Good Girl

Chapter 7: Jax

People who haven't been on tour think it's basically like living in The Hangover.

Booze. Drugs. Strippers.

Tigers.

Zach Galifianakis wandering through the background in his underwear.

It's not true.

The scene around me tonight, though, is pretty cliché.

"Jax, baby, come on." The blonde shifts onto my lap, wiggling to get there. Her mouth pouts with whatever gloss she slicked on while she was thinking about me, or Brick, or Kyle, or Mace. Most of them don't care which.

Right now, I'm a hard pass.

It's been a long time since I screwed around on tour, and almost as long since I've wanted to.

I shift out from underneath her and reach into my pocket for the device I'm suddenly more protective of. I bang out a text.

Need 2 take my mnd off thgs

I glance at Mace, who's making out with a brunette. I'd never hear the end of it if he knew what I was doing.

At the bar across the room, I fix myself a bourbon because I like the way it makes my throat curl inward after a long night of spilling my guts into the mic.

Kyle and two redheads who look like twins are dueling on Guitar Hero in the next room.

Brick is plugged into a console in the corner playing Fortnite.

The only woman he even looks at is Nina, and I'd know if something happened there. Even if one of them wasn't too proud to admit it, neither of them would break the rules.

I can imagine it's a shitty place to be. When the person you want's the one person you can't have.

The drink's gone, and still my phone's silent. I send another message.

Where r u?

I slip out of the band's room and into my suite at the end of the hall. My bags are there, still zipped up.

The first week of tour, some assistant's assistant tried to unpack for me. It didn't end well.

On top is a stack of paper, different sizes, held together with a clip.

I could try to write—a phrase, a verse, a bridge—but I haven't turned out a good song in years. I'm not just losing my edge—I've lost it.

I pull my phone from my pocket and drop it on the bed. I strip the shirt over my head, wincing as I do. The mirror reveals a bruise near my rib, and I don't know how I got it.

I strip off my jeans, dropping them and my shirt in a pile in the corner of the room. My shorts go next.

The shower's hot and welcoming as I soap off the sweat, the grime, the makeup.

I let my mind go blank. For all of Neen's obsession with Buddhist monks or whatever, there's something to be said for living in the moment. It gives you relief from your thoughts.

One thought drifts through my mind and refuses to let go.

Leonard fucking Cohen.

The girl knows music, I'll give her that.

I'm tempted to ask Nina where Haley came from, but knowing the background of every tech on my tour is definitely below my paygrade.

I'm curious. That's all.