I'm jolted half-awake as the bus hits a pothole, causing everything around me to rattle. I open one eye lazily, then shut it as soon as I see the early morning light filtering in through a crack in the curtains. It's too bloody early to be awake.
Shoving my head violently under the thin pillow, I squeeze my eyes shut until I'm once again lulled back to sleep. Just as a dream begins to form, I feel the lightest tickling on my forearm. Quickly drawing the threadbare blanket over my arm, I frown as I feel the same sensation on the back of my wrist. My hand darts out, grabbing a handful of thick, coarse hair.
"Fuck!" Freddie curses as I yank lightly on the fistful of hair, moving so that I can peer out from under the pillow.
"What the hell, Fred?" I loudly mumble. I peer into the dimly-lit tour bus and see a large, light blue feather clutched in my friend's fist.
"He did it to me too," John calls down from the top bunk.
"Also me," Brian adds wearily. He tries to sit up and hits his head on the ceiling, cursing loudly. I release Freddie's hair, and he sits back on his knees, looking delighted.
"Today's the day when we conquer Liverpool, darlings. We can't do that if you're sleeping all day." Freddie flashes us a toothy grin as he tugs on the bottom of the long-sleeved shirt that he pinched from one of the roadies. Since I'm used to seeing him in clothing that leaves very little to the imagination, he looks utterly ridiculous wearing the shirt of a bloke who's at least three times his size.
"Just because you don't require sleep doesn't mean that the rest of us don't," John complains, throwing his pillow off the edge of the bed. It lands squarely on Freddie's head, prompting him to let out a little yelp.
"I was going to buy you breakfast once we stop, but if you're going to brutalize me, then pay for your own fucking meals," Freddie huffs as he stands, brushing lint off his joggers. Brian's face brightens, and he throws his legs over the side of the bunk, careful not to bump his head again.
"That's called burying the lede, mate," he says as he hops down and stretches his arms up in the air for a stretch. "If there's free food involved, then I'm all in."
"I'd rather sleep if it's all the same to you," I groan into the pillow. I hear a suspicious rustling by the bed and reach my arm out preemptively. "Freddie, if you get near me again with that bloody feather..."
Freddie chuckles and throws the offending object my way; it softly lands on top of my forearm. Above me, Deaky rustles around and then hops down lightly to the floor. I once again place the pillow over my head, desperate for another hour of sleep, but it's soon apparent that I won't be getting any.
"Up and at 'em, Rog," Freddie croons after a few minutes, well aware that he's pushing every button possible. I can't survive without sleep, and he knows it. The bus pulls off the motorway and begins to slow as we approach our destination.
"Fucking fine," I growl, admitting defeat. I sit up, running a hand through my hair, which is sticking out every which way. I blink, trying to will energy into my body, which has been destroyed by the last week of gigs and afterparties galore. Yeah, the adrenaline rush when you're on stage is the highest of highest, but the inevitable crash afterward isn't nearly as fun.
The bus comes to a halt, and I pry open the pleated curtain next to my bed, spotting a tacky 24-hour restaurant a few meters away. The lads have all somehow managed to throw on clothes in the ten minutes since I was so rudely awakened.
"Coming, Roger?" Deaky calls over, looking much too energetic for this early in the morning.
"I'll meet you inside. Order me something with lots of grease and carbohydrates, please. If Fred's paying, make sure that it's the most expensive item on the menu."
**
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the restaurant and spot the fellows seated at a large table with Pete and Ian from Mott the Hoople. The roadies have taken over another two tables in the back and are laughing boisterously. I run a hand through my hair, still damp from the shortest shower in the world, and straighten my hastily-buttoned shirt as I stroll over.
"Oh, hey, Rog," Brian says as I approach the empty seat across from him. "We ordered for you."
"Cheers." I sit just as the waitress brings over enormous fry-ups for everyone, except for Brian, who stares sadly at two eggs poached over a single, arid slice of toast. We start chatting about this and that, reliving the hazy events of the night before.
"So, Rog," Freddie calls over during a lull in the conversation. "When are you going to ring your girlfriend?" I squint over at him, wondering what he's getting at.
"Never, considering she wouldn't even give me her number," I reply, taking a final bite of eggs. I wipe my mouth delicately with the napkin and look at Fred suspiciously.
"Girlfriend?" Ian asks as if Freddie has suggested the wildest imaginable scenario possible.
"There's no girlfriend," I mumble, very much regretting telling my bandmates an abbreviated version of my attempt to ask out Skylar. I had neglected to share how brutally she had shut me down, which honestly still stung a bit. After all, how can she say that she doesn't like blokes like me when she doesn't even know me?
"You should ring her," Brian says from across the table.
"Why? Has she said something about me to Jenny?" I ask far too quickly, wincing as I hear how eager I sound. Oh, for fuck's sake. Now I've done it. It's all over.
