My first tour. My first real gig. I can hardly believe it’s really happening.
Maybe I should’ve been out celebrating last night like Amie practically begged, but to her dismay I wasn’t having it. No. With my roomies all at work, I spent the night in my rented room indulging in cheap take out, ice cream, and Netflix.
It was glorious.
This morning I stretch awake energized, kickass, and fancy free. The label sends a car—an actual driver—to fetch me, my two suitcases of belongings, and my lucky guitars. My belly flutters with nervous excitement as we pull alongside the rows of tour buses. Holy crap. This is it. It feels like I’ve made it, that this has all been worth it, when I spot the bus wrapped with a larger than life photo of Trent, Sean, and Austin. Fuck, they look good. I shake my head with the thought. Obviously, I’m getting hyped with the newness of it all. They look good, sure, but once they open their mouths the attraction dissolves faster than an ice cube on a California summer sidewalk.
The driver pulls to a stop in the busy parking lot and opens my door. With my shades blocking the morning sun, I step onto the blacktop and breathe it all in. For a moment I feel that high, that second of fame that I’ve been chasing. It affirms that I’m important. I’m somebody. That is, until the driver hands off my stuff and I’m left to tote the two bags holding my guitars slung on my back. I lug them across the lot, and the sun heats my skin to a shimmering mess of beaded sweat. All around me is organized chaos, people in constant motion, loading equipment, stepping on and off buses. I suddenly feel unimportant and alone in a sea of professionals. Everyone around me has a purpose, a job, and I have no clue whom to talk to or where I’m supposed to go next.
“Honey, you need to move,” a guy hollers at my back and I turn just in time to step out of the way. He pushes a cart stacked with amps higher than my body, nearly rolling over my steel toed boots. “Damn talent,” he mutters under his breath.
I straighten my back and search the crowd once more for someone who looks important or in charge. When I see a man with a clipboard in hand, I strut his way and hope he knows where I need to be. I wave my fingers without letting go of my bags and wait patiently when I notice he’s barking a demand into his headset.
“Damn it, Dallas, you better come through for me on the lighting team. I pulled strings for you! If they aren’t here in fifteen I want your first born!” He nods my way and I take it as my cue.
“First born, huh? You don’t mess around.”
His lips pull up at one side in a crooked grin. “Don’t mess with my career and I’m on your side.”
“That’s fair. I’m Lexi Marx.” I let go of my bags to offer my hand in greeting, but the smaller bag loses its balance and knocks over the larger suitcase just inches from his feet. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” I scramble to pick them up again but he holds out his free hand to stop me.
“Leave them. I’ll get one of the crew to bring them on board.”
“Thank you.” I pause because I still don’t know his name.
“Jax. Jaxon Stiles. I’m PA to the tour manager, head of merch sales, and overall jack of all trades for this shit show.” His smile is warm, and I can’t help but return the gesture. He glances over my shoulder and begins shouting again. “Ry! No! Take that load to Big Betty! And come get these bags when you’re done!”
“I’ll get out of your way. But being jack of all trades, I’m hoping you know where I should be . . . or if there’s anything I can help with?”
He glances down at his clipboard, checks something off and then assesses me, a much longer perusal, from my boots to my eyes. I appreciate that he doesn’t linger at my breasts. That is, until he speaks. “You’re adorable, kid.” His eyes crinkle with his grin.
My temper flares. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? You think because I’m a woman I can’t help?”
He laughs, a boisterous sound that pulls gazes from all around. “No, shorty, it’s because you’re not eighty pounds soaking wet.”
My hands go to my hips and I jut out my chin. “I’ll have you know I weigh one hundred and four. And that’s before eating breakfast.”
“I have stacks that weigh more than that.” He offers a smirk. “Go claim a good bunk in Big Betty, third bus, before they’re all spoken for. Lay your guitars on the one you want and no one will take it.”
“Thank you.” I realize I’m quick to go on the defensive, especially when it comes to being a woman in a man’s world. Maybe if I played a little softer, sang more about love, then I’d be around more female singers. But I’m rock to the core, and there are only a few of us in this zone filled with dicks. If I wear a chip on my shoulder, it’s because life put it there.
