "Josie, Josie, Josie," demanding I take it. I suppose I am dangerous.

The glass is hot in my hand, but not as much as the whisky already in my throat. I lift it over my head, knowing it'll go out any second, but instead of bringing it to my lips in my seated position, I clamber to my feet, and then, with the dying flame out of sight, I toss it back. Smoke and mirrors. The oldest party trick in the book. At least my book. This isn't my first rodeo. But it might be my last. Because the next thing I know, I'm falling, plummeting into the arms of those gathered 'round and laughter pouring out of me like strong whisky.

Chapter 17

Mitty and I stumble into the cooling night. I'm whatever comes after being drunk.

Like an amoeba, we push along the sleepy streets toward a historic midrange hotel; the only one Slade could secure with enough rooms on short notice. Everyone refused to stay another night on the bus.

This part of town could slip easily toward run down or slide up the scale with gentrification. A Starbucks on the corner and some hip gastropubs with brick facades would fit in quite nicely. Without that, it's asking for trouble. And of course, that's what we bring.

Jill smashes her empty bottle against the cement, the glass fracturing into a broken galaxy. I gaze at the glitter under the streetlight until Mitty pulls me forward, eventually depositing me in an unfamiliar room. I have no idea where the others are, including my boyfriend. I crash face down on the bed. I dream about sunshine. After all, the sun is our closest star and that pair of blue eyes never failed to light me up.

When I wake, the sky is still pitch. Shit. I missed my insulin dose.

Slumped on the side of the bathtub, my vision blurs and my fingers shake like a junkie lusting after her fix as I prepare the shot—a demented version of heroin chic.

The band, the groupies, and me, we all look the part. A rock revival of sorts, but the music is just as genuine, along with the kickass sentiment. At least as far as I'm concerned there's no real heroin—I can't say what the others do behind closed doors.

As I prick my skin with the needle, the green string around my wrist reminds me of the palm reader's comments. I promise myself not to forget to take my medicine, my birth control pill, and at some point, to take stock of my life.

I flop back on the bed. Niko isn't snoozing on the other side. I'd take a photo of my tits, text it to him, with the word
come
, but everything about me is wasted right now. Instead, I write
Where are you?

Nothing.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still awake so I try again.
WHERE ARE YOU?
All caps, make no mistake.

It's four. One more time.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, NIKO?

Babe, party in room 309
.

I stagger around the room, locating my bag with a change of clothes, and jump in the shower. My stomach swells with swill, but the cool water wakes me up.

I reapply my makeup. I don't like being left out, forgotten, or otherwise not included. A tiny voice adds
I don't like my boyfriend doing lines off a naked girl's pussy either
.

When I'm outside room 309, I text Niko. During the ten minutes I wait, I go from party-ready to pissed.

Smoke billows out from behind him when he finally opens the door. If the fire marshal appeared this time, it would be for real. It's almost wall-to-wall bodies. Girls mostly. They're here for him, but that doesn't work for me. At least not tonight. My laughter is dark.

His mouth works for an excuse, but his wide pupils are dead. There's no light there only lies.

"Save it," I say, pushing past him. The music is lame so I stalk over to a guy fussing with a cell phone plugged into a set of speakers. "Let's do something about this," I say, commandeering the device. I opt for classic British Punk. I shout along with a song about anarchy.

There's no balcony, but several people hang out of the windows. I invite in the lingering night, the whisky from earlier clinging to the sides of my head, and my voice wild in the wind.

Kat pulls out her best stripper moves, working on a guy with a gold chain around his neck. I guess Slade isn't available. I don't know why the Halos keep her around—eye candy for the male fans?

I dance by myself and a few girls eye me with suspicion. I assume my reputation precedes me. I used to give a fuck. A lot of fucks. Somewhere along the way, I stopped. Actually, I remember the exact day.

Three years, one month, and something like ninety-six hours ago.

I lift my arms, pushing the intruding thought away. Then, as though the universe disagrees with my decision to forget the past, someone trips over the speaker cable, plunging the room into near silence. Seated on the bed next to a girl with dyed candy apple red hair, Niko rips a long line up his nose.

First, I see red, and not the hair. Anger. Then as the music resumes, I make a compromise.
Fun
. Even if it's fake like my orgasms, I'll engineer a good time.

