only have Lucas and I verbally agreed on two dates when I’ll return home from the tour based on my work assignments, I’ve personally spoken with all my clients to let them know my plans.
I spend the majority of Wednesday with my friend Ashley, who helps me get ready for my flight to Los Angeles the next morning. Ash is a diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan—her off-and-on boyfriend (they’re currently on) plays in a YTS cover group, and she’s seen the actual band in concert a few times. The entire time we pack my bags, she gushes over their live shows and even takes a fifteen-minute break to make a playlist for me on Spotify.
“Their best songs. Ever,” she tells me, her eyebrows nearly touching as she kneels in front of my tidy corner desk, concentrating on her list.
I fold a black tank and place it on a pair of gray jeans that’s already inside of the new Samsonite bag that I bought especially for the tour. I figured I needed something a little more heavy-duty than my old luggage that’s, literally, coming apart at the seams. “Why do I feel like this thing will have all their songs?”
“Not quite all of them.”
When it’s time for her to leave, I shouldn’t be surprised when she reaches into her purse and hands me a typed list titled Ashley’s YTS Bucket List , but I am. Her name has been marked through with a series of X’s and above it, she’s written my name—correction, Sienna -Fucking- Jensen —in her loopy handwriting in a metallic pink Sharpie.
As I scan over the list, I slide down on the porch swing. “Body-shots with Cal backstage. Get Sinjin’s sticks signed. Stroke Wyatt’s Kramer.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance up at her.
She’s already walked down the porch steps, and she’s standing in the yard with her back turned to me, digging around in her purple Coach bag for her car keys. Since we reconnected several months ago, I’ve learned enough about Ashley to know she’s waiting for more of a reaction from me before she responds.
“I’m assuming that’s a guitar and not a nickname for his cock,” I say dryly.
Sure enough, she spins to look at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Right.” She puts her hands on her hips, covering Jared Leto’s face on her Thirty Seconds to Mars T-shirt. “But, I wouldn’t mind stroking his—”
“So, I’m guessing you didn’t give this to me for shits and giggles?”
She shakes her head, her turquoise and pink-colored hair swinging around her face. “Um, no.” She jogs up the steps, crosses the porch, and sits down on the swing beside of me. “I want you to do these for me. Take pics and everything so I can live vicariously through you.”
“Why don’t you be vicarious and come to the show here in September?”
Giving me a long stare, Ashley releases an exasperated noise. “Trust me, I’ll be there, I’ve had my tickets for months. But, think of how much fun you’ll have getting to know the band by doing this.” She gestures dramatically to the paper I’m clutching, reminding me of a cheesy talk show host. “This is a hell of an icebreaker.”
It’s not like she’s begging me to sneak her backstage or onto the bus. And besides, what she’s suggesting really would be a good icebreaker—well, everything except for the body.
I’ve spent, at the most, a total of 24 hours with the other members of Your Toxic Sequel. That entailed a music video shoot that I was eventually fired from and then last February when I filled in as Lucas’s assistant. Both situations were awkward, and the only member of the band who didn’t automatically seem to dislike me was Cal.
I fold Ashley’s list in half and use it to swat a mosquito. “I doubt I’ll get signed sticks from Sinjin, but I’ll try my best. He’s not my biggest fan.” I’m not exactly a Sinjin fan either, but I don’t tell her that.
“He’ll do it, and thank you for doing this for me.” She gives me a quick peck on the cheek, no doubt
I spend the majority of Wednesday with my friend Ashley, who helps me get ready for my flight to Los Angeles the next morning. Ash is a diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan—her off-and-on boyfriend (they’re currently on) plays in a YTS cover group, and she’s seen the actual band in concert a few times. The entire time we pack my bags, she gushes over their live shows and even takes a fifteen-minute break to make a playlist for me on Spotify.
“Their best songs. Ever,” she tells me, her eyebrows nearly touching as she kneels in front of my tidy corner desk, concentrating on her list.
I fold a black tank and place it on a pair of gray jeans that’s already inside of the new Samsonite bag that I bought especially for the tour. I figured I needed something a little more heavy-duty than my old luggage that’s, literally, coming apart at the seams. “Why do I feel like this thing will have all their songs?”
“Not quite all of them.”
When it’s time for her to leave, I shouldn’t be surprised when she reaches into her purse and hands me a typed list titled Ashley’s YTS Bucket List , but I am. Her name has been marked through with a series of X’s and above it, she’s written my name—correction, Sienna -Fucking- Jensen —in her loopy handwriting in a metallic pink Sharpie.
As I scan over the list, I slide down on the porch swing. “Body-shots with Cal backstage. Get Sinjin’s sticks signed. Stroke Wyatt’s Kramer.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance up at her.
She’s already walked down the porch steps, and she’s standing in the yard with her back turned to me, digging around in her purple Coach bag for her car keys. Since we reconnected several months ago, I’ve learned enough about Ashley to know she’s waiting for more of a reaction from me before she responds.
“I’m assuming that’s a guitar and not a nickname for his cock,” I say dryly.
Sure enough, she spins to look at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Right.” She puts her hands on her hips, covering Jared Leto’s face on her Thirty Seconds to Mars T-shirt. “But, I wouldn’t mind stroking his—”
“So, I’m guessing you didn’t give this to me for shits and giggles?”
She shakes her head, her turquoise and pink-colored hair swinging around her face. “Um, no.” She jogs up the steps, crosses the porch, and sits down on the swing beside of me. “I want you to do these for me. Take pics and everything so I can live vicariously through you.”
“Why don’t you be vicarious and come to the show here in September?”
Giving me a long stare, Ashley releases an exasperated noise. “Trust me, I’ll be there, I’ve had my tickets for months. But, think of how much fun you’ll have getting to know the band by doing this.” She gestures dramatically to the paper I’m clutching, reminding me of a cheesy talk show host. “This is a hell of an icebreaker.”
It’s not like she’s begging me to sneak her backstage or onto the bus. And besides, what she’s suggesting really would be a good icebreaker—well, everything except for the body.
I’ve spent, at the most, a total of 24 hours with the other members of Your Toxic Sequel. That entailed a music video shoot that I was eventually fired from and then last February when I filled in as Lucas’s assistant. Both situations were awkward, and the only member of the band who didn’t automatically seem to dislike me was Cal.
I fold Ashley’s list in half and use it to swat a mosquito. “I doubt I’ll get signed sticks from Sinjin, but I’ll try my best. He’s not my biggest fan.” I’m not exactly a Sinjin fan either, but I don’t tell her that.
“He’ll do it, and thank you for doing this for me.” She gives me a quick peck on the cheek, no doubt
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