In Perfect Time // A Bishova Band AU

1. Busted

Kate Bishop, indie rock's resident rebel, 1/4th of Pitchfork's artist to watch, and self proclaimed heart throb, woke with a raging headache. Lately, it would have more strange for her to wake without one, as a rock-hard tour bus mattress combined with copious amounts of alcohol and hearing loss from sets was enough to grant concussion-like symptoms on a daily basis.

Groaning, she rolled over, apparently having passed out on the tour bus floor. Drool glued a napkin to her face; her mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Her joints ached, shoulders stiff and locked up as she stretched. Standing, Kate stumbled to the sink, intending to drink from her cupped hands. Upon sticking her hands under the stream, though, she remembered the cast on her right wrist and pulled back. Frustrated and unbelievably parched, she drank directly from the faucet like a dog from a garden hose.

As she leaned against the counter, the metallic tap water brought her back to her senses enough to see that this tour bus was, in fact, not hers. Her bus, the temporary touring home of her band Bughouse, was much messier, with clothes and instruments and various unidentified visitors always strewn about. This was presumably her opening act's, a girl named Cassie, as evidenced by the cases of her favorite energy drink sitting atop the counter, not to mention the general cleanliness.

Kate's brow furrowed, as she did not remember falling asleep here last night. It was day two, no, day three, of shows in California, the last stop of the American leg, and Kate wanted to spend it with her band mates, or at least Peter. She was not even particularly close with Cassie, adding to the strangeness.

Stranger things had happened on tour, though, and she laughed as she dried off her purple cast with the napkin previously stuck to her face. Last week in Phoenix, Kate had gotten a little overzealous, stage diving from the venue's balcony and subsequently shattering pretty much every bone in her wrist. She toughed out the set, swollen fingers and all, before being whisked off to a hospital. She would be in a cast for six weeks and it was exceedingly difficult to play guitar, but the boneheaded move generated hype for the Los Angeles shows, so could she really complain?

Reminded of her show this evening, Kate searched for her phone, wondering if she had enough time for a coffee run. Finally locating her cracked, old-as-shit phone shoved in between the couch cushions, Kate's eyes nearly popped out of her head. Eight missed calls from her bandmate, Peter, and twenty missed calls from her manager, Tony. She looked at the time, horrified to see she was over twenty minutes late to her own concert.

"Shit, fuck, ohmygod," she scrambled, lunging for the door before stopping short, thinking she should probably not show up to a show in the same clothes from the one the previous day. "Fuck."

Slung over the back of the couch was an old Lakers tee, and she quickly tugged it on in place of her wrinkled flannel. It was a bit too small, but the cropped look would have to do at this hour.

Still a bit dazed, head foggy, Kate sprinted from the bus and into the venue, passing a disgruntled Tony backstage before finally stepping into the lights to raucous cheers. She waved, blew kisses, anxiety and headache melting away as she entered her favorite place in the world- center stage.

Out here, nothing else mattered. Out here, with nothing but six strings and her voice, she could move waves of people like the moon pulling the tide. She could tell stories, close her eyes and reach out and really touch people's hearts. She could enter the flow state, a hypnotic trance she often fell into near the end of shows, when a chunk of time was set aside just for her to riff, freestyle, find what the wind whispered to her and put it into song.

On stage, Wanda had apparently been working the crowd in her stead, and she turned her back on the legions of roaring fans to shoot daggers at a wholly disheveled Kate, hair messy and eyes bloodshot. Wanda pulled her into a tight embrace, hissing, "You owe me."