Chapter 2: The Tour Bus
The bus thrummed beneath him, a constant deep-grade vibration that traveled up through the bunk’s thin mattress and into his bones. Sleep was a useless concept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the fractured disco-ball light in her eyes, felt the cool plaster against his knuckles. The green room was a ghost haunting the back of his skull.
He pulled on sweats and padded barefoot down the narrow aisle, past the curtained bunks where the crew snored. The lounge at the back was bathed in the low, sickly blue glow of someone’s phone charger. The streetlights outside strobed through the windows, painting fleeting stripes over the laminated table.
T Lex was curled in the corner of the bench seat, oversized headphones around her neck leaking a tinny, rhythmic hiss. She was staring out at the blurring darkness, a bottle of water clutched in both hands. She didn’t look at him as he slid in opposite her.
“Can’t switch off either,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion.
She took a sip of water. “Brain’s still at ninety BPM.” A faint smile touched her lips. “You were good tonight. Really good.”
“We were good.”
Finally, she looked at him. The blue light hollowed her cheeks, made her look younger and older all at once. The defiant glitter was gone, washed away. This was just her. “Yeah.”
The bus hit a pothole, a jarring thump that made her grip the seat edge. The water bottle slid, and he caught it before it hit the floor. Their fingers brushed. A simple, stupid point of contact that felt like a live wire. He didn’t let go of the bottle. She didn’t pull her hand back.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full of everything they hadn’t said in the green room, every charged look across the stage, every accidental brush of hands over a shared mixer. It was a physical weight.
“Lex,” he started.
“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet, final. “Don’t give me a speech, Josh. It’s three AM on a bus that smells like feet and diesel. This isn’t the place for speeches.”
“What is it the place for?”
Her answer was to uncurl herself from the seat. She rose, a small, compact shadow, and took the bottle from his hand. She placed it on the table with a definitive click. Then she held out her hand to him.
He looked at it, then up at her face. No smirk. No challenge. Just a raw, open question.
He took her hand. It was cool. She led him back down the dark aisle, past the sleeping forms, to his bunk. She pulled the curtain aside and pushed him in, then followed, sealing them in the claustrophobic, curtained space. It was all immediate heat and the smell of his own shampoo on the thin pillow.
There were no more words.
Her mouth was on his, hunger a living thing between them. This wasn't like the green room, all showy fire and competition. This was darker, more desperate. The bus’s engine roar filled the space where moans might have been. She yanked his sweatshirt over his head, her nails scraping down his back. He fumbled with the button of her jeans, the denim stiff, his fingers clumsy.
They shed clothes in ragged, urgent movements, fabric snagging on the bunk’s edges, elbows knocking against the wall. There was no grace to it, just a driving need to erase the space between them. The stale, recirculated air grew thick with the smell of sex and sweat and her perfume, that vanilla scent now warm on her skin.
He was on top of her, then she was on top of him, a tangle of limbs in the narrow berth. The world was the rumble of wheels on asphalt, the squeak of the cheap mattress, her hot breath against his neck. It was her teeth on his shoulder, his hand in her wild hair, the shuddering sigh she let out when he finally entered her. It felt less like sex and more like a circuit completing, a connection so severe it momentarily shorted out every other thought.
After, they lay twisted together, legs interlocked, skin slick. The only light came from the crack under the curtain and the dying phone screen on the floor, casting her profile in pale blue. She traced the tattoo on his chest, her fingertips following the scripted words.
“This changes everything,” she whispered, not looking at him, as if the words were pulled from her against her will.
He caught her hand, laced his fingers through hers. “Yeah.”
“It’s a terrible idea.”
“The worst.”
She turned her head then, her nose brushing his jaw. “I don’t do relationships. I’m shit at them.”
“Who said anything about a relationship?” He said it lightly, but his heart hammered against his ribs.
She stiffened for a second, then relaxed, a low laugh vibrating through her. “Right. Of course.”
He rolled onto his side, facing her, though he could barely see her in the dark. “I’m not good at sharing. My time. My space. My head. And you’re already in my head, Lex. You have been since you walked into the first rehearsal and told me my timing was sloppy.”
She was silent for a long time. Outside, the landscape had changed to flat, endless fields under a blanket of stars. “So what is this, then?”
“I don’t know.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Let’s just… let it be a terrible idea for a while. See how bad it gets.”
He felt her smile in the darkness. “Deal.”
They lay like that as the bus ate up the miles, her breathing slowly deepening. Just as he thought she’d fallen asleep, she spoke again, her voice slurry and soft.
“Your bunk is a mess. And you stink like whiskey.”
“That’s your joint,” he murmured into her hair.
“It is not.” A pause. “Okay, maybe it is.”
She drifted off. Josh stayed awake, holding her, the vibration of the bus travelling through their joined bodies. The ghost of the green room was gone, replaced by this new, heavier, more complicated presence. It felt less like victory, more like a freefall. He closed his eyes, and for the first time that night, slept.