Page 6 of Love on the Tracks
“Row,” he would’ve said, as he rocked against me, “I need you. Need you now.”
Our foreheads pressed together, his breath coming hard and needy against my lips, I would’ve said, “You can have me.”
And then—
Then my phone, which is still in a death grip in my hand, pressed to the center of my chest, rings. Fuck, no. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing. Not getting fucked. By my own hand or anyone else’s . . . anything. I check the screen, pretty sure it’s not going to be something I can ignore, and it’s not.
Yanking my hand out of my pants, I take a deep breath before answering, hoping he won’t be able to hear the unfulfilled wishes and the cranked-up-high desire in my voice, because ew. “Hey, Pops, what’s up?”
Zane
“Dude, if I’d known making out with hot chicks was part of the deal, I totally would’ve gone with you to Denver.”
I swear to god Nicky must get paid every time he makes me roll my eyes. There’s no other reasonable explanation.
“I wasn’t making out with her.” Not that I haven’t thought about what it might be like since then, but on TV, I did not. It seems like an important distinction. An important and massive distinction. I like to think I’m a decent guy, I don’t lead girls on, don’t make them think there’s a possibility of more when I’ve got no room in my life. “I kissed her on the cheek. It wasn’t a big deal.”
I take a long swig of beer, not at all because I’m trying not to think too hard about how good Rowan smelled and what else might’ve happened if we hadn’t been in a television studio. The label of the beer bottle comes off in my hand, damp and sticky at once. As I roll it up into a ball and toss it toward the nearest trash, I remember one of my high school classmates—while I still went to actual high school—saying peeling the labels off beer bottles was a sign of sexual frustration. Dammit.
Nicky so doesn’t want to hear that. He’d probably regale me with stories about whoever he picked up last night, and I am not interested. Luckily, he cuts off anything else I might’ve said. “That’s not what, I don’t know, all of America seems to think. You’re plastered all over social media, and people are going crazy. They love it.”
“Really?” I click over to my social media accounts, and it’s true. We’retrending.Me and Rowan, and that picture of me kissing her cheek is all the fuck over the place. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since the interview aired, the opening ceremonies haven’t even happened yet, and people are already saying it’s a contender for most romantic moment of this year’s SIGs.
“I hope you scored her number, because if you guys can keep this up, do you know what it could do for album sales?”
Something in my chest gives a death wheeze. Fucking A. I was hoping I was seeing the exit ramp in the distance. Not that License to Game has been doing badly, not at all, but our latest record didn’t have the same sales as the one before, and truth be told, we’re getting old. Too old for tweens to crush on without it being kinda gross, and our sound doesn’t have a broad enough appeal to keep us in the Top 40 forever. People are moving on. I get it. I’m ready to.
I’ve maybe been scribbling some things in a notebook I keep just for me; bits and pieces of my life after LtG. I have this fantasy about a solo career. Not as big as I am right now, but I don’t want to be. I want to play smaller venues for devoted fans who would be happy to sit and listen to me strumming my guitar while perched on a bar stool. I want to see my siblings and my parents more often. I want to be able to go out in public without getting swarmed by fans and paparazzi. I want to grow a beard. I might like to get a tattoo without it being covered as though I’ve turned into one of the badly behaving kids in the business. I’d like to be able to date someone for real—not have a one night stand or put together some kind of charade because our people thought it would be a good idea—just because I liked her.
Also I’d like for the band to make a graceful exit, not crash and burn, and not have some scandalous breakup. If the past several months are any indication, we’re heading that way. I can defuse shit now, but I won’t be able to forever. And I don’t want to. I’m tired. So, yes, I understand this thing with Rowan could be good for LtG and it’s fucking selfish to hope it’s not too good, but I can’t get it up to pretend I’m psyched about it at the moment.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t sound so excited.”
“Nicky—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re not so good at keeping secrets, at least not from me. I know you’ve got one foot out the door.”
It’s not as if I’ve tried to keep it entirely under wraps, but maybe I haven’t been as circumspect about it as I should be. The fact that Nicky can tell isn’t as alarming as if Benji had picked up on it—for all the guy’s a goofball, he’s got a radar for these things—but I don’t want him to worry. He doesn’t need to worry. I might not be thrilled about it, but I’m not going anywhere for as long as they need me.
“I do not.” I dig said foot into the fluffy carpet of my hotel suite’s living room. The guilt’s calling my name from the pit of my stomach, though, and I’ve never been able to lie to Nick. “Fine. Maybe a toe. But I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, okay?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Hey, I’m on this train until we roll to a stop, until there’s no more track, or until we hit a wall. Promise. Am I worn out? Would I like to do something different? Yeah, I would. But I’m not going to abandon you guys. I wouldn’t.”
I’m also not taking on any more responsibilities until I extricate myself, whether that be a partner or an enormous mortgage on a house I never live in, or an overpowered sports car I never drive. Because who the fuck knows what life after LtG will look like. I’ve heard too many stories about people who lived beyond their means and are now doing sketchy-ass infomercials to keep their heads above water. I do not want to be that guy. I’d rather be the dude who buys his parents a new house, takes care of his sister’s rent while she goes to med school, and helps put his nieces and nephews through college when it comes time.
“I know,” Nicky says. “You’re a good guy. So think about taking one for the team, will you? See if you can’t grab a drink or something with that knock-out blonde. What was she, a bobsledder?”
“Jesus, Nicky, her name’s Rowan and she’s a luger. Totally different.”
“Ice, sleds, helmets, it’s all Greek to me.”
“Obviously.” If he were sitting next to me instead of eight hundred miles away, probably with his feet up on the wagon wheel coffee table, I’d smack him upside the head. I know he doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but sometimes his brain doesn’t exactly double-check what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“Seriously, though. Think about it. It would be good for us, it would be good for her, and who knows? You might even manage to have some fun while you’re at it. I know you have a thing those athletic girls.”