“Welcome to the tour, Miss Marx. We’re glad you’re here,” Jax calls out after I turn and take a few steps towards the bus.
I hike the straps of my guitar cases onto my shoulder and turn around, walking backward, and find his lips pulled up in that crooked grin. “Oh, I’m sure you are!” I say with a roll of my eyes and then turn forward before I fall flat on my face. Jax’s booming laughter follows me and I decide I like that guy. His teasing is like that of a good friend and not at all condescending.
Trent’s larger than life sexy smolder follows me from where he’s painted on the first bus. If I were a few years younger, I’d probably give in to the urge to find a sharpie and draw a giant zit on his perfectly squared chin. I’m so caught in my daydream that I practically run into the real life version as he comes around the back of the bus.
“Whoa! Oh, hey . . .” Trent’s smile quirks up when I meet his stare. “Lexi.”
The way he says my name, all smooth and sexy, pisses me off. Lifting my chin to give him my most intimidating glare so he won’t get any ideas, I catch a glimpse of something on his chin. My eyebrows pull together and I step closer. “Got something on your face, rock star.”
“Huh?” He says and brushes a hand over his cheeks.
“Right here.” I tap my own chin.
He nods and then makes a show of sticking his tongue out as far as it will go, running it along his lower lip and down to the spot on his chin to lick. His tongue is freakishly long and it’s unbelievable he’s able reach that far on his own face. His cocky smirk tells me he’s aware of that exact talent.
“Wing sauce.” He lets loose a throaty chuckle. “Spicy. Just the way I like it.” He raises his brow.
I roll my eyes but I’m not sure he sees with my glasses blocking the view. Sean and Austin follow him around the corner, eyes hard and glaring, talking low enough I can’t decipher their words. They stop when they notice me.
Austin’s lips pinch tighter as his gaze bounces back and forth between me and Trent. “Bragging already? Remember our deal,” he bites out before brushing by and stomping until he disappears inside the bus.
“Sore loser.” Sean shakes his head before he meets my gaze. “Hey, Lexi. You sure you ready for this?” His warm smile is welcoming.
“I was born for this.” I smile back.
“Good.” He glances to the side, nodding at his friend. “So, what were you two chatting about before we interrupted?”
“All the cool party tricks I can do with my tongue.” Trent grins.
“Yeah, and I was just sharing with Trent that ancient Egyptians would amputate a person’s tongue for treason.” I glare at Trent, my eyes drawn to where his Adam’s apple bobs at his throat. “So maybe you should watch what you say.” My gaze lifts to hold his stare. Most men would back off now, play it cool and avoid me, but Trent only lifts his lips in a smile, his brow rising in a silent challenge as if to say, That’s all you got?
Sean’s laughter cuts through the tension that swirls between us.
“I gotta run,” I say and point to my bus. “I was told all the good beds get taken quickly in my ride.
“Well, if you need a bed, Trent’s got the big one on our bus. He wouldn’t mind sharing, would you, T?”
“Fuck you.” Trent laughs and shoves Sean before giving me a wink.
Oh, hell. I shake my head and stomp past them both. “Later, ugly boys,” I mutter loud enough they can hear. Their ensuing laughter fades at my back as I hoof it to Big Betty. By the time I get there every bed is already reserved by a bag or personal item, the most interesting being a bag of weed. There’s one bed left and I groan because I already know it’s the worst. The top bunk closest to the bathroom. Great. My little chat with Trent cost me more than the fifteen minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Now I’m stuck with a spot I can barely reach thanks to my vertically challenged body, and I get to spend my nights listening to the bathroom break stylings of a bus full of men.
I offer up a silent thanks to Amie for her gift of noise silencing headphones. I’m afraid it’s the only way I’ll survive this tour. Maybe I should consider carrying them around to avoid further conversations with Trent and his snake of a tongue. Remembering its length and the way he licked his own face sends a shiver down my back. Ugh. Even my own body is a traitor to that wicked appendage. Too bad it’s attached to such an arrogant mouth.