I dive into him, my mouth on his passionately before I pull away, sucking his lower lip.

Confusion flickers across his face, but he's used to my impulsiveness. I slink my arms around his neck, pout seductively, and whisper, "I was lonely in the room all by myself." No, I was fucking pissed. Big diff, but I try anyway, "Want to go back?"

He kisses the length of my bare arm right up to my neck. Over his shoulder, I swap smiles with the devil, making sure Red sees. I wiggle my fingers, universal for buh-bye.

She takes the hint.

Niko does not. "A few more minutes?" he asks.

I pull him onto the bed, ignoring the bitter taste of his tongue against mine as we make out. He's hungry, but like before, alcohol and drugs temper his desire. I sense his interest pulled elsewhere in the room, to powdery heaps and things that burn, but not me. I'm desperate to make my allure stronger, because I don't want to lose him.

I manage to keep his interest until dawn. We play a kissing and drinking game. I make up the rules on the spot. Our lips can't leave the other's skin—doesn't matter where.

Back in our room, he buzzes beside me, furiously stabbing grandiose and self-aggrandizing lyric ideas into the notes on his phone.

Neither one of us sleep, but not because we're having sex.

Chapter 18

The mood on the bus is misery mingling with regret after the late night. My head and body ache in ravines and hidden nooks I didn't know I had.

Then we cross into Georgia—where the festival is. Music cranks through the speakers, tops pop off bottles, cans crack, and the party begins anew.

By the time the bus trundles down a dusty road, flanked on both sides by cars, vans, and festivalgoers, we're all buzzed.

The air is a hot, thick vacuum when the door sighs open. My diaphragm still refuses to cooperate, forcing me to take small sips of the humid air.

Slade leads us to a tent where several journalists greet the Halos like heroes.

I chug a bottle of water, while a guy, wearing a ridiculous pair of oversized sunglasses, interviews the Halos. What works for Iris Apfel—Bubbie's icon—falls short with this dude. Also, he's an embarrassingly lackluster interviewer.

Bug Eyes: "Tell us about the Halos."

Dumbest, laziest question ever.

Niko: "Our band is rock and roll revived."

Bug Eyes: "Are you saying rock and roll was dead?"

Jill: "It just needed defibrillation." The word slides off her inebriated tongue so she demonstrates by rubbing her fists together, placing them on Mitty's chest, and shouting, "Clear."

Bug Eyes: "You traded the old touring van for Escalades and a tour bus; tell us what it's like traveling in luxury."

Mitty: "Comfortable. Now I won't need back surgery by the time I'm thirty."

Bug Eyes: "You bumped the manufactured pop, boy bands, and the gentle music it's safe to listen to in your parent's car off the charts. What's that experience like?"

Niko: "Have you listened to pop music lately? If I had a daughter, no fucking way she'd listen to that shit. I don't want her climbing the pole before she gets out of the womb."

Jill: "That imagery is just wrong, man."

Bug Eyes: "Last question. Lightning round. I want each of you to answer. Describe the Halos in a single word. Go."

Mitty: "Real."

Jill: "Gritty and whisky." She laughs. "Mother fucking rock and roll. We'll flip off your grandmother and throw you off the stage if you get in the way."

Bug Eyes: "That's more than one word."

Jill: "Exactly."

Niko: "Show us your tits."

Kenji:

Bug Eyes: "You heard it here, folks, the motherfucking, irreverent Halos!"

The band rides a carousel of interviews, some verbal, others video, for the next five hours. It's exhausting, and I'm not even involved. I lounge on a sofa. The piercing sunlight finds its way into the tent, and I can't sleep. Instead, I get up to find a beer to fill a space and for something to do.

Outside, people wear body paint and body glitter. There's sea punk hair and tutus, crocheted bikini tops and tattoos. It's a convergence of music scenes. I eat it up, my ears straining for live drums and bass, guitars clashing and people singing their hearts out.

I pass a giant vintage style boombox, glowing neon. I'm not sure if it's a stage, if it's actually transmitting sound, or if people live inside of it. There are wheels underneath to move it around.

