Well shit, shit, shit, now those words were practically panic inducing. If he was going to see me tomorrow, that meant I needed to pack my shit, and honestly, the task alone was daunting. The washer and dryer in our building’s basement had been on the fritz until so many of us complained that the landlord finally just replaced them instead of sending the same tired, frazzled repair guy to come out and try and repair the decrepit old machines for the dozenth time.
The result was a frenzied rush of damn near everyone in the building flocking down there to get piles of laundry washed, Brady and I included, and man, we’d had a tower of filthy shit piled up. All of which was now heaped in haphazardly folded piles all over the couch, waiting for us to find the time to get everything put away properly.
At least it was clean.
I just…didn’t even know where to start choosing what to take with me. Space on tour buses was limited even with Draven adding a third bus following the Rocktoberfest show. That one had been designated for Robbie, Kayden, Jagger, the St. Bernards that traveled with them, and the guard that rode along to keep everyone safe.
Mickey, Draven, and Johnny shared the second bus, which also served as Draven’s mobile command center, with Sully, the head of Damage Inc., the band’s security team, riding in that one as well, as well as whichever bodyguard who’d been assigned to ride along that day.
That would leave me on the bus with Rebel, Ozzy, Dash, and the guard who would travel on the bus with us. It was honestly a nice setup that allowed for plenty of creative interaction as well as enough space that we wouldn’t be riding in each other’s laps on the way to the next show.
Well, most of us wouldn’t be. With Johnny and Draven dating and Kayden, Jagger, and Robbie in a committed relationship, I was certain someone was riding in someone’s lap for a whole different reason, but that was their business.
"Are you good now?” Brady asked.
Blinking, I raised my head to see the platter of wings resting on the table in front of me, honey glazed and looking delicious as fuck, though I wasn’t sure I could focus on food at the moment. “Huh?”
“Judging from your end of the conversation, I’m about to have the apartment to myself for a while,” Brady said.
“Yeah, I, um, there’s a van coming for me tomorrow. Shit, my room looks like it got hit by a nor'easter, and I have no fucking clue where my backpacks are at.”
“Stacked on the second shelf of the hall closet beside the tote of travel supplies you tucked away after the last time you had to rush out of here last minute. Did you forget about almost giving us both our first gray hairs after the batshit crazy frenzy to find everything you needed?”
“Uhhh maybe?.”
“It’s a good thing I didn’t,” he replied as he set a paper plate and a can of root beer down on the table in front of me.
“I don’t have time to eat,” I muttered as he started scooping wings onto my plate.
“Wrong,” he said as he added a couple more. “You pass out on the floor, and you’ll wind up with four backpacks full of whatever the hell I manage to stuff in them. Somehow, I doubt that would make for a good look.”
“No shit, you colorblind bastard. You’ll have me up there in a Tweety Bird shirt and purple spandex.”
“Hey now, you don’t even own purple spandex.”
“Okay, fair, but you know what I mean,” I replied, grinning up at him.
It felt good to finally be able to draw a full breath without the world spinning, which I knew wasn’t just a result of the news I’d received. Like idiots, we’d tortured ourselves by shopping hangry instead of stopping at the corner diner for a proper brunch. Instead, we’d charged into the insanity of Friday payday shoppers with our stomachs growling as we tried to grab everything we needed before the next storm rolled in.
And now I’d get to miss however many inches it dumped on us.
Really, it was dumb. Every store had been too hot, too bright, overcrowded, and loud. Empty shelves had led us to make four stops before we’d checked off the last thing on our list, and of course, we’d decided to torment ourselves further by insisting on making the wings for supper instead of grabbing something we could throw in the microwave. As Brady poured buttermilk ranch in dipping containers for us to dunk our wings in, my stomach gave an aggressive rumble, reminding me that Brady was right. If I didn’t stick something in it, I was going to wind up passing out or packing like a chaos gremlin, neither of which would help my cause.
“Let me know if the tour brings you guys this way; I might not be front and center, but I’ll be somewhere in the crowd, rocking out like I’ve lost my mind.”
“If I can get you tickets to be up front, you’ll sure as hell have them,” I replied. “It would be nice to stare out into the crowd and know that at least one person will be happy that I’m up there and not pissed that I’m playing half the set for Ozzy.”
“Not going to blow smoke up your ass, we both know it’s going to be rough at first. But you are a beast on those drums, and he’s been mentoring you for years,” Brady said. “They’ll warm up to you and come to realize that you were the best fit for the band, just like when you filled in for him.”
“I hope so. Running into Claude at Rocktoberfest was kind of sobering, since I knew I’d be heading home while he and his newband were going to be out on the road being pelted with panties and the goddess knows what else.”
“Dude, you’ve never wanted to be pelted with panties.”
“Still don't, but you know where I was headed with that,” I explained. “It’s just surreal that it’s finally happening and not just on a temporary basis. At least my drum kit is packed and ready to go.”
“Don’t be shocked if you come home to find that I’ve turned the drum storage room into a hookah and gaming space.”
“As long as there's room for me to stash them somewhere when I get home.”