Rob’s fingers had begun to blister somewhere between the second and third song of their set, and he tried to ignore the pain. However, by the final crash of the cymbals and Jane’s final words, blood had broken through the skin, sliding down the sticks and getting flung atop some of the drum set. He wiped the hair from his face, trying to catch his breath, and smeared some of the crimson blood across his face, from his cheek to his forehead. He could feel the stinging sensation and the bitter taste of iron in his mouth as he looked down to the bloody mess before him. Austin shot him a concerned glance as he walked off the stage, ignoring the relentless roar of the crowd behind him. It was his own damn fault, too. All the confusion and anger had caused Rob to stop practicing significantly. He had let his callouses soften to the point where they hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught they had taken tonight. Rob’s style of playing wasn’t designed for long, grueling sessions every night, and the break he had taken in the interim between shows had only set him up for this level of pain. He saw the press pit go wild as he stood up, snapping photos as fast as their shutters could reset. His mouth hung open involuntarily—his body drained from the set. Hopping down off the stage and approaching a line of fans, he held out the bloody sticks. “Who wants these?” He asked, to roaring madness. It was like the gladiator fights of old. Blood had been spilt, and now these people seemed to long for it. He approached a cool enough person, so seemed honest enough. “Promise me you won’t sell this shit on Ebay,” Rob said to him, handing the sticks over. “Why the fuck would I ever sell these?” The fan asked back. “Thank you.” Rob smiled, and slipped back on stage and over to the back. He had to see how Jane was doing. “Thank you Minneapolis!” Rob managed to shout into a live mic, before slipping backstage. And the crowd went nuts again. … Minneapolis had been kind enough to them. Their hotel rooms were cleaned, the town was nice, and the nights were chilly enough to require jackets—a feeling Rob had missed driving through the south nearly the entire tour. [i]Just two more cities,[/i] he reminded himself. [i]Kansas City and St. Louis[/i]. Yesterday, after his break and time alone with Jane, he had managed to call Harold. Plans were finally in motion to set them up with a tour bus for Europe, and even though the venues would be shitty, he was excited to leave the country. In fact, he had argued with Harold to let them rent their own van to travel in, but he was less than interested. “You’ve never even [i]been[/i] to Europe,” Harold had said, “much less driven in it. No. You’re getting a tour bus.” So, Rob conceded. The driver Harold had hired was a friend of the band that they had known for some time, and would be meeting up with them in St. Louis. That left two vacant spots; merch and sound guy. For merch, Rob had suggested Aaron—a past friend of his, who loved music far more than maybe even him. Aaron had agreed to come, and would also be meeting up with them in St. Louis. As for the sound person, the band had yet to agree on a person. Rob had been meaning to suggest Jane pick a sound person, but between the arguments and the stress, the idea had been forgotten. Maybe it was time to mention it once more. Rob made a note to discuss it with her sometime tonight, before slipping over to the van and finding his band. He climbed in, and they were off again to another night in the hotels. Come to think of it, this would be some of their final nights outside of a bus for a very long time. … “What the fuck, man?” Austin came as soon as he had gotten a good look at Rob. “What?” “You’ve got blood, like, smeared on your face.” Rob looked down to his hands, and realized he had ignored the pain he had felt and forgot to clean himself off. Apologizing, he climbed over the back seat and pulled out some gauze, before cleaning himself up with a rag. “Better?” He asked. Austin nodded, and Rob proceeded to wrap his fingers in gauze and sit back again. He took the AUX chord, and played an old, albeit shitty song of his that he enjoyed: [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwzneS2_sUU]Pillowhead by Failure.[/url] It was only minutes later that he felt Jane stir, widely swinging her legs away from Rob and staring down to her cracked phone. Her eyes shined deeply, and her expression was so easily worrying to him. After she had passed him the phone, he realized that he had every right to have been worried. The images of Jane on the screen were partially obscured by the cracks and crevices of the broken phone, but they showed more than enough. Images of Jane he had only ever seen in person, in their most imitate moments together, were on there, for all the world to see. He felt a deep anger swell up in him, but the source was not Jane. No, it was whoever had done this to her. Whoever had chosen to release something so private to the world. Rob had felt personally a bit hurt when Jane admitted to a slight moment of subconscious weakness, but this? This wasn’t on her. This was something someone else had done. He had known things may be difficult dating Jane. For all her imperfections and shortcomings, he had known the stigmas and stereotyping that would surround the two of them. But to see that sort of thing release for all the world to see, was something else entirely. [i]”At least you have a nice ass, though,”[/i] Austin’s words cut through his own mental drone. They snapped a sort of primal anger in him—something deep, masculine, and protective. “Shut the [i]fuck[/i] up, Austin,” Rob growled at him. Austin’s reaction to his and Sam’s comments were clear and direct—[i]yes, sir.