Good Girl

Chapter 3 (Scene 2): Jax

Ninety minutes later, my band, my crew, and my instruments—save my favorite guitar—are pulling away down the road. My driver's tucked into the cab of the bus, reading a paper, and I pretend I wasn't just outsmarted by my three-time tour manager.

I ascend the stairs to my bus, cursing as I trip over Mace's LEGO at the top. I grab what's left of it and set it on the coffee table, including the little pieces.

No one tells you having a band's like having toddlers.

I shove the controllers off the couch, grab a seat cushion, and carry it back to the stairs.

I toss it at the surprised-looking girl standing at the bottom.

Problems come in all kinds of packages. Hers isn't the worst, which only annoys me more.

Her thick lashes are the same near-black as her hair. Her nose is small, like she'd have trouble wearing glasses. Her bottom lip's too big for the top one.

Under the leather jacket, she's got curves.

Not that I'm noticing.

"I bet you're pretty proud of yourself, huh? Let's get something straight," I say before she can respond. "I don't know why you're not fired. It's probably Cross' idea of a joke, sending you to babysit me. But until we get rescued by Navy SEALs or whoever gets dispatched to save our asses out here, you will sit right there"—I point to the shoulder—"while this inspired fucking plan of yours rolls out."

Without waiting for an answer, I shut the doors and retreat to the back of the bus.

My Emerson goes into its case. I grab some clothes from my built-in dresser and shove them in a duffel bag.

There are pictures pinned up around my bus, and I take one down and lay it inside the top of my bag.

I glance out the window. She's sitting on the dusty shoulder of the highway on her backpack, her computer open on her lap. Dust has collected on her faded jeans and Converse sneakers.

You never used to be such an asshole. The familiar female voice in my head comes out of nowhere.

Pain edges into my brain, and I glance down. My thumb's bleeding again. I rip off the piece of fingernail I've been tearing without noticing.

I suck on the spot where it stings, crossing to open the mini-fridge and grabbing two bottles of water with my other hand. I lower the window and toss one. It hits the ground next to the girl's knee, and she jumps.

I take a sip from mine, watching her through the half-open window. "Fuckturd."

She looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. "Excuse me?"

I nod toward her computer. "The internet password."

She takes a drink of water before setting the bottle in the dust next to her. "T-U-R-D?"

"Yeah. How do they spell turd where you're from?"

I close the window without waiting for an answer and finish packing, then pull up a reality home reno program on my iPad. Nothing distracts me before a show like seeing a bunch of contractors argue over cellulose and spray foam for insulating a garage. It's blissful and mindless, which I need because in a couple of hours—assuming we ever make it to Pittsburgh—I'll be spun.

I drain my water and grab another. Before a show, I can drink Lake Michigan into the Sahara. I glance out the window to see if she needs one too, but she's gone.

"The fuck, babysitter..." I shoulder my guitar and my duffel and go outside to find a tow truck in front of us.

The man talking to the girl is scratching the back of his neck. When she looks at her phone, he looks at her chest.