Rob’s eyes quickly scanned the page Jane had placed in front of him. It seemed like the usual piece—at first. But as he scrolled down, he saw more and more damning information; things he didn’t want others to know about, and [i]certainly[/i] things Jane wouldn’t want out there. As she mentioned Harold, he quickly had pieced it all together in his head.

He felt a quick moment of protective anger. He wanted to pick up his phone, right this minute, and call Harold out of his scummy press shit. It wasn’t fair to Jane, certainly not without her permission and not without at least running it by the band so they knew it was coming. He thought about his earlier conversation with Trent, knowing now exactly what bad press he had been referring to. 

“Such a prick,” he muttered to himself, sliding the phone back to Jane. He wanted to say he was sorry the information had gotten out, but he didn’t want to give the impression he didn’t approve of her actions. Jane was adamant about her own rights to her own sexuality—which was absolutely right, no question about it. But now…with them seemingly quasi-exclusive with each other? It was tough for him to admit, but he certainly didn’t like hearing about Jane’s past exploits. It put him in an odd position between respecting Jane and his own selfish, protective desires. 

He smoked a joint with her, before watching her slip it out of his fingers for another hit. 

[i]”Thanks for, uh, never judging me like these assholes,”[/i] She said, making Rob feel far worst for his previous line of thought. 

He tried to clear it out of his head as he got into the car, assuming his previous position, sliding a hand across Jane’s legs and closing his eyes, letting the Pond song swirl around him. It was like an audible drug. Something to embrace, to let take away from you, to give you something in return.

He thought about the night some time ago where he had dropped acid. It felt like so long ago. Like something that hadn’t have really happened. The last event that seemed like a time before his thing with Jane started. Or rather, when he truly thought about it, may have been the moment where it [i]had[/i] started. 

The entire night had given him such a bad experience, besides self-destructing with Mia to save his own conscious, he had taken an effort to avoid the harder drugs. He had never done it out of some sort of moral code or self-righteous fear of addictions. It may have just been, the older he grew, the less he desired to escape the world. It was a world that Jane and Rob had once shared but since separated in. He shuttered at the thought of being asked questions about that article. About his own opinions on what was contained in it. Something told him that his actual response would be interpreted as anger or tension. 

…

They arrived much later at the venue than expected, with Sam and Austin hopping out of the van as soon as it had parked. Next to him, Jane reached over to grab a shirt, sliding the current one off. 

His eyes quickly diverted to something else in the car, before immediately turning back, realizing the futility of looking away. He couldn’t help but watch her bare skin; her slender torso working itself into another shirt. He caught a glimpse of the tattoo he had seen this morning before it too was covered in the white fabric. 

She seemed to notice, sitting on him and kissing him. He slid his own hands just above her hip bones, caressing each side. The guilt in his own thoughts seemed endless, but the guilt of physicality with Jane was all but fading now. He almost dove in for more as soon as her lips left his. 

“See you on stage, he said, before another kiss, and she was gone. 

Straightening himself out and getting out of the van, Rob walked over to the back of the trailer to get some spare sticks, where he found Sam tearing open a package of strings.

“Figured I could use a restring before the set,” he said as he heard Rob approach. “I don’t get good luck kisses before a set.”

“Were you listening?”

“I mean,” Sam said, turning around, “I really don’t give a shit, but you didn’t exactly wait very long.”

Rob lowered his head, scratching at his neck. “We’ll work on that.”

Sam laughed, taking a knee and stringing his guitar. “I’m giving you shit, man. Don’t worry so much.”

Rob smiled. Now was good enough time as any. “Hey, I heard from Harold about some riffs you had—“

“After the show,” Sam cut off. “I’ll show you something good. Something you’d like more than him.”

Rob smiled, and slipped out of the trailer. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, after all. The thought made him feel better, especially throughout the setlist. For once, he played a show on good terms with everyone in the band, or so he felt. For that, he played one of the most energetic shows he had since the beginning of the tour, locking eyes with each member of the band at some point, throwing more sticks into the audience, and generally having a great time.

Jane’s closing speech reminded him of his own thoughts earlier that day, so he figured he’d make up for it. Walking off stage, he found Trent, just getting ready to get on. 

“Hey, dude!” He casually approached. The two talked about the set Rob had just played for a moment, before he dropped it on him. “I was hoping, actually, you could help me out with something. It’s hard to find a reliable connection on the road so—“

“Wait wait wait,” Trent said, repeating the word in quick succession. “I meet you today, and you’re already bumming pot off me? …it is pot, right?”

Rob felt caught, and sheepishly nodded. 

“You are one forward motherfucker,” Trent joked. 

“Trust me,” Rob said, smiling, “I’m not.”

Trent looked to his bandmates and asked how long he had before the set. “Ten minutes,” the guitarist said, his long hair curling down to his chest. Nodding, Trent took Rob off to their own ride—a decent enough sleeper bus, with absolutely reeked of the stuff.

“We’re just stating on our national circuit,” Trent said, reaching under a bunk and pulling out a black instrument box. “But we definitely brought more than we should have. I’d offer you more, but at the rate you guys are going, I’m surprised your manager hasn’t set you up on an international tour.”

Rob passed Trent enough money in exchange for what seemed to be another few week’s worth of pot, based on how quickly Jane went though the stuff. Trent was even nice enough to slip in a duffel bag. “Get it back to me when you can,” he said, “but don’t sweat it.”

Rob’s eyes flashed around on the different parts of this bus; the personalized bunks. The food laying out on the table. The hookah sticking out from a back corner. Jesus, he wanted a bus. 

“Two weeks ago,” Rob said, “and we barely could get our friends to show up at a show. Now? apparently we’re looking at getting one of these.”

“They’re not as cool as you’d think,” Trent said, leading them out. “And if you think you’re going to feel like you earned it…you won’t. You never do.” 

Rob nodded, thankful to meet at least one guy on this tour that seemed honest enough. They exchanged numbers, before Trent made his way back to the stage just in time to start their own set. That band seemed designed for fame. Great sound, fun energy. Female bassist. 

And yet in a few week’s time, they seemed to be more popular. Trent was right. He didn’t feel like he earned it. 

On the way to the van, he found Sam.

“You were going to show me those riffs?” he asked. Sam shook his head.

“It’s a bit late, don’t you think?” He loaded up the last of his stuff in the trailer. “Tomorrow.” 

Nodding, Rob slipped into the car, taking the duffle bag with him. He turned to Jane as soon as she got into the van.

“Remember that shortage you talked about earlier?” He said was a smirk. He had left the duffle bag slightly open once he had gotten into the van. “I found a connection. Trent from Vicarious. Got his number and everything.” 

He tried to clear his head from his expectations to hear Sam’s riffs out. Now, in the darkened van, he slipped a hand onto Jane’s inner thigh, squeezing gently. He could barely wait for the hotel.