Freddie turns to Ian and Pete. "Our dear Roger has met the most beautiful girl--"
"She's alright," I interject, my response sounding artificial even to my own ears.
"She's bloody gorgeous, mate," Brian replies with a grin.
"He met the most beautiful girl," Freddie continues. "But she wants nothing to do with him, and it's killing him. Really killing him. Just look at those sad little blue eyes over there. Those there are the eyes of a heartbroken man."
"I haven't gotten the sense that Roger is suffering from a lack of attention from the ladies," Ian says, laughing. "Last night, he looked pretty--"
"Ah, but this one is different," Freddie interrupts, his face serious and serene as if he's some sort of ancient seer.
Right, the only move remaining is to try to change the subject. Every now and then, it works when Freddie has a bee in his bonnet, but something tells me that it won't be a successful strategy this time around.
"Hey, so, did they ever manage to fix the flyers?" I ask loudly to no one in particular. The promotional flyer for the last gig had read "MOTT THE HOOPLE" in huge letters, followed by a much smaller "and supporting act." If any subject got Freddie's attention, it would be this one. Much to my dismay, he refuses to take the bait and, instead, gives me a knowing smirk. Suddenly, it feels like everyone at the table is staring at me.
"I don't even have her number," I protest. Fuck, guys, give it a rest already. Why do they even give a shit? Like Ian said, it's not as if I'm hard-pressed for a shag.
"Well, Brian has her number," Freddie says slyly. "Don't you, dear?"
"Uh, yeah, I suppose I do. I mean, I have Jenny's number, so, yeah, I suppose it's the same as Skylar's."
"So, there you have it," Freddie exclaims triumphantly. "You can ring her anytime you like. Tonight, even."
"Yeah, I'll do that, Fred, because I love nothing more than a girl telling me to sod off. Hell, why don't I phone her during the gig tonight? Won't even bother showing up for it, because who needs drums, anyway?" My voice rises as irritation turns into anger.
Undeterred, Freddie grabs a napkin from the dispenser and fumbles around in his pocket for a pen. He shoves both objects towards Brian, who begins to write down a string of numbers from memory.
"Be sure to write her name on it," Freddie instructs. "Sky-- no, I think it's an 'a' not an 'e.' And maybe underline it as well, so that Rog doesn't ring the wrong girl... last time I borrowed his jacket, I found four phone numbers tucked into the pockets."
"Must have been a slow night," I mutter, tired of this conversation.
Sure, okay, I have fun. I'm single and on tour with a band, isn't the whole point to have fun? And these three are talking like I'm the strumpet, and they're the saints, which I can assure you, they most certainly are not.
Brian slides the napkin over to me, which I ignore and leave on the table. Freddie rolls his eyes and grabs it, leaning over to shove it into the pocket of my shirt.
"Goff me!" I exclaim. "Do you lot have nothing better to do than harass me? I just want to be hungover and eat my bacon in peace."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Freddie give a knowing look to Brian and Deaky, which further enrages me. Cursing, I push the chair out and stand, throwing some cash down on the table. Giving them the finger, I walk through the restaurant and push open the doors. As I stalk towards the bus, I fish out the napkin and crumple it up, throwing it on the ground.
Once onboard, I climb back into the poor excuse of a bed, fully intent on crashing until we arrive in Liverpool. A few minutes later, I hear the pneumatic whir of the door opening and the heavy footsteps of someone approaching. I open one eye and see Freddie sitting cross-legged on his bed across from me, that same serene Buddha-like expression on his face.
I scowl and close my eyes, wondering if he'll fuck off if I ignore him long enough. Honestly, I don't know why I'm so angry--the lads take the piss out of me all the time about this sort of thing, and it's never bothered me before.
Finally, Freddie speaks. "You should call her, Rog."
"Why do you even care? Who died and made you Cupid?" I wage an internal battle about whether I should get up and leave, but, in the end, I'm too knackered.
"She seems nice," he says simply.
"She does seem nice," I agree. "So nice, in fact, that she wants nothing to do with a rotter like me. So, why would I waste my time?"
"That's because she doesn't know you, which is why you should fucking call her. Christ, Roger, for someone who gets around as much as you, sometimes you're insufferably thick when it comes to women."
"Whatever," I mutter, pulling the pillow over my head for the third time that day. I hear the whir of the door again as the rest of the band clambers noisily onto the bus. Freddie takes a step closer and drops the smoothed-out napkin on my bed, just next to my hand, before he walks towards the others. They sit down on the banquettes in the front.
"So, about this flyer..." Freddie launches into another diatribe, as I sit up and look at the napkin with eight digits written in Brian's scrawl. Maybe I should ring her. What harm could come of it? Worst case, she tells me to fuck off. Best case, she tells me to fuck off, but nicely.
Oh, sod it. Of course, I'm going to fucking call her.