[/i] Rob had resolved earlier that week to present the people in his life with a part of himself he had created—to act happy, content, and satisfied. Fake-it-till-you-make-it, in a way. Seeing the last remnants of his privates washed away in binary seemed to so quickly dissolve that narrative. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, there would be room for such an act. For now, he was fucking livid. Trying to calm himself down, he slid the phone away from himself and Jane, and looked to her. She seemed so deeply hurt by what happened, and hadn’t have bothered to look up to Rob since showing the images. It came as so surprise to Rob that she probably felt like he was mad at her. And who knows? Maybe he may have been. But the instincts within him, the anger that drove him, it trumped all else. He’d have time to worry about it in the morning. For now, one of his own was hurt. “Come here,” Rob said clearly, sliding Jane towards him. He moved her, positioning her so that her head could rest in his own lap. He held her, and said nothing. In fact, no one said a word the entire ride home. … At the hotel, Rob had excused himself from Jane, and was outside on the balcony, on the phone, talking to Harold. “How is she?” Harold asked. “I don’t know,” Rob answered. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it. But if I had to guess? Hurt. Sad. Angry.” “Like you?” “I’m more angry than anything. Any word on how it got out?” “I have my suspicions,” Harold answered, “but we don’t know yet. I’m trying to get in touch with the website that hosts it, but they’re giving me the run-around.” “[i]Lena[/i],” Rob spat out. “Maybe,” Harold said. “I don’t know. And you don’t either.” Rob’s temper flared again. Out here, with Jane not around and only Harold to talk to, he let his true feelings show: “I swear to fucking God, Harold—if I find out it was Lena—“ “Don’t finish that sentence,” Harold shot, cold. “I don’t want to know or hear about it. We all know how you feel about her, especially now.” [i]”Fucking cunt,”[/i] Rob muttered through clenched teeth. Perhaps he was surprised by the level of his own anger, or perhaps Harold was shocked Rob had even used said that word, but either way, neither talked for about half a minute. “Don’t do anything stupid, Rob,” Harold said. “And you’re not going to like what I’m about to say, either.” Silence. “Alright then,” Harold continued. “I’ve talked to Austin and Sam already. They’ve got parts ready for a new song. I’ve just booked a plane ticket to Kansas City. We’re booking studio time.” “What the [i]fuck,[/i] Harold?” “You’re all on publicity blackout until then. Practice with all your free time. We’ll master it while you travel to St. Louis, and you’ll play it live. We put it out on every major market the second after.” “We’re not your personal slaves, Harold,” Rob said. “Jane’s over here fucking [i]reeling[/i] from all this shit. And you want her to write lyrics for you? You want us to make a song in half a week?” “How do you want me to stop this?” Harold asked angrily. “A tell-all? Another interview? Feed you to the blog vultures and podcast guys, just dying to ask you about this shit? No. We’ve been dealt a shit hand, and I’m fixing the problem. Sam and Austin say they can deliver, and if you want this to blow over quickly, you and Jane will get on board. And you will write a fucking song.” Rob snapped the phone shut. Every fiber of his being wanted to toss the phone over the balcony. Watch is smash into pieces on the concrete far below them. Watch it all go away. But there was no escaping this. No escaping what needed to be done. And unless any of them had a better idea, they might actually have to write this song. They had a rest day in Minneapolis tomorrow, then travel to St. Louis the next. They’d be in town another two days. 
That was four days to write a song. And Rob had absolutely no idea how they were supposed to do it, either. Rob and Jane never had really confronted it, but they wanted different things for the future of the band. Sam seemed open enough to either idea, and Austin—well, Rob wasn’t sure. But he was almost positive Jane wanted something different. And to be forced with a deadline like this, to make a song in four days—it was almost unthinkable. Rob elected to slip back inside, joining Jane once more. He calmly explained the situation, trying hard to show his personal feeling about what had happened. A little under a week left in America, and there was so much left to do. Rob thought once of Zoe, but pushed it from his mind. One thing at a time.