Derrick Masters

Climbing in the back of the SUV with the rest of the band, I slam the door shut behind me. “Go.”

The vehicle makes it around the corner before the fans even realize we left through a different exit. Somewhere along this tour, we’ve developed a drive-away habit with Johnny in the third row, Kaz and Dex in the middle, I’m in the first row, and Tommy is upfront with the driver. The best thing about this arrangement is that I can spread out and lie down, which is exactly what I do. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I close my eyes and remember when this used to be fun.

Running from rabid fans builds an ego fast. But after two years of sneaking away through back exits, finding groupies in hotel bathrooms, and getting mail with locks of hair and proclamations of eternal devotion, the illusion I once lived in has been destroyed. All hail the life of a rock star. My rose-colored glasses have been traded for scratched designer shades that shield me from the normalcies of everyday life. The lap of luxury has replaced simple pleasures. The lifestyle of the rich and famous is and was intoxicating for a while. Now I just wish I could walk down the street without being harassed for an autograph or a picture.

The ride from the arena to the hotel doesn’t take long, but the adrenaline from the concert is draining, leaving me lifeless on this seat, and a little annoyed. “Did you see that couple in the front row?”

Johnny asks, “What couple?”

“The one face-fucking the entire fucking concert.”

He laughs. Once. “What about them?”

“They should be coming for the music.”

Kaz says, “They were.”

“If they were, they should be listening to it.”

Now Dex is laughing. “What the fuck’s gotten into you, Derrick? What do you care if some couple is getting off to our music?”

I sound like a lunatic, and a prude at that. Why do I care? They paid their thousands for those seats. If they want to strip naked and fuck for real it shouldn’t bother me. But it does and I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t kissed a woman like that in a long fucking time. Not a real kiss—one with more meaning behind it than getting laid for the night. The last time I kissed someone like that . . . I stop myself from going there because every time I do, it’s a downward spiral from there. But when I think of a kiss, she’s the only woman who comes to mind, the only woman that when our lips embraced, a part of our souls were exchanged.

Did she keep all the pieces I’m missing? The holes I’m still searching to fill that she left behind?

The door slides open and I sit up to get out. The guys pile out behind me and we go in the back entrance to the private elevators. One helluva good-looking brunette catches my eye while the guys brush by quietly. It’s always quiet after a show. We’re exhausted and tired of being “on” for everyone.

She hands me a card key and her business card, and says, “We’ve upgraded you to one of our suites. I’d be happy to give you a private tour, Mr. Masters.”

Tempting. So damn tempting. I could fuck all night, but it’s not going to change the fact that my head’s already fucked up over a girl I can’t seem to stop thinking about lately. There’s no reason for me to give her a second thought. She should be nothing but a ghost from my past—part of a past I left behind.

I just wish I hadn’t left her behind with it. I slip my shades back on as flashes from the lobby start going off in the distance. “Thank you for the upgrade. I’ll take a rain check on the tour.”

“My pleasure, and my number’s on the card if you need anything at all.”

Funny how life works.

The one thing I need is the only thing I can’t have. The only person I can’t have.

“Get the fuck in here.” My shirt is grabbed and I’m yanked into the elevator by Dex.

The brass doors close behind me and I stand there facing the band, this band of dreamers who live their dream every day. “I should have taken her up on the tour.”

Kaz leans against the corner. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

Music is piped in and it takes a second, but we all hear it. With our heads tilted toward the speaker, one of our most popular songs has been turned into classical elevator music. Johnny shakes his head. “Fuck me.” Turning his attention down, he starts texting.

Dex is drumming his fingers beside him on the railing. “Now I feel fucking old.”

Kaz is laughing and hits me in the chest. “Can’t blame us. It’s classic Resistance. A song put out before our time.”

Tommy asks, “Anyone up for drinks later?”

Everyone ignores him. Kicking my shoe, he says, “Derrick?”

“Going out? Nah.”

“Staying in?” Tommy asks in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t leave me going solo. What’s gotten into you, Moody?”

“We’ve played six cities in six days,” I complain, catching a glimpse of myself in the metal doors. I look exhausted, my dark hair a mess and my eyes bloodshot. “I need sleep.”

“You’re twenty-three. These are the best years of your life. Don’t waste them sleeping. Right, Johnny?”

Johnny’s phone rings, and a wide smile cuts across his world-famous face. The elevator doors open just as he says, “Hey baby,” and walks off.

Dex and I follow suit and get off. Holding my key in the air, I wave to Tommy and Kaz who remain on the elevator. “It’s good to be me,” I tease.

Kaz flips me off and Tommy is cut off by the doors closing, “Fucke—”

Dex walks past me and says, “At twenty-three, I would have taken the tour.”

“Maybe I still will.”

I slip my key card into the door and enter the suite. My luggage is in the middle of the living room. A bottle of Jack Daniels and a fruit tray are on the table by the window. I toss the business and key cards down next to the bottle and open it. I don’t bother with the glasses or the fruit tray. I drink straight from the bottle, stand at the window, and stare at the neon lights of the street below. The room is too quiet, the lingering buzz from performing live still rings in my ears. Another sold out show for The Resistance is behind us and I’m left with the silence of a hotel room. Sometimes I love it, when I’m at home, but the road gets lonely. I pick up the phone and call downstairs. When the pretty brunette answers, I say, “About that tour . . .”