Glass and mirrored sculptures occupy a section of the field with the idea to occupy them or get lost in them. This strikes me as risky with the abundance of drugs and alcohol present. An oversized cartoon figure approaches. Its eyes spin hypnotically and it's at least twenty feet tall. I fear I'm on another planet or that beer I had contained more than barley and hops. Although, lack of sleep can also cause illusions.

When I near the stages, I pick up snatches of songs, muscling to the front of the crowd and chanting along to words I don't know. I don't care. It's motherfucking music and it fills another space inside me.

After the set, I wander through the crowds. A girl floats by me with wings. A guy wearing nothing more than an American flag carries a sign that says
Fuck this, let’s hug.
Another guy piggybacks his girlfriend as they pass, laughing. There's a booth set up called
First Kiss
. For ten dollars, you can get a copy of the video. Two girls go at it and twenty guys watch.

I approach an artisan tent selling handmade necklaces, fringed bags, and other accessories. I pick up a bucket style bag with a triangle pattern, colorful beads, and tassels.

At another vendor, I buy a studded pair of cutoffs and sunglasses—I lost mine. I pick up sunblock for Mitty.

When I turn around to find my way back to the interview tent, I bump into a sun kissed guy with cropped, dirty blonde hair and the kind of smile that belongs at a college party or in my backyard drinking lemonade. His eyes aren't the exact shade of blue, but close.

"Hey," he says. "Good idea." He points to the sunblock.

"I'm a practical kind of gal." That's no longer true.

"There aren't too many practical people here."

"Nope. But there are plenty of liars." An invisible sign with an arrow points right over my head. I'm the biggest liar, even if I mostly lie to myself. My laughter is flirtatious.

"I'm Franco."

"I'm Destiny."

He cocks his head.

I smile. "Kidding."

"I wasn't." His eyes smolder in the fading light of day. "Are you here with friends or—"

"The Halos."

"Oh." His lips form a perfect circle as though he makes the Niksie connection. "I was going to ask if you wanted to hang out, but—"

"Yeah." I turn to leave, not intending to insult this perfectly nice boy, but also edging too close to potentially making a poor decision—the exact thing I desperately want Niko to avoid. "Nice meeting you." It's a chumpy, cheesy thing to say, but I suddenly want to chase the elusive
O
, even if it means faking it until I make it. I have to find Niko.

The Halos don't go on until after sundown so with a tingling sensation between my legs, I search for Niko to fill another space.

He's not in the tent so I go to the bus. He emerges from the back, wiping his nose. His eyes are blank, his grin sheepish.

I'm smug, whatever that looks like. A troop of people files out behind him. Some bleary eyed, others sweaty, a few buzzing with frantic energy.

I corner him and take the bottle of beer from his hand, finishing it.

"Where've you been?" he asks, rubbing my back apologetically. The drugs make him think he's invulnerable to my suddenly sour mood.

I know exactly how to get what I want. Jealousy is his weakness. "Flirting."

"With who?" His lip twitches.

"Wholesome boys." My laugh is a pointed thing.

"That's a problem I can fix." He takes my meaning and my hand; his drink and band bracelets are itchy against my wrist. With the power to turn my mood around, we disappear into the back of the bus he just vacated. His grin is the kind of wild that I love about him. He grips the sides of my head, pulling me close, filling his lips with mine. I'm a fool for him.

I lose myself as we tug off each other's clothes. My shirt slips to the floor. His flops next to it. Our chests press together. Then pants disappear and we're naked, fluent in how to move fluidly together. It's all hands and fingers, tongues and licking, skin and sexy, hot and wet. I'm mad for him, hopeless. His lips. His arms tight around me. I moan. Sensation builds. He thrusts in the right spot and a louder sound escapes.

"Babe," he whispers, straining. "You feel so good."

We dive into each other, skin melting on skin, lips devouring tongues. It's intense and outrageous and I don't want it to stop until I let all the tension building up inside go.

But Kat's accented voice interrupts, calling, "Niko," from the front of the bus. "Slade's looking for you."

With a shudder, Niko comes.

I don't. A whimper escapes my lips, but I cover it with a moan.

"Be right there," he says as though he's sixteen and caught with his bedroom door closed.

"Shit, babe. I forgot we have sound check." He pecks me on the lips and disappears.

I slide my fingers down my bare stomach, reaching between my legs and this time when I moan, it's real.