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Rosalie gave up on the blanket, sitting down on the armchair opposite Savannah. “How much?”
“Enough! Okay? I’m having enough coke. Not too much. Just enough.”
“Savannah… enough for what?” Rosalie asked, even more perturbed.
“Enough to have fun!” Savannah cried. “Enough to make all this… fun, okay?”
“I see.”
Savannah glared at her, her face tight.
“You’re ruining my night,” she said angrily. “You’re making everything suck.”
“I do that,” Rosalie agreed. She got out of her armchair and sat next to Savannah who buried her face in her shoulder and shivered like a fever patient. They held tight to each other for the next three hours, Savannah refusing her offers of quiet television, soothing music, or talking. Eventually, she wound down, looking pale and sick. “This is some party,” Rosalie told her.
Savannah winced.
Rosalie made her go and shower and when her best friend the megastar came out of the bathroom - her face scrubbed clean of makeup, wearing Rosalie’s t-shirt and pajama pants - she looked seventeen years old again. Rosalie smirked.
“Come on, kid.” She led Savannah to the bedroom, gave her two ibuprofen and a glass of water. Savannah sunk down in Rosalie’s sheets, sighing like she hadn’t slept in years. Rosalie went off to shower and when she came back in, Savannah was still wide awake, her blue eyes just about focused. She watched closely as Rosalie climbed into the other side of the bed. A small teasing smile lit up her face.
“Just like old times,” she said, her tone suggestive.
“Savannah Grace, you stay on your side of the bed,” ordered Rosalie in faint alarm, pulling the sheets up to her shoulders. She switched off the light to the sound of Savannah’s laughter.
When she awoke in the night, Savannah was holding her hand. She was finally asleep.
After that night, Savannah quit coke. She didn’t quit Cole though.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kinsey was living her absolute best life. She loved the road - had always loved the road - and this time it wasn’t just some random band she played in, but her band, the one she’d live and die by. Cassidy sat beside her on the bus, the two of them alternating between dreaming and scheming, bursting out song ideas and just being quiet together, lost in their own thoughts. She’d never felt closer to another human in her life.
Cassidy had - with her big blue eyes serious - warned her that Coral had told her none of it would be glamorous. Kinsey still tried not to laugh when she thought about it. The last time she’d toured she’d shared a grimy van with three dudes, the four of them taking turns driving, all sleeping in the back, sleeping bags tucked in around their gear, the windows cracked against the smell of sleeping bodies. In comparison, Coral Sanchez traveled in style, even on her side projects.
There was an actual tour bus, one with a driver. Sometimes they drove through the night, sure, but most times there were actual motels to stay in. They teamed up to cut costs, Cassidy and Kinsey sharing a room, tucked up like Bert and Ernie in twin beds and competing as to who got first shower before the water ran cold. She managed, eventually, to get used to the sight of Cassidy in her underwear as they rushed around getting ready for another day on the road, though it still somehow felt necessary to avert her eyes as if she’d never seen a woman’s half-clothed body in her life.
And then, most nights, there was a show to play. Compared with Coral’s main gig as Savannah Grace’s drummer, Honeybaked played small venues - around one or two thousand per show - but cumulatively it was the biggest exposure they’d ever had.
“Is it weird?” Cassidy asked her one night as they got ready in their tiny dim dressing room. “That we play under my name? Would you rather we made our band official with like, an actual band name? I mean, it’s very obviously not just me.”
Kinsey thought for a minute.
“Nah,” she said. “We already have some recognition going under your name. Besides, you have a great name. Very alliterative.”
Cassidy smiled. “Are you sure though? I just know that it gives me a lot more credit than I’m owed. Like we are a band, you’re not like, in Cassidy Carver’s band.”
Kinsey shrugged.
“As long as you don’t forget it,” she teased her. “Hey how come you and Savannah have different last names? Is Grace a stage name or something?”
“Nope. Grace is our mom’s name. We’ve got different dads,” Cassidy told her, going back to putting her mascara on in the mirror.
“Huh. You look so similar, I’d never have guessed.”
“Ugh,” said Cassidy, as if she was faintly insulted. “Should I dye my hair or something, do you think?”
“What? No.” Kinsey may have answered slightly too quickly. Cassidy was so fucking pretty it felt like a travesty to even consider changing her appearance. Cassidy raised her eyebrows and Kinsey added defensively, “I have to spend a lot of time looking at your damn face. Don’t touch a thing.”